welcome

Requested: Yes/ Anon

Word count: 4797

Author’s note: Hey guys, this one made me tear up a bit while writing. Hope you love it, stay safe xx

Masterlist

The rain in Monaco always sounded louder than it actually was, a steady, rhythmic drumming against the glass of the apartment overlooking the harbor. You sat on the edge of the marble kitchen counter, your fingers wrapped tightly around a mug of ginger tea that had long since gone cold. Your chest felt tight, a familiar, suffocating weight that had nothing to do with the humidity outside and everything to do with the small white envelope tucked beneath a stack of racing magazines on the coffee table.

In twenty four hours, Max would be leaving for the triple header. Three weeks of intense, back to back racing, endless media scuffles, and the crushing pressure of defending a world championship. He was already stretched thin, his jaw tighter than usual during breakfast, his eyes constantly scanning telemetry data on his iPad even while he chewed his toast. You knew that look. It was the hyper focus that made him a formidable driver, the absolute closing off of the outside world to ensure nothing, absolutely nothing, interfered with the car and the track.

And that was exactly why you could not tell him.

You took a shallow breath, wincing as a sharp, burning pain flared deep in your ribs. The doctors at the clinic in Nice had been very specific. The condition was progressing faster than they anticipated, a chronic cardiovascular anomaly that you had managed with medication for years was no longer responding to the standard dosage. They wanted you admitted for a comprehensive exploratory procedure, and they wanted it done by the end of the week. They used words like critical risks and immediate intervention.

But you had looked at the calendar, seen the upcoming races in Austin, Mexico, and Brazil, and you had quietly asked for a prescription rewrite instead. Just enough to get through the month. Just enough to keep you on your feet so Max wouldn't notice the tremors in your hands or the way you had to catch your breath after walking up a single flight of stairs.

The front door clicked open, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment. You quickly shoved the cold tea into the sink and leaned against the counter, forcing a soft smile onto your face as Max walked in. He looked exhausted, his hair damp from the rain, his oversized team hoodie clinging to his shoulders. He dropped his gear bag by the door and kicked off his sneakers, exhaling a long, heavy breath.

“Hey,” Max said, his voice low and gravelly from a long day in the simulator. He walked over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face into the crook of your neck. He smelled like rain and the faint, chemical scent of the factory. “It was a mess today. The front end balance is completely off on the new floor update. We spent four hours trying to fix the simulation models and we are still nowhere.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs at the sudden pressure of his embrace. You fought down a gasp, keeping your breathing as shallow and unnoticeable as possible. “You will figure it out, Max. You always do. You and GP just need to get on the track and see how it feels in real life.”

Max mumbled something against your skin, his hands shifting slightly on your lower back. He pulled away just enough to look down at you, his blue eyes narrowed slightly as he scanned your face. “You look pale, Y/N. Are you sleeping okay? I woke up at three AM last night and you were not in bed.”

Your stomach dropped, but you kept the smile plastered on your face, reaching up to brush a stray lock of blonde hair from his forehead. “I was just restless. I drank some coffee too late in the afternoon. I am fine, Max, really. Just a bit tired from the weather.”

He did not look entirely convinced, his thumb rubbing a slow circle against your hip, but his mind was clearly pulling him back to the data. “Yeah, the rain makes everyone sluggish. I need to review these lap times before I go to sleep. Do you mind if I just eat something quick and head to the office?”

“Of course not,” you said, stepping back to open the refrigerator before he could notice how hard your hands were shaking. “I made some pasta. I can heat it up for you.”

“Thanks,” he said, leaning over to press a quick, dry kiss to your forehead. “You are the best, honestly. I do not know how I would handle this weekend if I had to worry about things at home too.”

The words felt like a physical blow to your chest. You kept your back turned to him as you set the bowl in the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating food inside. He needed this peace of mind. He needed to believe that everything at home was perfectly stable, perfectly safe, so he could drive a car at three hundred kilometers an hour on the edge of control. If you told him your heart was failing to pump blood properly, if you told him you needed surgery, he would drop everything. He would sit in a hospital chair, missing sessions, losing his focus, blaming himself for being away. You could not let your body become his distraction.

The next morning, the apartment was a whirlwind of activity. Max was packing his final things, tossing t shirts into his rimowa suitcase while talking on speakerphone with his trainer, Bradley. You stood by the bedroom door, one hand gripping the doorframe tightly to keep your balance. The room felt like it was spinning slightly, a cold sweat breaking out across the back of your neck.

“Yeah, Brad, I have the hydration tablets,” Max said into the phone, zipping the suitcase shut with a sharp tug. “I will meet you at the terminal at eleven. Okay, see you.” He hung up and looked up at you, his expression immediately softening. He walked over and grabbed your hands, his brows furrowing. “Your hands are freezing, Y/N. Are you sure you are not catching a cold?”

“Just poor circulation,” you lied smoothly, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. “It is always like this in the winter.”

“It is October,” Max pointed out, a small, amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remained worried. “But okay. Look after yourself while I am gone. Do not just eat takeout. Call your sister if you get lonely, okay?”

“I will,” you promised, leaning up on your tiptoes to kiss him. You held onto him a little tighter this time, a little longer, wondering if this would be the last time you could hold him without a hospital gown between you. “Drive fast, Max. Bring home the win.”

“Always do,” he said with that stubborn, confident tilt of his chin that you loved so much. He picked up his bags, gave you one last, lingering look, and then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

The silence that followed his departure was heavy and suffocating. The moment the sound of the elevator faded down the hall, your legs gave out. You slid down the doorframe, sinking onto the hardwood floor, grasping at your chest as a massive, crushing pressure clamped down on your heart. You gasped for air, but it felt like trying to breathe through a wet cloth. Tears pricked your eyes as you crawled toward the kitchen, reaching up to grab the bottle of medication from the top shelf. You swallowed two pills dry, collapsing against the lower cabinets as you waited for the chemical calm to wash over your erratic pulse.

“Just three weeks,” you whispered to the empty room, your voice trembling. “Just three weeks, and then he will have a break. Just hold on until then.”

The first week was a blur of exhausting pain and carefully curated phone calls. You made sure to memorize the race schedule down to the minute, calculating the time differences precisely so you would only answer his FaceTime calls when you were sitting down, fully made up, and capable of masking your fatigue.

When he called from Austin after Friday practice, he was ecstatic. The new floor was working perfectly, the car felt connected, and he had secured provisional pole. You sat on the couch with a thick blanket covering your lap to hide the heating pad pressed against your chest, smiling brightly into the camera.

“You looked amazing out there,” you said, your voice steady despite the fact that you had spent the previous three hours vomiting from the side effects of the increased medication dosage. “The sector three times were incredible.”

“Yeah, the car is a rocket ship here,” Max said, his face flushed and happy through the screen. He was sitting in his hotel room, a plate of grilled chicken and rice in front of him. “GP was happy for once. Can you believe it? He actually smiled during the debrief. I wish you were here, Y/N. The crowd is crazy this year.”

“I wish I was there too, Max,” you said, and that, at least, was the absolute truth. “But someone has to stay back and make sure the apartment doesn't flood again. Plus, I have some work things to finish up.”

Max nodded, taking a bite of his food. His eyes drifted to something off screen for a second before returning to you, his expression turning slightly serious. “You look smaller in that sweatshirt, Y/N. Have you been eating enough? Do not skip meals just because I am not there to cook.”

“I am eating, Max, I promise,” you lied, your throat tightening. In reality, you could barely manage a bowl of broth without feeling intensely nauseous. “I am just wearing one of your old hoodies. It makes me look smaller.”

He smiled, that warm, private smile that he only ever saved for you. “Okay. I miss you. I will call you after the sprint tomorrow, okay?”

“I love you,” you said softly.

“Love you too, Y/N. Go to sleep early.”

When the call disconnected, the smile dropped from your face instantly. You let your head fall back against the cushions, gasping as a sharp pain vibrated through your left shoulder. You reached for your phone, dialing the number for the clinic in Nice.

“Dr. Laurent,” you said when the receptionist put you through. “It is Y/N. The tablets are not working as well anymore. The chest pain is radiating to my arm now.”

There was a heavy pause on the other end of the line. “Y/N, we discussed this. The myocardial strain is reaching a dangerous threshold. You are risking acute heart failure if you continue to delay this. You need to come in. Today.”

“I can’t,” you choked out, a tear slipping down your cheek. “My partner is in the middle of the championship. If I go into the hospital now, it will be all over the news. He will find out, and he will fly back. He has worked the entire year for this. Please, just tell me how much more medication I can safely take to buy two more weeks.”

“I cannot ethically advise you to increase the dose further,” the doctor said, his voice firm and laced with deep concern. “You are playing Russian roulette with your health, Y/N. If you experience severe shortness of breath, sudden sweating, or prolonged fainting, you must call an ambulance immediately. Do you understand me?”

“I understand,” you murmured, though you knew you would do everything in your power to avoid causing a scene that might flash across a sports ticker while Max was getting into his cockpit.

By the time the Mexican Grand Prix weekend arrived, you could barely leave the bed. The world had shrunk down to the four walls of the bedroom and the agonizing rhythm of your failing heart. Every breath felt like inhaling glass. Your skin had turned a ghostly, translucent shade of white, and dark circles bruised the skin beneath your eyes. You hadn't slept more than two hours a night, terrified that if you closed your eyes, your heart would simply stop beating altogether.

Max called you on Thursday evening from Mexico City. You had spent forty minutes in the bathroom beforehand, applying layers of concealer and blush to your hollow cheeks, trying to make yourself look human. You propped the phone up on the pillow, lying on your side and wrapping the duvet tightly up to your chin.

“Hey,” Max said, his face appearing on the screen. He looked stressed, his brow furrowed deeply. “The altitude here is terrible. The cooling on the brakes is a nightmare, and the engine keeps derating on the straightaways. We are losing four tenths to the Ferraris.”

“You will find a solution,” you whispered, your voice sounding raspy even to your own ears. You cleared your throat quickly, trying to sound stronger. “You always find a way around the engine issues.”

Max stopped talking, his eyes locking onto yours through the camera. The usual distraction in his gaze vanished, replaced by a sharp, sudden intensity. He leaned closer to his screen. “Y/N. What is wrong with your voice?”

“Nothing,” you said, forcing a small chuckle that turned into a dry, painful cough. You managed to stifle it into your elbow. “Just a scratchy throat. The air conditioning in the apartment has been acting up.”

“You look different,” Max insisted, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. His eyes scanned your face, noting the way you were burying yourself in the blankets, the slight tremor in the phone as you adjusted it. “You look sick, Y/N. Really sick. Turn the light on in the room.”

“Max, it is fine, the light is just bad,” you pleaded, your heart beginning to race erratically, a terrifying flutter starting up in your chest. “Do not worry about me. Focus on the setup. You have final practice in the morning.”

“Fuck the setup,” Max snapped, his temper flaring, a rare sign of how stressed he actually was. “Something is wrong. You have been acting strange for three weeks. You never want to show me your whole face on the camera, you are always under a blanket, and you sound like you can barely breathe. Tell me what is going on.”

“Nothing is going on,” you said, tears finally spilling over your eyelashes, breaking through the concealer. “I just miss you. I am just tired, Max, please. Go back to your data. Please.”

Max stared at you, his blue eyes flashing with a mix of anger, confusion, and sudden, deep seated fear. “I am calling Bradley. I am going to have someone come check on you.”

“No, Max, do not do that,” you cried out, but the sudden exertion was too much.

A wave of blinding, catastrophic pain exploded across your chest, radiating down your arm and up into your jaw. It felt as if a physical fist had reached inside your torso and squeezed your heart with agonizing force. You gasped, a choked, terrible sound escaping your lips as the phone slipped from your hand, tumbling onto the mattress.

“Y/N? Y/N!” Max’s voice was screaming from the speaker, tiny and distant. “Y/N, answer me! What is happening? Y/N!”

You could not move. The room went dark at the edges, tunneling down until the only thing you could see was the faint glow of the ceiling light. You reached blindly for the phone, your fingers brushing against the glass, but you didn't have the strength to lift it. Your breathing became ragged, shallow gasps that brought no oxygen to your lungs.

“Max,” you whimpered, the sound barely a whisper against the sheets.

Then, the darkness swallowed you completely.

When Max heard the heavy thud through the speaker, followed by nothing but the sound of labored, irregular breathing, his entire world stopped. The telemetry data, the championship points, the issues with the Ferrari straight line speed, all of it vanished, wiped clean from his mind in a single fraction of a second.

“Y/N!” he yelled, slamming his hands onto the desk of his hotel room. He stood up so fast his chair flipped backward, crashing onto the carpet. “Y/N, talk to me! Please, fuck, Y/N!”

There was no response. Only the distant, faint sound of the Monaco rain against the windows of their apartment, thousands of miles away.

Max’s hands shook violently as he grabbed his second phone, frantically dialing Christian Horner’s number. He did not wait for the team principal to finish his greeting.

“I need a plane,” Max said, his voice cracking, completely stripped of his usual composure. “Now, Christian. I need to go back to Monaco right now.”

“Max? What is going on? The qualifying briefing is in an hour,” Christian said, his tone startled and confused.

“I do not care about qualifying,” Max roared, his chest heaving as panic took absolute control of him. “Something happened to Y/N. She is unconscious on the floor of our apartment and she is not breathing right. Get me a private jet now, or I am walking to the commercial terminal myself. I am leaving, Christian. I am done here.”

Christian didn't argue. The sheer terror in the young driver’s voice was enough to tell him everything he needed to know. “Okay. Okay, Max. Give me ten minutes. I will call the airfield. Go pack your things.”

Max did not pack. He grabbed his passport, his wallet, and his phone, leaving his racing gear, his clothes, and his helmet scattered across the hotel room. He ran down the corridor, slamming his shoulder into the exit doors, bursting into the lobby where Bradley was waiting.

“Max? Where are you going?” Brad asked, jogging to keep up with Max’s frantic, dead-set sprint toward the entrance.

“Call the emergency services in Monaco,” Max ordered, his voice trembling so badly he could barely articulate the words. “Give them our address. Tell them my girlfriend collapsed. Tell them they need to break the door down if they have to. Just get them there, Brad, please, do it now!”

The flight back across the Atlantic was eleven hours of pure, unadulterated hell. Max sat in the leather seat of the private jet, his hands pressed against his face, his eyes staring blankly at the dark window. Christian had tried to talk to him before he boarded, trying to offer words of comfort, but Max had completely shut down. He had refused food, refused water, refused to speak to anyone. The only thing he did was stare at his phone, waiting for Bradley to send updates from the local paramedics.

The update had come six hours into the flight. The paramedics had found you unconscious on the bedroom floor. Your heart rate was dangerously high and unstable, and they had transferred you to the intensive care unit at the Princess Grace Hospital in Monaco before immediately airlifting you to the specialized cardiac thoracic center in Nice. The doctors had found the hidden medical files in your bedside drawer, along with the empty prescription bottles.

Max had read the text message over and over again until the words lost meaning. You had been sick for months. You had known your heart was failing. And you had hidden it from him so he could drive a car.

He felt a sudden, violent surge of nausea, burying his head in his knees. He felt sick to his stomach, angry, terrified, and profoundly broken. How could you think a stupid trophy mattered more than your life? How could he have been so blind, so utterly consumed by his own career that he hadn't noticed his own girlfriend was dying right in front of him?

The moment the wheels of the jet touched down on the tarmac in Nice, Max was out of his seat. He didn't wait for the stairs to fully deploy, jumping the last few steps onto the rainy concrete. A rental car was waiting for him, the engine running. He threw himself into the driver’s seat and slammed his foot onto the accelerator, driving through the stormy French roads with a reckless desperation that eclipsed any risk he had ever taken on a racetrack.

When he burst through the doors of the cardiac ICU in Nice, he was a ghost of himself. His hair was wild, his clothes were wrinkled and damp from the rain, and his eyes were bloodshot. The nurses at the front desk tried to stop him, but he blew past them, his eyes frantically searching the names on the glass doors until he saw yours.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

You were lying in the center of a sterile, white room, surrounded by an array of humming monitors and blinking lights. A clear oxygen mask was strapped over your face, misting slightly with every weak breath you took. IV lines ran into the backs of both of your hands, and a thin, white bandage was taped over your chest, monitoring your heart’s electrical activity. You looked so incredibly small, your skin almost matching the color of the hospital sheets.

Max felt his knees tremble. He walked into the room, his footsteps completely silent against the linoleum floor. He approached the side of the bed, his hand reaching out, hovering over yours as if he was afraid that if he touched you, you would shatter into pieces.

Slowly, carefully, he wrapped his large, calloused hand around yours. Your fingers were cold, so cold, but they twitched slightly at his touch.

Max let out a ragged, choking sob, dropping his forehead onto the edge of the mattress, his shoulders shaking violently as the dam broke. He wept openly, holding your cold hand against his cheek, letting his tears wet your skin.

“Why?” he whispered into the quiet room, his voice broken and raw. “Why did you do this to me, Y/N? Why didn't you tell me?”

A soft, rustling sound made him look up. Your eyelids fluttered, opening slowly. Your vision was blurry, the bright hospital lights making your head thrum, but as the shapes started to focus, you saw the familiar outline of short blonde hair and the bright, tear soaked blue eyes of the boy you loved.

You tried to speak, but the oxygen mask muffled your voice, and your throat felt like sand. You moved your hand slightly, your thumb brushing against the back of his knuckles.

Max immediately stood up, leaning over you, his hands framing your face with an incredible, desperate gentleness. He helped you slide the mask down to your chin, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Max,” you croaked out, your voice barely audible over the hum of the heart monitor. “What are you doing here? The race. The qualifying session.”

Hearing those words, the very proof of why you had almost died in silence, broke something inside him. A flash of pure, agonizing frustration crossed his face, though his touch remained incredibly soft.

“Are you crazy?” Max choked out, more tears spilling down his cheeks, landing on your hospital gown. “Are you completely insane, Y/N? You almost died. Do you understand me? The doctors said if I had not called the paramedics when I did, your heart would have stopped completely within an hour. And you are asking me about a fucking qualifying session?”

“You needed to focus,” you whispered, a tear leaking from the corner of your eye, tracking down into your hair. “You worked all year for this championship, Max. If I told you, you would have left. I knew you would leave. I did not want to ruin it for you.”

“Ruin it?” Max repeated, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself, closing his eyes tightly to steady his breathing. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your cold skin. “Y/N, look at me. Open your eyes and look at me.”

You forced your heavy eyelids open, meeting his intense, shattered gaze.

“Nothing matters without you,” Max said, each word deliberate, heavy with an absolute, unshakeable certainty. “Do you honestly think I care about a plastic trophy or some points on a piece of paper if it means I come home to an empty apartment? Do you think I could ever drive that car knowing that you were sitting here, dying alone because of me?”

“It was not because of you,” you protested weakly. “It is my body, Max. It is my illness.”

“You hid it because of me,” he countered, his voice thick with guilt. He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth, as if he could physically press the life back into you. “I was so busy talking about the car, complaining about the balance, complaining about the engine. I did not see you struggling. I did not see how much weight you lost. I was so fucking selfish, Y/N.”

“No,” you said, trying to shake your head, but the monitor behind you beeped sharply as your heart rate spiked at your distress.

Max noticed immediately. He smoothed his hands over your hair, taking deep, steady breaths, guiding you to match his rhythm. “Shh, okay, calm down. Do not get upset. The doctors said you need to stay calm. Your heart cannot take the stress right now.”

You forced your breathing to slow down, watching him. “Are you going back for the race?”

“No,” Max said without a single second of hesitation. “I am not going back to Mexico. I am not going to Brazil. I am staying right here in this room until you are allowed to leave.”

Your eyes widened in panic. “Max, no! You can’t do that! Red Bull will lose the constructors, and you might lose the drivers championship if Lewis or Lando win the next few races. You have a thirty point lead, but it is not enough to just skip two races!”

“I do not care if I lose the championship by a hundred points,” Max said, his jaw tightening into that stubborn line, but this time, it was entirely directed at protecting you. “They can give the trophy to whoever they want. Let Lando have it. Let Lewis have it. I do not care, Y/N. I mean it. If I have to choose between driving that car and sitting in this chair making sure you are breathing, I will choose you every single day of my life. You come first. You always come first. I need you to understand that. My life does not start when I put the helmet on. My life starts when I come home to you.”

The absolute gravity of his words finally broke through the walls of guilt you had built around yourself. You looked at him, seeing the raw, unguarded vulnerability in his eyes, the complete absence of the fierce, untouchable racing driver. In his place was just Max, the boy who loved you so much he was willing to throw away everything he had built since he was a child just to hold your hand in a hospital room.

“I am sorry,” you sobbed, the tears flowing freely now. “I am so sorry, Max. I was just so scared. I did not want to be a burden.”

“You could never be a burden,” he murmured, leaning down to gently press his lips to yours. The kiss was soft, lingering, tasting of salt from both of your tears, but it felt like life pouring back into your veins. He pulled away slowly, resting his cheek against yours on the pillow. “The doctors are going to do the surgery tomorrow morning. They are going to repair the valve, and they said after a few months of rest, you will be completely healthy again. No more pain. No more hiding.”

“Are you really staying?” you whispered, your fingers tightening around his hoodie sleeve.

“I am right here,” Max promised, shifting his position to sit in the uncomfortable plastic chair right beside your mattress, pulling your hand up to rest against his chest, right over his own steady, powerful heartbeat. “I am not moving an inch. Close your eyes, Y/N. Get some sleep. I will be here when you wake up.”

For the first time in months, the crushing weight in your chest felt a little lighter. You closed your eyes, listening to the steady, rhythmic beeping of the monitor, perfectly synced with the warm, reassuring pulse of Max’s heart beneath your fingers. Outside, the rain continued to fall over the French Riviera, but inside the quiet room, the storm had finally passed.

And it was even harder when your husband was a commander for one of the most skillful task force. So it wasn't unusual for him to be gone for long periods of time.

So on a random Friday evening, anticipating his arrival in the coming week, vacuuming the floors, cleaning the windows, you found yourself at the door of John's study, with was decorated with a glass name plate, with the words 'Study' accompanied with a painted heart created from blue and pink fingerprints from you and your husband.

John was never the man to tell you off if you entered his study, instead he encouraged it. He's beckoned you to bring him his evening tea to him, to give him a massage, sometimes when you wanted him, he'd allow you to help him under the desk, if you get what I mean. (speaking from experience ;>)

As you stepped into his room, you noticed the ceilings adorned with sizable white cobwebs, cringing at the apparent neglect of his study. When was the last time someone had even been here?

Sweeping his desk, wiping away the dust, you find a box underneath beside his chair, which prompted you to lifting it up and placing on top of the desk. Man, you underestimated it's weight. You struggled to lift a small but heavy moving box, and it caused a few books and papers to fall out.

You cursed at your clumsiness, picking up the loose sheets, until you fingers caught the spine of a red vintage-like book, which had the word 'diary' written on the front. You didn't take too much notice, skimming through the pages until you caught your name being mentioned a phew times.

You giggle, it's a diary probably with John confessing his love to you numerous time! You know you probably shouldn't look through it, I mean privacy exists, but you just can't help it.

So you look through some of the infrequent entries, the oldest dating back to 10 years back, and the most recent one being nearly 4 years, when you and John had first met.

30th February 2010

Suffering in Afghanistan, the lads and I are stuck in the safe house for a week now. Rose is here too, I should ask her if she's okay.

Ahhh you remember this story. When the Task Force was stuck in the city of Kandahar, in the safe house. You also remember John's team, whom you are well-acquainted with, Soap, Ghost, Gaz, Roach, Rose?

You skip through the boring entries, most of which are just John documenting his work-out plan and the places him and his team had visited.

5th July 2016

Gaz's going on and on about his lass. Someone tell him to talk to her at least, he doesn't even know her name! I keep bringing it up but he keeps mentioning when I'll talk to Rose.

You chuckled, assuming the chick was Gaz's current wife. But the last part caught your attention, Rose again? You remember John telling you that she'd retired, went back north to settle with her family now, so you don't think much of it, I mean they are team mates.

19th June 2017

Saw a cute kid and her mama, wishing I had kids, without this lifestyle. Rose wants a son but I don't particularly mind. Soap overheard our conversation and spammed me lols on Whatsapp, but I thought lol meant little old lady? I am a man though.

You raise your eyebrow at another mention of Rose, why doesn't he care if Rose wanted a son? You didn't realise how close your husband was to her.

2nd December 2018

Christmas this month with my boys. Rose invited me over for a smoke. Ghost rolls his eyes when I mentioned it to him, says I need to man up and make a move.

You squinted your eyes, rereading the entry, and hesitantly skipping to the next one.

7th April 2019

Drinks with my men (and Rose haha, she doesn't like being part of the men). It's her birthday and she wants to tell us something. She's got her red lips again. I'm excited, Soap kept nudging me the entire ride, that cheeky bugger.

Then immediately below it, an update: She's seeing someone.

You're slowly piecing the puzzle, though you don't want to assume anything.

21st August 2019

She came into my room crying, seems like it's not going well, good for me. I hope she's okay and she realises there's better fish in the sea. She hugged me, she smells like roses, I love floral scents. I tried leaning in, she says I'm like an older brother to her.

Your heart breaks a bit, sniffing at your freshly washed hair, which smelt like ... like roses.

You thought floral scents were YOUR thing.

You continued, to the next entry which was marked the date you remember meeting John for the first time at the pub. You force a smile, hoping the entry would lighten your mood.

30th November 2020

In the pub and bored. Rose brought her lad... they're back together. What does she see in him? Soap urges me to find someone else but my heart is set on someone, for a long time. Won't change. He keeps gesturing to a girl on the other end of the counter, she's pretty, but like a tulip. Not like a rose. Not like my Rose.

You grip at the notebook and you try your hardest not to rip the papers out of the book and set his entire study on fire.

You remember this day, when you were dragged to the pub by your friends after being dumped by your ex for another girl. You sat at one end of the counter, with tears in your eyes but one look at that buff Englishman on the other end and your mood flipped instantaneously, 180 degrees.

"Kelsey, look at that guy, Mr Army over there." You beckon towards John's direction, to your friend., slightly tipsy after a peg of beer.

Your friend looks at you with a raised eyebrow, then turns to the guy whose piqued your interest, "You should go for it." She encourages you.

So you get yourself 2 drinks and approach the guy, more confident that usual due to your alcoholic state. A beer would do.

"Hi, this seat empty?" You smile at him innocently.

All this time you had recalled a look of fondness towards you, when he'd first locked eyes with you. You remember bragging about how it had been love at first sight for the both of you, but thinking back, a feeling of doubt starts bubbling inside you.

"It's reserve- you know what. Take a seat."

You remember sitting next to him, passing him a drink, and telling him your name, "...and you are?" you question, although you see him wincing. At first you thought it was just an army thing, so guarded that even the slightest of movements would make him twitch.

But now you're questioning whether he really wanted to engage into a conversation with you.

The following hours, as you painfully recall, was filled with you talking about yourself and occasionally asking him after his life, though he gives you one word answers and frequent nods.

But that was just because he'd just come home from a mission right?

"...and he just broke up with me out of the blue! Like was my 12,000 followers on TikTok not good enough for you?" You chuckle, attempting to crack a joke. He smiles confused, and you note he's probably too old to understand what TikTok was.

"Sounds like an asshole, love." He replies.

"Hmm, he was...I- I just don't know what he'd leave me for her...like I gave you my everything, I was always with you through thick and thin and what, that wasn't enough for you?" You trail off, the effects of the 2nd beer hitting you.

"I understand dove, you just give 'em everything and they just find someone else. What does he have that I don't?" He spaces out, his eyes falling on his teammates sitting at a different table. You follow his gaze, smiling slightly when you lock eyes with one of his smirking subordinates, whom you know know as Soap.

"Those people, they're your team?" You question.

His eyes aren't on you though as he responds, "That mohawk, that's Soap, Ghost next to him, tough as steel but soft at heart, Gaz on the opposite, funny lad, Roach, good ol' Roach..."

You look at the woman to the right of 'Roach', taking in her beauty. Though she's sitting down, you can tell she's taller that you by least 4 inches, with a blonde pixie haircut and painted with a dark smokey eye. A deep smirk is plastered onto her plump ruby red lips as she looks at John Price finally talking to a woman that isn't her. She raises a hand, waving to the both of you, which is almost instantaneously reciprocated by John.

"And her?" You ask, head nudging towards the woman.

"Her...That's Rose. You should meet her, you would like her, but who doesn't..." His chuckle fades out and you at how his attention was fully directed to her. A sinking feeling told you that you should have backed off from the married man, but it disappeared when John pointed out her partner, with gritted teeth.

Your hands are gripping the pages at this point, as you recall memories from the diary from his point of view.

You turn the page to the next entry, dreading the words.

19th December 2020

Thought me and Rose would go back to the pub for another drink for the holidays, but she's going back to his place. Seems they're taking the next steps with meeting the families.

Soap's annoyed at how I'm 'ghosting' the girl I met at the pub, I'm once again unfamiliar with the lingo, I'm not Simon?? She's nice but, not sure I see anything further than a friendship. Gaz and him are picking out an outfit for me, she wants to meet up for bowling apparently. I just want to be with Rose...

Clenching your fist, you shut the diary and toss it aside, feeling all kinds of emotions. Upset that John had never truly looked at you the way you'd looked at him. The way he never wanted you, like you wanted him.

Every time you'd seen him online on Whatsapp, but still hadn't opened your messages, he was ghosting you? Sure after a while of being friends, his behaviour gradually changed, accompanied with rapid texts, but you felt like this relationship was built on lies.

Did he even want to go bowling with you that day? Did you win because he purposely let you, because he was bored and wanted to go home, be with Rose instead? When he asked you to be his girlfriend, did he ask you with Rose in mind?

The ding of the oven stopped your trail of thoughts, so many questions swirling around your head. You walk out of the study, slamming the door behind you, the combined mess of dust and cobwebs remaining untouched.

The glass name plate falls to the ground, the edge shattering, with shards of clear glass laying dangerously on the wooden floor.

A couple of hours go by and the doorknob rattles at 8:45 P.M. on the dot. John was never late when he had to come home to you.

He reaches base at 7:30, drives exacting an hour to your shared home, after making a quick pit stop at the florists within 10 minutes to give you a freshly scented bouquet of red roses.

Roses. So that's why he'd give them you every time...

He makes sure to leave him 5 minutes of spare time, which was designated to flipping open a small metal notebook you'd gifted him, and writing his thoughts down. And once those 5 minutes were up, he places the notepad back into his jacket pocket and practically runs towards the front door.

"Dove, I'm home!" He exclaimed, gently placing his belonging on the floor, before walking into the living floor, where you sat on the sofa with your legs and arms crossed. (MY BITCH POSE IS NASTY)

"Sweetheart, you didn't run up to me at the door, you alright love?" He sits next to you, his calloused and freshly bruised arms rubbing your knee.

The silence was deafening and you couldn't find it in yourself to look at him after all you've read.

He takes it as a cue to continue, "I got you some roses, baby. Your favourite-"

"When did I say they were my favourite?"

John blinks at the interruption, "I mean, you don't like them? It's tradition to bring the same red roses for you every time I'm back..."

"And when did I say I liked them? Are they my favourite? Or are they her favourite?" You shift towards him, anger evident in your voice.

"Her? Who? Sweetheart, what's going on?"

"I mean, come on man, you like floral shit that much that now you're making me wear it?"

"You...don't like floral scents? Did you want tulips instead, baby?"

Your eyebrows are furrowed in annoyance by his confusion.

"It doesn't matter if I wanted tulips, John, it's the fact that YOU like roses. In fact you've like Roses this entire time! Don't act like you like tulips 'cos you don't- to be honest I don't think you ever have!" You rant, handing running through your hair.

"I mean I like both honey, roses are just, um, prettier?" He sounds like he's asking you rather than telling you.

"Of course roses are prettier to you- that's all that you're fucking used to you. It's always roses, roses, roses. You're so obsessed with fucking roses, you never gave tulips a bloody chance!"

"Are we still talking about flowers-"

"And when you do give tulips a chance, you're still thinking about roses- how red they are, how pretty they are, how they need to be watered every 5 fucking minutes, even then there's already someone to water those damn. Red. Roses."

"I- I mean I like tulips too, baby-"

"No. You don't. No, you don't. Tulips are just the safest options for you, cos someone already plucked out those fucking roses. Cos roses don't want you."

You're standing up now, and John's attempts to speak are futile with every sentence you shout.

"No. In fact, roses has never wanted you, roses look better with someone else, and ol' poor John has no more roses, so he goes and waters some unwanted tulips instead!"

John stands up, towering over your shaking frame, his hands come up to stroke your biceps, but he's pushed away.

"I mean, did John ever even like tulips? Or was he faking it cos he never got roses? Was tulips just the safe option? Does John still want roses after all the years tulips have been there for him?"

You left out a pained cry, you didn't even notice the tears leaking out of your eyes.

"Does John even like tulips? Does John even love tulips?"

His hands wipe your tears away, and he brings you into his chest, and you don't attempt to push him away this time.

"Does you even love me, John?" You break down into his arms, letting him carrying you into the bedroom, where he places you gently on the bed, while you hiccup through your uneven sobs. He smells the stench of wine through your shaking breath, whilst stroking your hair, and you slowly fall into a deep slumber with your head pressed against his still uniform-clad chest.

The clock hits midnight and John gets up, trying not to wake you up, grabbing his sweats from the drawer and walking to the bathroom across the hall, in order to not wake you up, from what looked like a well-needed rest.

As he trudges out of the bedroom and through the corridor, the reflection of the broken glass catches his eyes and he squints in the darkness, squatting down to pick a small shard. As he lifts the remains of the nameplate, hooking it back to the door, he steps over the mess into the study to retrieve a dust pan and brush.

Flicking the lights on, he's met with what looks like a scene from the reality TV show - Hoarders. So starts cleaning quickly, picking up the duster and bunching up the paperwork from the floor, the pot of pens that had seemed to be knocked down, the diary he'd used to write in...hold on-

Picking up the diary, John flicks through the entries, the book naturally opening to the last open slide.

He begins reading the last entry.

19th December 2020

Thought me and Rose would go back to the pub for another drink for the holidays, but she's going back to his place. Seems they're taking the next steps with meeting the families.

Soap's annoyed at how I'm 'ghosting' the girl I met at the pub....

"Oh...my tulip, I've never loved roses as much as I loved you." He mumbles to himself, whilst simultaneously cringing at his previously written words, immediately throwing the book back on the floor.

It's past breakfast when you wake up, throat and eyes painfully dry from last night's crying session, forcing yourself to drag yourself to the bathroom. You've forgotten that John had come home last night, as your met with a familiar empty bed.

After brushing your teeth and washing your face, you walk downstairs, being face to face with the naked back of Captain John Price.

The smell of chocolate pancakes waft towards your nose, as you look around the kitchen, the room garnished with a variety of different flowered bouquets, with so many variations of plants.

Bundles of dahlias and lotuses, orchids and lilies, carnations and irises, roses and tulips.

John turns to your footsteps, smiling at his perfect woman.

"Baby, good mornin'" He greets you, placing a single rose into your hair, and pecking your forehead warmly.

"John, listen about last night-"

"It was the old diary, wasn't it?" he asks.

You nod, ashamed for your abrupt behaviour yesterday. John lifts your chin up, resting his forehead against yours.

"Rose never taught me how to love like you did."

"John, you don-" His pointer finger is pressed against your lips.

"Reading those words from the past, I can see how it may have painted a different picture of my feelings. But let me assure you, my love, that you are the one I adore with all my heart."

Your stroke his face, heart warming to his words.

"Every rose I brought home was a symbol of my love for you, not because it was her favorite, but because it reminded me of the beauty and grace that you bring into my life. And those tulips, they represent the new beginnings and the fresh start that we share together.

My love for you is unwavering and unconditional. You are my tulip, my true love, and I vow to cherish and adore you for all eternity. Please forgive me for any pain or doubt my past words may have caused."

"John..."

He hands you his notepad from from his back pocket, beckoning you to open it.

You look at the first entry.

19th February 2021

I mentioned how I journal sometimes to her, and she bought me a new notepad, it's cute how she calls it a diary. Things are looking good. Bowling's our thing, I let her win because seeing her smile means I've won too. I'm asking her out tonight, Soap cried real tears when I told him.

You turn the page.

20th July 2021

Our 6 month anniversary. Took her to a field of roses and tulips, though nothing compares to her beauty.

The next one.

17th September 2021

I seldom think of Rose, I have my tulip on my mind now. Rose retired, and the team celebrated last night. She hugged me and thanked me for being a good captain. She also acknowledged my previous feelings for her. Man that was uncomfortable, but I reassured her I'm with my tulip now. I love my tulip.

I've always preferred tulips anyway.

And the next.

5th July 2022

Our 500 day anniversary. I want to propose.

17th September 2022

She said yes!! She may be my fiance, but I've already started calling her my wife, not legally yet at least...illegally?

28rd December 2023

We married 30th November. The day we met. Xmas was amazing, I can't see myself with anyone but her. I'm getting deployed tomorrow though.

You look at the most recent entry, dated last night.

16th February 2024

Missed the valentines day with my missus. Hope these roses are enough, though I wanted to get something better. Tulips for my tulip. They ran out haha. Missed my girl, missed her like I've never missed someone before. Soap's right, deployment suck.

Tears welled up in your eyes, not from pain or doubt this time, but from overwhelming joy and love for the man standing before you.

"I'm sorry, John," you whispered, your voice choked with emotion. "I didn't mean to doubt your love."

He smiled, a genuine and heartfelt smile that reached his eyes, pulling you into a warm embrace. "No need for apologies, my tulip. Thank you for teaching me how to love."

And in that moment, amidst the scent of chocolate pancakes and fresh flowers, it felt like you love story was just beginning, filled with trust, forgiveness, and a deep, unwavering love for each other.

Daryl could only watch.

There wasn't anything else he could do. He couldn't get himself to stand, to walk over to you. He watched as you crumbled, all of your emotions laid out for everyone to see. Face scrunched up, lip quivering, face getting more red by the second, as sobs rattled your body. Blood coated your right cheek; blood that wasn't yours. But, that of a friend you held so close to your heart.

Your own sobs layered with Maggie's, making everyone's heart clench with a devastating feeling.

Daryl had felt guilt before. It was beat into him at a very young age. Everything was always his fault. With his father being an alcoholic, there was always something that was wrong, that the abusive man could take out on Daryl, who was only a kid. After Daryl's mother died, that was a reoccurring instance that was brought up, followed by getting yelled at and kicked around.

Maybe the guilt started there. Either way, it sprouted in his developing brain and grew until it took over his body, the roots trapping him in his body that he hated so much.

Daryl fought against the men trying to drag him to a truck. No amount of fighting -to get to you- helped. He was shoved into the truck, still being able to hear the sobs. He threw his head back, time after time. Maybe if he hit hard enough, he wouldn't be able to hear your heartbreak anymore.

-

The roar of the Savior's trucks echoed as they got further away.

No one moved. They couldn't. Their bones felt like jelly, their hearts thumping in their ears. Maggie stood on wobbly legs.

The rest was a blur in your peripheral vision. Your eyes were planted on the dirt below, crimson weaving in between the mix of dirt and rocks.

Rocks dug into your legs, leaving an imprint

It didn't matter.

Everything was numb, you felt numb. Even after the bodies were picked up or dragged, you stayed, kneeled beside the puddle.

Rick stood beside the truck, watching as your body involuntarily swayed.

A walker stumbled out of the woods, snarling.

You didn't seem to notice.

Rick started toward you, grabbing you by the forearm. He didn't have the energy to kill the walker, or have to carry another dead body to bury.

Your body was dead weight under his hip You didn't notice the walker stumbling toward you. Tears lefts tracks down your face, mixing with the blood and dirt seeping into your pores.

You only looked up when Rick tugged one final time, dragging you to your feet. The look in your eyes was almost as awful as the sight had been with Negan just a little while ago.

Words lefts your mouth in a hopeless whisper, stating what Rick already knew. His eyes softened as your voice broke in the middle of your sentence.

“They took him.”

-

The sound of the wooden bat against skull was heard all round the group. The lineup watched in horror, even Negan's men were in shock. This whole thing was gross. Blood splattered with every harsh movement. Abraham laid lifeless. Muscles and nerves twitched.

It was too much.

Daryl stood before he knew what he was doing.

The moment played

over and over in Daryl's head as he sat on the cold floor, pushing himself into the corner of the small, dark room. The gruesome pictures were a reminder of what he had done. What finally broke you. You lost yourself when Glenn, a friend you had made in the beginning, died right beside you. It could have easily been you. God knows the 'what if's swam around your head after the tears had stopped. It wasn't fair.

You weren't with the group when they had hijacked the satellite outpost. You didn't have any part of it, yet you had the blood on your cheek, the trauma of seeing what happened with your own eyes.

If he hadn't stood up and punched Negan, Glenn would still be alive. He would be there for his and Maggie's baby. He would be there to tease you, like he had done since the quarry. The two of you acted like siblings. Now, he was dead. The reason Daryl had first noticed you, as you laughed and pushed Glenn away as he picked at you, was gone. Your laugh caught Daryl's attention, the laugh that Glenn caused. You wouldn't ever laugh like that again, not in this world.

The evidence was strewn across the concrete in front of him. The Polaroids of Glenn's remains were a cruel reminder.

You probably hated him. You probably blamed him. Daryl wouldn't be mad if you did.

You most likely hated him. It would be easier if you did.

If Daryl were to see you after all of this, if he were to escape, he was unable to bring himself to look you in the eye. It would be easier to live with the hate than with the guilt.

He would feel the guilt until the snake that was death struck its fangs into his heart, the venom seeping throughout his veins, throughout his body until it paralyzes him, causing his body to give up in the long run. The guilt would run through his veins as long as his blood stayed warm.

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