are you ever dreaming of me?

“Did you see her shoes?” Gretchen whispered. You didn’t have to ask who. “Disaster,” you said, flipping your hair. “It’s giving bargain bin.”

You’d perfected this, being the kind of girl people whispered about, admired, and feared. You weren’t mean. You were honest. And if the truth hurt people’s feelings, that wasn’t your fault.

Everything in your little kingdom was going as it should, until he leaned against your locker like he owned it.

“Morning, sunshine,” Lando Norris said, grinning all dimples and trouble. His uniform shirt was untucked, tie half-off, hair sticking up like he’d lost a fight with gravity. “Didn’t think you’d grace us mortals this early.”

You crossed your arms, unimpressed. “Didn’t think you knew how to tell time, Norris.”

His grin widened. “Oh, I can tell the time. I just lose track whenever you walk in.”

Karen snorted behind you, choking on her latte. You didn’t turn to glare at her, because that would give him satisfaction.

“You’re blocking my locker,” you said smoothly. “Move.”

“Sure,” he said, pushing off the metal door, but only after leaning a little too close. “You smell nice, by the way. What is that? Expensive and unattainable?”

“Exactly. You wouldn’t get it.”

“I could, if you wrote it down for me.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved past him, but your pulse betrayed you, thudding faster than it should’ve. You could feel his eyes on your back as you opened your locker, pretending your hands weren’t slightly shaking. He was the only person who could get under your skin without even trying.

“Are you two, like… flirting?” Gretchen whispered, barely containing her grin.

“Absolutely not.”

“You totally were!” Karen giggled. “You were all ‘you smell nice’ and she was like ‘ew, you wouldn’t get it.’ That’s foreplay for you two.”

You shot them a withering look. “If I ever flirt with Lando Norris, commit me.”

“Noted,” Gretchen said, smirking. “But, um… You might need to be committed soon.”

You ignored her, slamming your locker shut. Lando was still there, chatting with some guy, laughing like he hadn’t just ruined your morning equilibrium. His laugh carried down the hall, loud, unbothered, golden.

And damn it, he was good-looking. Not in a polished way like the boys you usually entertained, but in that infuriating “just rolled out of bed and still looks like trouble” kind of way. You hated that your eyes lingered.

By lunch, the entire table knew about your “locker scene.”

“So, you and Lando,” said Aaron, your ex—emphasis on ex—twirling his fork. “Something brewing?”

You didn’t even look up from your salad. “Yeah. My nausea.”

Gretchen kicked you under the table. “Come on, you’ve got to admit, he’s funny.”

“Clowns are funny,” you said. “Doesn’t mean I want to date one.”

You were expecting that to end the conversation. It didn’t. Because halfway through lunch, Lando himself appeared, tray in hand, confidence like a weapon. He slid into the seat across from you before anyone could stop him.

“Hey, Queen Bee,” he said, stealing a fry from Aaron’s plate. “Didn’t realize this was the royal court.”

Aaron glared. “No one invited you, Norris.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Lando said, glancing at you. “I came for her, not you.”

Your fork froze midair. You could hear Karen trying not to laugh. “In your dreams.”

“You are in most of them,” he said casually, taking another fry. “Usually yelling at me.”

The table erupted, half gasps, half laughter. You blinked, momentarily stunned, before snapping back, “You’re delusional.”

“Maybe. But you’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he teased, resting his chin in his hand. “It’s cute.”

That did it. You stood, tossing your napkin onto the table. “Enjoy your little audience, Norris.”

And you walked away, head high, pretending you didn’t hear him call after you, “See you in chem, princess!”

Your friends caught up to you halfway down the hall, laughing so hard Karen nearly tripped.

“Y/N,” Gretchen said between giggles, “you were totally throwing your panties at him.”

“I was insulting him!”

“Same difference,” Karen said, wiping tears from her eyes. “God, you two are going to either date or kill each other.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the warm feeling crawling up your neck. “Over my dead body.”

“Don’t say that,” Gretchen said. “You’ll manifest it.”

By Monday morning, you’d convinced yourself that Lando Norris was a temporary glitch in your otherwise perfect life. You could ignore him, easily. You’d done harder things, like calculus.

But apparently, fate—and your math teacher—had other plans.

“Alright, class,” Mrs. Norbury announced. “We’ll be starting our new project on applied functions today. I’ll be assigning partners.”

You didn’t panic. You always worked with Gretchen. Gretchen always worked with you. You were the dream team, efficient, aesthetic, and mildly terrifying.

“Y/N,” Mrs. Norbury said. “You’ll be with… Norris.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry— what?”

Lando was already slouched in his chair, grinning like a cat who’d just eaten the canary. “Guess we’re partners, Princess.”

“No,” you said flatly.

“Yes,” the teacher said firmly. “You two balance each other out. She plans, he improvises. It’ll be good for both of you.”

Lando shot you a wink. You seriously considered dropping out.

When you sat next to him, you made sure there was an entire ruler’s length between your chairs. You weren’t going to let him charm his way into this project — or your sanity.

“So,” Lando said, spinning his pencil like it was a drumstick. “What’s our strategy, queen bee?”

“The strategy,” you said without looking at him, “is that I do the work and you don’t talk.”

He laughed softly. “That doesn’t sound very collaborative.”

“You failed the last quiz.”

“Yeah, because you distracted me.”

You turned to glare at him. “I wasn’t even talking to you.”

“Exactly,” he said with a smirk. “That’s what made it worse.”

You stared at him, torn between throttling him and dropping out of school entirely. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you’re still sitting here.”

You hated that your lips twitched. You didn’t smile. You absolutely did not smile.

By lunch, the entire school had somehow figured out that you were paired up.

Gretchen was the first to bring it up. “So, math boy.”

You groaned. “Don’t call him that.”

“Fine,” she said, smirking. “Lando.”

Karen gasped. “Oh my god, that’s so cute though. You two are, like, academic rivals turned power couple.”

You threw a grape at her. “He’s a distraction. A loud, annoying distraction.”

“Sure,” Aaron said from across the table. “And I’m the valedictorian.”

You ignored them all, but they weren’t wrong about one thing — Lando was loud. He filled every space he entered, talked like the world revolved around his voice, and somehow made even numbers sound like a joke.

And yet, when he leaned over your desk that afternoon, squinting at the problem set, his hair slightly messy, pencil tucked behind his ear — you hated how your stomach flipped.

“What’s the derivative of this again?” he asked, brow furrowed.

You sighed and wrote it out for him. “It’s not that hard.”

He watched you write, grinning. “You’re really smart, you know that?”

“Stop trying to flirt your way into passing.”

“I wasn’t flirting,” he said innocently. “Just observing.”

You swore he was going to be the death of you.

The next morning, there was a sticky note on your locker.

“Math genius. Heart thief. – L”

You stared at it, torn between laughter and homicide.

Gretchen peeked over your shoulder. “That’s adorable.”

“It’s harassment.”

“It’s romance,” she countered. “In a dumb teenage boy way.”

You ripped the note off and stuffed it into your bag, muttering, “He’s impossible.”

But you didn’t throw it away.

When presentation day came, Lando—shockingly—showed up prepared. His slides were neat, his explanation was actually good, and when he spoke, the class listened. You’d never seen him so focused.

Afterward, while everyone was packing up, he leaned in and whispered, “Told you we make a good team.”

And for the first time, you couldn’t even argue.

That night, your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

Your friends were merciless. Gretchen swore you were glowing after class, Karen insisted you were blushing, and Aaron declared he wanted front-row seats to your wedding.

You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling, telling them they were insane. Lando had just… walked with you. That was it. Nothing more. Nothing less.

But even as you typed out your denial, you could still hear his voice, soft, smug, and genuine: “Told you we make a good team.”

You told yourself you weren’t smiling. You weren’t thinking about him. You weren’t wondering what it would be like if he actually meant it.

You weren’t.

You weren’t.

You definitely weren’t.

You tell yourself you’re only here because of Gretchen.

That’s the first lie of the night.

The second is when you pretend not to scan the room for him the second you step inside.

It’s too hot, the lights are too loud, and someone has decided a smoke machine is an essential element of teenage chaos. The living room thrums like a heartbeat. You can taste cheap alcohol in the air. You hate it — obviously. You’re better than this, or at least you’ve spent your whole life convincing people you are.

“Relax,” Gretchen says, tugging at your sleeve as she sways to the bass. “It’s a party, not a pop quiz.”

You roll your eyes, clutching your cup like armor. “If it were a pop quiz, at least I’d pass.”

“Babe, you study for fun. You need this.”

You want to argue, but then you catch a flash of familiar brown curls near the kitchen, and the rest of her words dissolve.

Lando Norris.

Of course, he’s here.

You’d know that laugh anywhere — too bright, too boyish, the sound of someone who’s never once doubted he’d get what he wanted.

He’s leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around a beer, talking animatedly to someone who looks like she might dissolve under the weight of his smile.

You hate the way your stomach twists. You call it irritation. It feels suspiciously like jealousy.

“Don’t look now,” Gretchen sing-songs. “But your favorite headache’s in the kitchen.”

You scowl. “He’s everyone’s headache.”

“Sure,” she says, already grinning. “But you’ve got the prescription.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You down what’s left of your drink, grimace at the burn, and march toward the counter because if you’re going to suffer, you might as well do it up close.

He notices you instantly. Of course, he does, he always does.

“Well, well,” he drawls. “Didn’t think the queen of ‘ew, socializing’ would bless us with her presence.”

You snort. “I’m doing charity work.”

“Ah,” he says, pretending to consider. “You volunteering to make me fall in love with you, then?”

You arch a brow. “You’d need more than charity for that.”

His grin widens, dangerous, disarming. “See? You’re flirting already.”

“I’m threatening.”

“Tomato, to-mah-to.”

You hate that he’s good at this, pushing, teasing, pulling you into a rhythm that feels almost choreographed. You hate that you enjoy the rhythm.

He slides a red cup toward you. “You look like you need this.”

You glance inside. “What is it?”

“Liquid courage.”

“I already have that.”

“Then call it liquid denial.”

You take it just to prove you don’t care, sip it, wince at the taste. He laughs, the kind of laugh that curls around you like smoke.

“Strong?” he asks.

“Disgusting,” you answer. “Like you.”

“Then you’ll love it.”

It’s stupid, but the corner of your mouth twitches. You turn away quickly, pretending to check your phone.

He leans closer, voice dropping. “You know, you’re much nicer when you’re pretending not to like me.”

“And you’re much quieter when you’re not speaking.”

His smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it softens. “You have no idea how fun it is to make you talk to me.”

You hate that he’s right.

“God, you’re impossible.”

“I prefer irresistible.”

Your friends are watching from across the room, stifling giggles behind their cups. You can practically hear the group-chat notifications already. You send them a glare sharp enough to kill, but it only makes them laugh harder.

You need an escape. Any escape.

“I’m going to get air,” you mutter, shoving your cup at him.

He tilts his head, pretending to look wounded. “Running away? That’s not very Regina-of-you.”

You stop just long enough to toss over your shoulder, “Keep talking and I’ll make your GPA disappear.”

His laughter follows you out onto the porch, low, genuine, annoyingly warm.

The night air hits colder than you expected. It smells like rain and cigarette smoke and the kind of loneliness that creeps up when the music fades.

You sink onto the porch steps, tugging your jacket tighter. Inside, people are laughing, shouting, existing in a way you can’t quite figure out how to. You tell yourself you like control, that you prefer walls to vulnerability — but sitting here alone, you wonder if the walls are closing in.

The door creaks.

“Thought you’d ditched,” Lando says, stepping out. His tone is lighter than his expression.

“Wishful thinking.”

He sits beside you anyway, close enough that your knees almost touch. “You’re really bad at hiding when something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

He hums, unconvinced. “Right. You just looked at your reflection in the punch bowl and realized even mirrors are scared of you.”

You bite back a laugh. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I am.”

“Delusional.”

“Hot,” he corrects.

You roll your eyes, but the silence that follows isn’t hostile. It’s… quiet. The kind of quiet that fills in rather than empties out.

He kicks at a loose pebble. “You don’t have to keep the act on, you know.”

You glance at him. “What act?”

“The one where you pretend nothing ever gets to you.”

Something catches in your throat. You look away. “It’s not an act.”

“Sure,” he says softly. “Then why do you look like you’re about to cry every time someone says your name too gently?”

You blink hard. “Wow. That’s presumptuous.”

“Maybe,” he admits, “but I’m not wrong.”

You want to tell him to shut up. You want to insult his shoes, his face, his everything. But you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like that, like he means it, like he’s not playing the same game you are.

You sigh, long and tired. “You really don’t know when to quit.”

“Not when it comes to you.”

The words hang between you, thin and electric. For a second, you can’t breathe.

He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t move closer, but somehow it feels like he’s everywhere, the sound of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his shoulder, the smell of clean laundry and faint cologne.

Your heart trips.

“I should go find my friends,” you whisper.

“Right,” he says, voice unreadable. “Wouldn’t want people thinking you actually like me.”

You manage a shaky laugh. “Exactly.”

He grins again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “See you around, princess.”

And just like that, he’s gone, back into the noise, the lights, the crowd that always seems to part for him.

You watch him disappear, every smart retort dying on your tongue.

Because the worst part is, he’s right.

You don’t hate him. You hate that you don’t.

You don’t remember when you decided to leave.

One minute you were inside again, pretending to laugh at a joke that wasn’t funny, the next, you were outside, the bass fading behind you like a bad memory. The air smells like rain now—real rain this time—and the streetlights blur in the mist.

Your heels click against the pavement, steady and sharp. It feels like control. It feels like pretending you have somewhere to go, even though you don’t.

You told Gretchen you’d call a car. You didn’t. Your phone died twenty minutes ago, and you couldn’t bring yourself to admit it.

It’s not even that far home, you tell yourself. Just a few streets. You can handle it.

Except your vision swims a little when you look down at your feet. You’re not drunk—you’d never let yourself get that far—but you’re buzzed. Enough that the street feels longer, emptier, lonelier.

“Should’ve just stayed home,” you mutter, kicking at a puddle. Water splashes your ankle. Perfect.

The irony doesn’t escape you that for someone who prides herself on always being composed, you’ve never felt more unput-together.

You’re halfway through your internal scolding when a pair of headlights slows behind you.

You don’t look up until a voice calls out through the open window:

“Regina George, you planning to walk the whole city in those shoes?”

You stop. Turn.

Of course, it’s him.

Lando leans across the passenger seat, arm draped over the wheel, curls messy, eyes bright even in the dim glow of his car’s dashboard.

You groan. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

He grins. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t ask for anything.”

He nods toward the empty seat. “Get in, drama queen.”

You cross your arms. “I’m fine.”

“Sure,” he says easily, “because walking home alone at midnight in stilettos is a genius move.”

You open your mouth for a retort, but your foot slips slightly on the wet pavement and—goddammit—he has a point.

You glare at him anyway. “If you tell anyone about this—”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll take it to my grave.” His tone softens. “C’mon. You’re freezing.”

You hesitate only a second before yanking the door open and sliding in. The car smells like pine and something faintly citrusy, like a summer you forgot to enjoy.

He starts driving without another word. The radio hums low, some indie song that sounds too emotional for two people pretending not to care.

The silence is thick.

“You didn’t have to,” you mutter finally, eyes fixed on the passing streetlights.

He shrugs, eyes on the road. “Didn’t want to wake up tomorrow and read about you getting kidnapped by a raccoon or something.”

You snort, despite yourself. “How noble.”

“I’m basically a hero.”

“You’re basically an idiot.”

He laughs, quiet but genuine. It’s unfair how good that sound feels.

You sneak a glance at him — the way his jaw flexes when he concentrates, the curve of his mouth when he tries not to smile. You look away quickly.

He catches it anyway. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He grins. “You were totally staring.”

You scoff. “In your dreams.”

“Every night, actually.”

You shove his shoulder lightly. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet, you’re in my car.”

You want to say something scathing. You really do. But then he takes a turn a little too fast, and his arm instinctively goes out in front of you, protective, automatic.

Your breath catches.

He notices. “Sorry.”

You shake your head, voice smaller than you mean for it to be. “It’s fine.”

For a few minutes, the only sound is the rain beginning to tap against the windshield. You watch the wipers glide back and forth like a metronome keeping time for a song neither of you knows how to finish.

Then—quietly—he says, “You okay?”

You blink. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He gives a half-smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You looked… sad. Back there.”

You swallow. “Maybe I just hate parties.”

“I don’t buy that.”

“Then maybe I just hate people.”

“Except me,” he says lightly.

You turn to him. “Who said that?”

He shrugs. “Wishful thinking.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to keep the grin from slipping out. “You’re not my type.”

“Good thing I’m everyone’s type.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse betrays you. You’re too aware of the way his fingers tap the steering wheel in rhythm with the music, the way his hair curls against the side of his neck, the way he’s looking at you like you’re not the person you’ve spent so long pretending to be.

“Lando,” you say finally, half-warning, half-plea.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t.”

He glances at you, brow furrowed. “Don’t what?”

“Make this weird.”

He chuckles softly. “Too late for that.”

You sigh, leaning your head against the window. The glass is cool against your skin.

The car slows as you reach your street. You point toward your house, but the words don’t come. For some reason, the thought of saying goodnight feels heavier than it should.

He pulls up to the curb, puts the car in park, but doesn’t move to unlock the doors. The rain has picked up now, soft and steady, filling the silence.

“You’re really not going to tell me what’s wrong?” he asks again, quieter this time.

You stare straight ahead. “Why do you care?”

He exhales, eyes flicking toward you. “Because you act like no one should.”

That hits harder than you expect. You want to deflect, to make a joke, but your throat’s too tight for it.

You reach for the handle. “Thanks for the ride.”

His hand shoots out, gently catching your wrist. “Hey. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend you’re fine when you’re clearly not.”

You don’t mean for your voice to break when you say, “What do you want me to say, Lando? That I’m tired? That I hate how I feel around you? That I wish I didn’t care?”

He blinks, startled, not by the words, but by the crack in them.

The rain fills the silence again. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

Then, quietly, he says, “You can hate me tomorrow. Just… let me make sure you’re okay tonight.”

You look at him—really look—and for the first time, you don’t see the cocky grin or the teasing remarks. You see someone who actually means it.

It’s disarming. Terrifying.

You nod, just once.

He lets out a slow breath, relief flickering across his face. “C’mon. My house is closer. You can crash there. I’ll text Gretchen so she doesn’t freak out.”

You hesitate, but the exhaustion wins. You nod again, softer this time.

“Fine. But if you try anything—”

He smiles, pulling back onto the road. “Relax, princess. I’ll behave.”

You don’t believe him.

You also don’t care.

Because for the first time that night, the thought of not being alone feels like something you might actually need.

The first thing you notice is the light.

It’s soft, gold, and wrong; it filters through curtains that aren’t yours, landing across your face in a way your own bedroom never quite manages. It feels too gentle for your hangover and too kind for your brain, which is currently piecing itself back together like a shattered mirror.

The second thing you notice is the smell. Coffee. Soap. And something faintly citrusy, familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist.

You groan quietly, rolling onto your back. Your head throbs, a dull pulse behind your eyes. There’s a hoodie draped over your torso, heavy and warm, sleeves pooled around your hands. You don’t remember putting it on.

You blink up at the ceiling, confusion settling in. This isn’t your room.

The walls are lined with posters—cars, mostly. Racing ones. The desk is cluttered with notebooks and energy drink cans. There’s a gaming headset hanging off the chair, a stack of controllers on the nightstand, and a small photo frame turned facedown.

It hits you all at once, like an aftershock.

Oh, no.

You sit up too quickly, clutching your head. The room tilts, and you groan again, quieter this time. The blanket falls to your lap. You’re still in your clothes from last night, the sequined top, the black skirt, the mascara smudged under your eyes.

And the hoodie.

His hoodie.

It’s all coming back in slow motion: the rain, the headlights, the warmth of the passenger seat. The way he looked at you when you said you hate how I feel around you.

“Shit,” you whisper.

Because it’s not the first time Lando Norris has looked at you like that.

You glance around, half-expecting him to be sitting in a chair or leaning against the doorframe with that smug half-smile. But he’s not. The room is quiet. You can hear faint movement somewhere outside the door—a pan clattering, the low hum of a kettle.

He’s up.

You press your hands to your face, trying to breathe. The night replays again, pieces clicking together, his hand catching your wrist in the car, his voice low and steady, saying you can hate me tomorrow.

Well. It’s tomorrow.

And you do hate him. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

You hate that he’s always there. That he knows when to push and when to stop, when to make you laugh and when to leave you alone. You hate that for the last five years, he’s been the one constant in the background — never quite close enough to call yours, but always close enough to matter.

You remember it now, clearer than you want to.

You were fifteen the first time he asked you out. You’d laughed in his face, told him to “try someone in his league.” He’d just grinned and said, “So, you’re admitting I’m aiming high?”

That was the start of it — this stupid, endless game.

He’d tease you in the halls, drop notes into your locker, sneak glances when he thought you weren’t looking. And every time you rolled your eyes, every time you told him to stop, he’d just say something ridiculous like, “One day, you’ll say yes.”

He wasn’t wrong. He just wasn’t right yet.

Because back then, it was easy to laugh him off. To act like you were untouchable. To keep your walls so high that no one could see over them.

But last night? Last night, for the first time, you let him in, even if it was just a crack.

And you remember everything.

The drive. His voice. The way his hoodie smelled when he draped it over your shoulders. The way he’d looked at you when you finally stopped pretending everything was fine.

You don’t know what scares you more: that you let yourself break in front of him, or that he didn’t take advantage of it.

He’d just… been there. Quiet. Kind.

No jokes, no teasing, no smug smile. Just steady.

It would’ve been easier if he’d made a move, if he’d flirted, if he’d said something infuriating. That’s what you expect from him. That’s the version of Lando you know how to handle.

But he didn’t. He covered you with a blanket and let you sleep.

And now, sitting here in his room, wearing his hoodie, you don’t know what to do with that version of him.

You look at your reflection in the small mirror by his desk, hair a mess, makeup smudged, eyes tired but soft in a way that doesn’t look like you. You look… human.

You hate it.

You pull the hoodie tighter around yourself anyway.

Because even though it’s too big, even though it smells like him, even though it’s every kind of dangerous, you feel warm.

There’s a quiet knock on the door. You jolt, spinning toward the sound.

“Hey,” his voice says softly through the wood. “You awake?”

You freeze. “...Yeah.”

“Coffee’s ready. You take sugar, right?”

You hesitate. “Uh, yeah.”

A pause. “Can I come in?”

You stare at the door, heart hammering. “I— yeah. Sure.”

It opens slowly, and there he is.

Hair still messy, hoodie swapped for a t-shirt that shouldn’t fit him as well as it does, a mug in each hand. He looks tired, but there’s that same small, crooked smile on his face, the one that always ruins your defenses.

“Morning,” he says quietly.

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. You just stare.

He glances at the hoodie you’re wearing. “That looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

“Don’t start,” you mutter, pulling the sleeves over your hands.

He laughs under his breath and sets a mug on the nightstand beside you. “Didn’t think you’d remember much from last night.”

You look up at him, meeting his gaze. “I do.”

That wipes the smirk clean off his face.

You sip the coffee slowly, eyes never leaving his. “You really thought I’d forget?”

He shrugs, suddenly sheepish. “Would’ve made it easier.”

“For you or for me?”

He doesn’t answer. He just leans against the wall, watching you.

And in that quiet—between the hum of the rain outside and the steady beat of your heart—you realize something that makes your stomach twist.

He’s still looking at you the way he always has. Like he’s waiting.

And for the first time, you’re not sure you want him to stop.

You don’t realize how close he still is until you exhale, and the air catches on his collarbone. His hand—the one that had been tracing lazy circles over the duvet—stills, fingers curling slightly as if fighting the urge to reach for you again. You’re both frozen there, breathing the same air, trapped somewhere between last night’s chaos and the kind of silence that feels too intimate to break.

“Still tired?” he murmurs eventually, voice gravelly with sleep.

You hum, rolling onto your back, staring at the ceiling. “I’m trying to pretend this is a dream so I don’t have to deal with it later.”

Lando chuckles — that same stupid, boyish sound that used to make you want to throw a shoe at him. “If this were a dream, you’d be nicer to me.”

You turn your head, giving him a side-eye that’s more fond than you mean it to be. “You wish.”

He smiles — slow, lazy, utterly self-satisfied. “Yeah, kinda do.”

There’s a stretch of silence after that. It’s not awkward, exactly. It’s the kind that feels suspended, fragile, like any wrong word could break it. The morning light cuts through the blinds in stripes, falling over his face, over the sharp edge of his jaw, and the faint freckles that scatter across his nose. You hate how warm it makes you feel.

“You remember everything from last night, don’t you?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Every humiliating second.”

“Good.” He grins. “Would’ve been tragic if you forgot how you called me the ‘less annoying one’ between me and your ex.”

Your face burns. “Oh my god. You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he leans in slightly, voice dropping, “you still called me.”

You open your mouth, ready with some sharp, defensive comeback, but nothing comes out. Because he’s right. You did. You called him. Out of everyone. And even though you could justify it — he was the only one awake, you were lost, you were panicking — it doesn’t change what it means.

Your voice softens, betraying you. “You really stayed the whole night?”

“Of course I did.” He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You think I’d just leave you like that?”

You stare at him, something tender curling in your chest. You want to look away, but his expression is so steady, so open, that you can’t. “You shouldn’t be this nice to me.”

He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “You say that like you don’t love it.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Lando—”

He cuts you off by tugging the edge of the blanket higher, brushing his knuckles against your arm. It’s a small, thoughtless movement, but your skin sparks where he touches you. You’re suddenly too aware of how close you are, how his breath fans over your cheek when he talks.

“You’re really bad at lying, you know that?” he says.

You glare at him half-heartedly, though the corner of your mouth betrays a twitch. “And you’re really bad at shutting up.”

He grins, wide and unbothered. “That’s fair.”

He shifts a little closer, his arm brushing yours again, deliberate this time. You feel the warmth of him, the quiet thrum under your skin that’s been there since last night. You should move. You don’t.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The silence isn’t heavy anymore, it’s softer now, almost domestic. You can hear the faint hum of his phone charging on the nightstand, the distant noise of birds outside, and under it all, his steady breathing beside you.

When he finally speaks again, it’s quiet. “You know, I wasn’t kidding.”

You blink. “About what?”

He meets your gaze, unflinching. “I like you. I have for… a while.”

You swallow, throat dry. “You’ve been trying to get with me for years, Lando.”

“Yeah, but now you actually like me back,” he says, grin turning softer this time, more real. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

You groan, pressing your face into the pillow to hide the stupid smile spreading across your face. “You’re infuriating.”

“Cute way to say you’re falling for me.”

“Shut up.”

He laughs, the sound low and warm, and before you can react, he reaches over to gently pull the pillow away from your face. Your heart stutters. He doesn’t let go right away.

For a second, it feels like everything slows, like the world outside his window stops moving, just for you two. He’s still smiling, but there’s something softer behind it now, something that feels almost dangerous.

“Hey,” he says quietly, thumb brushing against your wrist, “I’m not gonna push you, okay? You can take all the time you want. I just… want you to know I’m not going anywhere.”

You look at him—really look—and it hits you how rare it is for him to sound like that. No teasing, no bravado. Just honest.

You breathe out slowly, and when you finally speak, your voice is small but sure. “You’re not as annoying as I thought.”

He grins, dimples flashing. “Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

But you’re smiling now, and he sees it, the way your defenses are slipping, the way your shoulders relax, the way your hand doesn’t move when his fingers graze yours again.

He leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. “So…” he murmurs, “do I get to say I won you over, or should I wait until after breakfast?”

You roll your eyes, laughing under your breath. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he repeats with a smirk, “you’re still here.”

You don’t pull away this time.

Instead, you let the silence settle again—warm, gentle, familiar—as the morning stretches out between you. And for the first time, you stop trying to pretend you don’t want it.

The light has changed by the time either of you moves again, softer, warmer, the kind of morning that feels suspended in amber. It spills across the floor, across the crumpled blanket, across Lando’s face where he’s lying half-turned toward you, head propped on his hand like he’s been studying you for hours.

You blink up at him, groggy but oddly content. “You’re staring.”

He smiles, lazy and unashamed. “You’re finally quiet. It’s fascinating.”

You make a face, reaching for the pillow and smacking him lightly with it. He laughs, catches your wrist mid-swing, and suddenly your hand is caught between both of his, your pulse thudding against his palm. The laughter fades, replaced by something quieter, a steady, magnetic kind of calm.

“Careful,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the back of your hand, “you’ll make me think you actually like me.”

You snort, trying to sound unaffected, but your voice betrays you. “Maybe I just haven’t woken up enough to hate you yet.”

He grins. “That’s progress.”

He shifts closer, and it’s ridiculous how natural it feels, like you’ve been doing this for years instead of constantly throwing verbal knives at him. You can smell his cologne, faint and clean, something you recognize from every hallway argument you’ve ever had with him. The thought makes you laugh softly.

“What?” he asks, amused.

“Just… you,” you mumble. “You’re not supposed to smell this good.”

He laughs under his breath, the sound rumbling through the air between you. “You’re not supposed to admit that.”

You shrug, feigning indifference, but your cheeks are warm and you know he can see it. “Don’t get used to it.”

He leans in just a little, voice dropping low. “Too late.”

The words hang there, heavier than they should be. He’s close enough now that you can see the faint golden flecks in his eyes, the curl of his smile that’s somehow both smug and stupidly soft. You could pull away—you should—but the idea doesn’t even occur to you until it’s already too late.

You don’t kiss him. Not yet. You just lie there, barely a breath apart, the weight of it filling the space like static.

“Hey, Lando?” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

“You’re still annoying.”

He grins, dimples flashing. “And you still like me.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile breaks through anyway, unwilling, unstoppable. “I really hate that you’re right.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering against your cheek. “You can hate it later. Stay a little longer first.”

The suggestion sits between you, wrapped in the soft hum of the morning, half a dare, half a promise. You should get up. You should grab your shoes, make some snarky remark, and leave before this turns into something you can’t take back.

Instead, you sigh and sink deeper into the sheets. “Just for a bit,” you mutter.

Lando grins, victorious but gentle, pulling the blanket higher around both of you. “Just for a bit,” he echoes.

You rest your head against his shoulder, pretending it’s because the pillow’s too far away, and he pretends not to notice. The silence that follows isn’t sharp or uncertain anymore. It’s warm, the kind that wraps around you like sunlight through a window you forgot to close.

“Lando?” you murmur after a moment.

“Yeah?”

“If you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll ruin your life.”

He laughs, quiet and easy. “Deal.”

And when he leans in just a fraction closer—close enough that his breath skims your skin, close enough that the morning slows to a hum—you let it happen. Because maybe you’re tired of pretending you don’t want him. Maybe, for once, it’s okay to let yourself fall.

Outside, the day keeps moving. Inside, you don’t.

Not yet.

He stares at the ceiling for a beat, letting the panic marinate. Somewhere in the distance, his phone buzzes. Once. Twice. A third time. It’s not even a surprise anymore; you’re always on time. He’s always slightly off it, as if his entire existence runs on a five-to-ten-minute delay. Most times, even more. 

“Shit,” he groans as he finally rolls out of bed.

The flat is cold. He left the window cracked open the night before, and now the October air bites at his bare skin. He stumbles into the bathroom, catches sight of himself in the mirror, and winces. Bed hair. Sleep lines. A half-crushed hoodie collar. Perfect boyfriend material.

You’ve been together for four years. He’d accidentally spilled an entire iced latte down your shirt after tripping over his own feet in front of a café. You’d stared at him like he was the stupidest person alive, but instead of getting mad, you had laughed. He’d spent the rest of the day trying to make you laugh again. Somehow, it worked.

Back then, Lando had felt like he’d lucked out in a way that made no logical sense. He wasn’t the smooth guy who charmed his way in. He was the idiot with the coffee stains and terrible jokes. You were smarter, sharper, someone who could read people like books. For some reason, you’d read him and decided he was worth the sequel.

The problem with time, he’s realizing, is that it makes everything you take for granted start to blur at the edges.

He throws on jeans that are questionably clean and a hoodie that he’s fairly sure you bought him. He considers brushing his hair, decides a cap will do. Classic Lando efficiency. By the time he texts you omw, he’s already thirty-five minutes late.

When he gets to your place, you’re standing by the door with your arms crossed. Not angry, not yet. Just disappointed in that way that makes his stomach drop a little. You’re wearing the blue sweater he likes. The one that makes your eyes look unfairly good in sunlight. You don’t say anything at first.

“Hi,” he offers, trying for sheepish charm.

You raise an eyebrow. “Hi.”

Okay. Not sheepish enough.

The drive to the restaurant is terse, save for the soft thrum of the engine and whatever playlist Spotify’s decided to humiliate him with today. Lando taps the steering wheel, eyes flicking toward you every few seconds. You’re looking out the window. There’s a tension sitting between you, invisible but solid.

When you finally get to the restaurant, it’s busy. Weekend crowds. Lando didn’t make a reservation. He tells himself it’s fine, you always wing it, but when the host tells them it’ll be a forty-minute wait, the look you give him could curdle milk.

“Forty minutes isn’t that bad,” he tries.

“You said this was a lunch date.”

“It is,” he says, already regretting it.

You end up waiting by the curb. He scrolls through his phone; you scroll through yours. Occasionally, he tries a joke. A few land. Most don’t. The rhythm between you—once easy, playful—feels off-beat today.

When you finally sit down, Lando orders for both of you without thinking. It’s something he’s always done. You usually tease him about it. This time, your mouth presses into a thin line. “I could’ve ordered for myself, you know,” you say.

He freezes with his glass of water halfway to his mouth. “I didn’t think—”

“Yeah.” You look away. “You always do.”

The conversation limps along after that. He talks about his plans for the weekend; you nod politely. You bring up your work; he half-listens, distracted by the notification lighting up his phone. He laughs at a meme Max sent him, forgetting the part where you were mid-sentence. When he finally looks up, you’re quiet again.

There’s a small, sinking feeling in his chest. He pushes it down, like he always does.

After lunch, you walk together down the street. It’s sunny but cold, and he’s tempted to reach for your hand the way he used to, casually, without thinking. Something about your posture—arms folded, a step ahead—makes him hesitate.

“Hey,” he says, trying to bridge the gap. “You okay?”

You don’t answer right away. Then, softly: “I don’t know.”

Something about how tired you sound makes Lando’s gut churn, and not in a pleasant way. He laughs awkwardly, because that’s his reflex. Because it’s better than confronting the fact that something has been shifting, seismic in its own devastating way. 

“Work’s been that bad, huh?” he says. 

He immediately realizes it’s not the right thing to say. You stop walking and turn to him, incredulity passing your expression before you reel it in for something more neutral. “Do you even notice anymore?”

“Notice what?”

“Exactly,” you say.

The wind carries your hair into your face. You tuck it behind your ear with a gesture so familiar it physically hurts to look at. Four years, and he still doesn’t know how to stop messing up the small things. The things that end up mattering most, building on top of each other like a stack of cards threatening to cave in.

The car ride back is, once again, filled with nothing but music. The air holds its breath, waiting for one of you to say something of consequence. Lando keeps his hands at ten and two, like concentrating on the steering wheel will fix everything else he’s botched today.

He tells himself he’s going to keep the car running. Drop you off at the porch, maybe toss out a joke about rain checks and seeing you later. Tomorrow’s another day, isn’t it? He can grovel then. 

When he pulls up to your place, he shifts into park but doesn’t kill the engine. The hum of it fills the spaces between you. You reach for the seatbelt, fingers hesitating on the buckle.

“So,” he hums. “Today was nice.”

You let out a breath, almost a laugh but not quite. “Except for the part where you almost ghosted me.”

He winces. “Yeah. My bad.”

There’s a beat where you could both just leave it there. You could get out, wave, pretend it’s fine. He could drive off, convince himself it’s just a bad day. Except you don’t reach for the door handle. You stay put.

“Come inside for a bit,” you say finally.

A corner of his lip twitches downward. “I should let you rest.”

“Lando.” Your voice carries that warning note, the one that cuts through any weak excuse he tries. “Come inside.”

He hesitates, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. He wants to pretend it’s because he has somewhere to be. He doesn’t. He just doesn’t want to step into whatever conversation is waiting on the other side of your doorway.

He keeps the car running. It’s the optimist in him, the one who thinks you just want a good night kiss and then he can go on his merry way. 

Everything smells like you inside your house. Clean laundry and that candle he accidentally set off the smoke alarm with once. He stands awkwardly in the hallway while you move to the living room. You don’t offer him a drink. You don’t tell Alexa to play music. You just sit down and look at him like you’ve been rehearsing this moment for weeks.

His chest tightens. “You’re freaking me out,” he jokes weakly.

“I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say, cutting straight through the air like a knife.

Lando doesn’t even think he hears himself when he says, “Pretending what?”

“That this is fine,” you answer. “That we’re fine.”

“We are fine. We had one bad lunch date.”

You shake your head slowly, like you’re watching him miss the point entirely. “It’s not just today.”

The words land in his stomach like cold water. He takes a step closer, as if proximity alone can fix this. “If it’s about me being late—”

“It’s not just about today,” you interrupt. “It’s everything.”

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He wants to argue. He wants to say that’s not fair. He wants to list every meme he’s sent, every late-night call he’s answered, every weekend squeezed in between exhausting work days. Because what did you mean everything, when the way he’s loved you was supposed to be part of that? 

You exhale, steadying yourself. The blow is swift and catastrophic. “I think we need to break up.”

The world doesn’t end with a bang. It’s a quiet sort of thing, creeping underneath his ribs, holding his heart in a vice grip. 

Lando laughs. Again, his habit. Coping mechanism. Whatever you want to call it. “You’re joking,” he says. 

You don’t smile. “I’m not.”

“You can’t just drop that on me like it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” you say, patient even now. “That’s exactly the point.”

Lando stares at you, trying to find some hint of hesitation. Some crack in your resolve he can wedge himself into. All he sees is certainty, as if you already mourned this before he even noticed it was dying.

He sits down across from you. The couch dips under his weight. “I can fix this,” he says, his words tripping over one another. “I’ll be better. I swear.”

You shake your head. This is not the first time Lando has promised to change his ways. The last time—was it a couple of months ago?—it had been about his tardiness. A couple of months before that, it was him getting complacent. 

Lando feels something collapse inward. All his jokes, his easy charm, his excuses have nowhere to land here. He runs a hand through his curls. “So that’s it?” he asks, his tone edged with disbelief as a matinee runs through his head: Four years, four years, four fucking years. 

You look at him for a long moment. 

“Yeah,” you say, voice wobbling. “It is.”

It’s not the three words that Lando likes hearing from you. The silence that follows sticks to his ribs. Lando just sits there for what feels like forever, waiting for the punchline that isn’t coming.

–-

Lando wakes up to his 10:30 AM alarm.

For a second, he thinks the world ended in his sleep. That would explain the dull throb in his chest, the dry mouth, the way the morning light slants across the room as if it’s highlighting the wreckage of his life. His phone buzzes somewhere in the sheets. He ignores it.

All he can think about is last night. The way you sat on the couch, hands folded like you’d been holding that sentence—“I think we need to break up”—in your mouth for weeks, just waiting for the right silence to drop it into. The look on your face when he tried to fix it. The way the quiet swallowed him whole after.

He presses his palms into his eyes, hard. He didn’t even cry. Not properly. Just sat there until you got up to show him to the door. He drove home on autopilot, parked, sat in the car for what felt like hours. Fell into bed still in his hoodie, smelling like the cold air outside your house.

Another buzz. He groans, grabs the phone. The screen lights up with your name and a text.

hey, are you still coming for lunch?

Lando blinks. Reads it again. Checks the date in the corner of the screen. Tuesday.

That’s impossible.

It was Tuesday yesterday. The breakup happened yesterday. He can still feel it like a bruise under the skin.

He scrambles upright, heart thudding. Checks his messages. All the texts from yesterday—the apologies, the follow-ups, the radio silence—are gone. It’s as if they never existed. Maybe last night was some elaborate nightmare his brain cooked up to ruin his morning.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Either I’ve lost it or…” He trails off. There isn’t really an ‘or’ that makes sense.

Your message is still sitting there. Bright. Normal. Casual. As if nothing happened. He types back before he can think it through:

omw.

He throws on the same hoodie, the same jeans, cap pulled low. Everything about the morning feels like pressing replay on a scene he didn’t like the first time.

By the time he pulls up outside your place, the déjà vu is punching him in the face. You’re there again. Same blue sweater. Same folded arms. Same disappointed-but-not-yet-angry look. He swallows. “Hi,” he says. The word tastes strange.

You raise the same eyebrow. “Hi.”

He almost says, Didn’t we do this yesterday? but bites it back. Instead, he forces himself to follow the script. Drive to the restaurant. No reservation. Forty-minute wait. The same lines, the same tightness in your mouth. It’s a bad rerun of his own mistakes.

“Forty minutes isn’t that bad,” he says automatically.

“You said this was a lunch date,” you say, and something within Lando lurches. 

He wants to scream. Or laugh. Or maybe both.

The host hands you two the buzzer. He stares at it like it’s proof he’s losing his mind.

When you finally sit down, he hesitates before ordering. He catches your eye. You look tired already, like you’ve lived this day twice, too. “I could order for you,” he says carefully. “Or you can… you know. Do it yourself. Obviously.”

You frown. “Are you okay?”

No. “Yeah. Totally.”

Lunch proceeds like before. Him half-listening, distracted. Except this time, he’s hyperaware of every misstep. Every time he looks down at his phone, every awkward pause. He’s watching himself dig the same hole and can’t stop it.

When he drives you home, his hands grip the wheel like a lifeline. He pulls up to your house. Keeps the engine running. The moment stretches.

“Come inside for a bit,” you say.

His stomach drops. He knows what comes next. He lived it. “I really should let you rest.”

“Lando,” you say, same warning note.

Inside, you sit him down. Same couch. Same look. Same sentence. “I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say.

His pulse spikes. “No, no, no, no,” he mutters, mostly to himself, like that’ll stop the script from playing. “Not again.”

“I think we need to break up,” you continue.

That’s the thing about reruns: the endings never change, no matter how badly you may want them to. 

–-

Lando wakes up at 10:30 again.

The alarm blares, lilting very much like Worst Sound in the World. His first thought isn’t about breakfast, or brushing his teeth, or even the crushing weight of heartbreak. It’s, “No fucking way.”

He lies there staring at the ceiling, pulse climbing. His brain does a quick replay: yesterday (but not yesterday), the breakup, the restaurant, the text. He sits up so fast his head spins. Checks his phone. Tuesday. 10:31 AM. Same text from you waiting on the screen.

hey, are you still coming for lunch?

“Okay,” he says aloud. “Okay, okay, okay.” He laughs once, short and disbelieving. “I’m on a prank show. Sick. Someone call Ashton Kutcher.”

He thumbs out his standard reply. 

omw.

In the bathroom mirror, he stares himself down like he might crack if he looks too long. “It’s fine,” he mutters. “This is fine. TikTok does this. It’s a thing. Social experiments. Hidden cameras. Maybe Max is in on it.”

The mirror doesn’t offer much reassurance.

By the time he gets to your house, he’s vibrating with unease. Same sweater. Same porch. Same confused little wave from you. He gets out of the car like a man walking into a trap he can see but can’t avoid.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” you reply, eyebrow already halfway up to arching. Wow, you’re good at this. He never knew you were such an actress. 

Lando gestures at you, almost accusing. “You’re wearing the same thing.”

Your brow furrows. “What?”

“This is like… I’ve seen those TikToks. Social experiments. Hidden cameras.” He spins in a half-circle, scanning the street. “Are you filming me? Is there a drone somewhere?” 

You take a small step back. “Are you okay?”

He laughs again, a little unhinged. “No, because this is the third Tuesday I’ve had,” he sputters, “and I swear to God if you tell me there’s a forty-minute wait at the restaurant again—”

“What are you talking about?”

He drags a hand down his face. “You’re good. You’re really good. I didn’t even see the cameras. Where is it? Is Max behind this? Carlos? You? No, wait. You wouldn’t do this, you’re too—”

You’re staring at him like he’s grown a second head.

The drive is silent after that, punctuated by his muttered commentary about déjà vu and bad TV. It’s not even the tense type of silence, just the kind where you’re obviously wondering if Lando has lost his mind. He’s fairly sure he has. 

At the restaurant, the host gives the exact same apologetic smile. “It’ll be about forty minutes.”

Lando barks out a laugh. “Of course it will.”

You give him a look that lands somewhere between concern and irritation. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

“No, no, this is great. Love this part.” He pockets the buzzer with the air of a man resigned to his own execution.

“Lando, what the hell is going on with you today?”

“Honestly?” he exhales. “I don’t even know anymore.”

By the time he drops you off, he’s somewhere between hysterical and numb. You ask him to come inside again. He tries to refuse. You insist. The scene unfolds. Same couch. Same look.

“I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say.

Lando rubs his face with both hands. “Here it comes.”

“I think we need to break up.”

“Yup.” He exhales. “Nailed it.”

You stare at him, hurt and confused, and for a moment he almost breaks. He wants to grab your hand and explain everything. But how do you explain a third Tuesday to someone who’s still on their first?

So he sits there, the words landing like they did before. It’s almost a little bit funny, how they never hurt any less. 

–-

Lando wakes up to his 10:30 alarm again, and the sound doesn’t even bother him anymore. 

It’s background noise now. Birdsong. Tinnitus. He just lies there staring at the ceiling for a moment, hand over his face, letting the weight of it sink in.

It’s his ninth Tuesday.

He’s stopped hoping it’ll be Wednesday when he checks his phone. He knows what he’ll see. Still, the little flash of the date on his lock screen feels like a punchline he can’t quite laugh at yet.

Lando goes through the motions. Shower. Hoodie. Keys. The drive to your place. By now he knows exactly how long he can stay in bed before traffic screws him over. He knows which playlist you’ll put on when he finally picks you up. He knows the conversation about your neighbor’s cat that always happens at the second red light.

And he’s not trying to change any of it. Not today. He’s tired. There’s something perversely comforting in watching the dominoes fall the exact same way.

You’re waiting outside when he pulls up, smiling at him in that easy, familiar way that hurts more now. He smiles back because he still can. Because for these few hours, before the world tilts on its axis, everything feels almost normal.

“Hi,” he greets. 

“Hi,” you say back. 

He doesn’t mention that he’s had this exact exchange nine times. It’s starting to feel like a script. The faux pas add up like clockwork. He forgets to ask about that thing you told him last week. He answers a call mid-conversation. He scrolls through something on his phone when you go quiet for a second too long. He’s not even trying to fix it. Not yet.

The drive back is the same. You offer to have him in, he gives the same noncommittal shrug. It’s like watching a film he’s already memorised but can’t turn off. 

“I think we need to break up.”

Every time, those words feel like dropping through a trapdoor.

He watches himself react. The surprise, the scrambled words, the disbelief. It’s almost detached this time, like observing a stranger wear his face. By the end of it, he’s sitting in his car again, engine running, the same ache settling into his chest.

For the first time, the thought lands cleanly, without panic or denial or that ridiculous TikTok conspiracy theory he tried a few loops ago: Maybe the goal isn’t to figure out the time loop. Maybe the goal is to stop you from breaking up with him.

The thought sits there, heavy and sharp, as he drives off to get his heart broken another time.

–-

Lando wakes up to his 10:30 alarm with a plan. 

It’s not much of a plan, but after nine Tuesdays of sleepwalking through the same breakup, it feels revolutionary. He’ll fix it. He’ll be better. He’ll get ahead of it this time.

He’s out of bed faster than usual, brushes his teeth like he’s racing in Formula One, and even puts on a decent shirt instead of his usual hoodie. The mirror catches him mid pep-talk. “You’re not screwing this up again,” he mutters, pointing at his own reflection like a threat.

First stop: flowers. Easy, right? Romantic, thoughtful, gesture-y. Except the florist near his place is shut for renovations, and the gas station flowers are… well. They exist. Slightly wilted lilies and some anonymous pink things that look like they’ve been rejected from a Valentine’s bin three years running.

He buys them anyway. “These are her favorites,” he tells the cashier, who nods like he doesn’t get paid enough to question the lie.

The drive to your place is familiar by now. You step out, still oblivious to the looping chaos he’s been living in. He hands you the flowers with a flourish he hopes masks how cheap they look.

“Oh,” you say, taking them carefully. “Are these meant to be apology flowers?” 

“They’re ‘just-because’ flowers. I know they’re not your favorites, but they didn’t have the ones you like,” he lies smoothly. Inside, he cringes at the limp stem hanging at a tragic angle. 

He changes up the restaurant this time, too. He’s picked somewhere new, hoping a change of scenery might rewrite the script. It’s louder, busier, slightly too warm, and he immediately regrets it when you get seated by the kitchen doors. A waiter barrels past every thirty seconds like they’re in a high-speed chase.

You talk. He tries to focus. He really does. But the place is distracting, and when his phone buzzes in his pocket, he checks it without thinking. You stop mid-sentence. His stomach sinks. Old habits die screaming. 

“Sorry,” he says quickly, locking the screen. “Reflex.”

You nod, but there’s that tiny shift in your expression. The one he’s seen nine times already.

The food takes too long. He tries to make a joke about it. He spills a bit of water when passing you the bottle. His chair squeaks loudly whenever he shifts. It’s like the universe has queued up a blooper reel just for him.

On the way back to your place, he’s rattled. He thought trying would make a difference. It hasn’t. You’re quiet in the passenger seat, hands folded in your lap, flowers on the dashboard looking increasingly funereal.

Outside your house, it happens again. The talk. The look. The slow dismantling of whatever hope he built that morning.

“Lando, come inside.” 

He tries to interrupt, to reroute the conversation. “Wait, is this about the flowers? Because the florist was—”

“It’s not about the flowers,” you say softly. It never is.

He listens to the words he’s already memorised, each one sinking deeper because this time, he thought he had a shot. He thought doing better, even slightly, might change something.

You break up with him anyway, steady and kind, while his confusion coils tight in his chest.

He sits in the car longer than usual, flowers still on the dashboard, petals starting to wilt for real now. He presses his forehead against the steering wheel.

“Great plan, mate,” he mutters. “Nailed it.”

–-

Lando wakes up at 10:30, already plotting. 

He’s tried flowers. He’s tried dinner. Now, he’s convinced the answer is to reroute the entire day. No restaurants. No driving around. Just you, him, and the safety of your living room. How could anything possibly implode if you never leave the house?

He shows up with a sheepish grin and a plastic bag from the grocery store. “Surprise. I brought snacks,” he says, holding up a family-sized bag of crisps. The lie that follows is almost elegant. “Thought we could just stay in tonight. Y’know. Cozy.”

You blink, surprised but not displeased. “That’s… different.”

“Good different,” he insists, stepping inside before you can change your mind. The smell of your house hits him all at once—detergent and candle wax, faint perfume clinging to the air. He’s starting to think this might actually work.

The day unfolds weirdly well. You sit cross-legged on the couch, blanket pooled around your lap, laughing at the ridiculous movie he picked. He’s sprawled in the armchair like a teenager trying not to make things awkward, hyper-aware of every shared glance, every brush of your knee against his. For a few hours, the loop feels like it’s cracked. No argument over the check. No overcooked risotto. It’s only the two of you, tucked into the soft edges of domesticity.

Then, near midnight, something shifts. It’s the way your laugh falters during a lull in the conversation. The way your eyes start drifting away from him instead of toward. A gut-deep wrongness, the same one he’s come to dread.

You set your mug down. “Lando, we need to talk.”

He can feel it coming, like a punch he’s already taken a dozen times. “Can it wait until after the movie?” he tries, half-joking.

You give him that soft, sad look that doesn’t care about punchlines. 

The words unravel the same way they always do. You love him. You care about him. But this isn’t working, it’s everything, it’s over. He doesn’t even bother to argue. He’s sitting on the couch cushion like it’s quicksand, nodding as if he hasn’t been here before.

“Can I stay?” he blurts out at the end. It’s desperate and humiliating and entirely sincere. “It’s—it’s really late.” 

You hesitate, then sigh. “The couch. Just tonight.”

It’s not much, but he clings to it like a life raft. You disappear into your bedroom, the sound of the door clicking shut making the walls feel miles thick. He lies down on the couch, staring at the ceiling, convinced maybe sleeping here will break the loop.

He wakes up to his 10:30 alarm in his own bed.

Lando shoves his face into the pillow and lets out a muffled scream.

–-

Lando figures that the solution is to not see you at all.

If the breakup happens when you’re together, then the obvious fix is to… not be together. It’s completely flawless in theory.

He turns off his phone’s notifications, buries it deep in his hoodie, and grabs his keys. By noon, he’s halfway through a breakfast sandwich at a café he’s never been to before, sunglasses on, hood up, convincing himself this is exactly what people in control of their lives look like.

Your first text comes in around 12:17. Then a second. Then a call. He ignores them all. It’s not personal, he tells himself. It’s strategic. The universe can’t orchestrate a breakup scene if the actors never enter the stage.

By mid-afternoon, he’s at a go-kart track thirty minutes away, tearing through laps with laser focus. Each turn is a silent act of rebellion. No lunch date. No awkward silences. No heartbreak. He drowns himself with engine noise and the illusion of agency.

It’s only when he’s parked in a random lot at sunset, scrolling through TikTok like a man hiding from the law, that the text comes in.

i can’t do this anymore, lando.

He stares at the screen. Blinks. Reads it again, as if maybe the ending will rearrange itselfif he squints hard enough.

“Seriously?” he mutters to no one. 

His stomach twists in a way that’s half panic, half disbelief. He’d managed to avoid every single pitfall, every moment where things usually went wrong. And you’d still broken with him. Over text. 

He drives home in silence, gripping the wheel like it’s personally betrayed him. By the time he gets back to his flat, the frustration is simmering under his skin like static. He throws himself onto his bed without changing, staring at the ceiling.

The 10:30 alarm will ring again. He knows it. Not for the first time, the thought makes him want to scream.

–-

Lando wakes up at 10:30 and decides, with the kind of manic confidence that only comes from repeated failure, that this time he’s going to get ahead of it. 

If he breaks up with you first, then maybe the loop won’t know what to do. Check-fucking-mate.

By the time lunch rolls around, he’s seated across from you at the restaurant with his hands clasped. You’re mid-story about something that happened at work when he blurts, “We should break up.”

It’s not his most ceremonious way of going about it, but whatever. He’ll probably have a couple more Tuesdays to nail it. You pause, your fork nearly clattering on to the table. “What?” you sputter. 

“Yeah. Break up,” he says, nodding like this is perfectly reasonable. “I just think… yeah.”

Your eyebrows draw together, suspicion creeping in. “Did Max tell you?”

Lando freezes. “Max?”

“So he did.”

He didn’t. Lando’s finds himself trapped in a conversational cul-de-sac with no exit signs. Max Fewtrell, his best friend since God-knows-when, knew that you were planning to dump him? “Uh… maybe?” Lando sputters. 

“Wow,” you say, crossing your arms. “I can’t believe he’d do that.”

“Yeah,” Lando agrees weakly.

You look at him, doing that thing again where you read between all the lines. “Okay. Then why do you want to break up?”

He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Because there is no reason. There never was. Not one he believes, anyway. 

Lando can live through hundreds of Tuesdays, and there still wouldn’t be one where he would want to end things with you. There’s not a cell in his body that wants to leave you—the feeling, so intense that he can’t even bring himself to lie. 

Sitting here, watching the tiny crease form between your brows, his throat tightens. For a second, it’s like he’s hearing his own words from outside his body, and the sheer absurdity of them makes his stomach lurch.

“I…” he tries. His hand curls against the edge of the table. “I don’t know.”

Your voice softens. “Lando.”

He laughs, brittle and shaky. “This is going so well.”

The rest of lunch limps along. He can’t undo the words once they’re out there. He can’t explain the real reason without sounding like he’s lost his mind. He drops you off; you invite him in to ‘talk about it’. Lando shakes his head and tells you there’s nothing to talk about, which is a good chunk of the truth. 

He doesn’t know what hurts more: that you still chose to end things, or that for a moment, he almost believed he could let you go first.

–-

Lando wakes up at 10:30 and doesn’t text you back.

He’s past the point of pretending that his choices matter. Whether he shows up or not, whether he apologizes or hides or drives off into the distance, the breakup will happen. It’s starting to feel like gravity. 

Instead of rehashing the script, he pulls on a hoodie that still smells faintly of your shampoo, grabs his car keys, and heads to Max’s place. If he’s stuck in this endless rerun, he might as well spend it somewhere that doesn’t smell like heartbreak and half-eaten takeout.

Max answers the door with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, toothpaste foam threatening to drip down his chin. His hair sticks up like he’s been electrocuted. “Morning?” he mumbles around the brush.

“It’s noon,” Lando says flatly, shouldering past him. He drops himself onto the couch with the kind of exhaustion that makes his bones feel old. “I need to talk.”

Max pads back to the sink, spits, rinses, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then flops down into the armchair opposite. “You’re scaring me. Did you kill someone?”

“No.” Lando presses his palms against his eyes. “She’s going to break up with me today.”

The resounding silence feels a lot like a gotcha moment. Max did know, and Lando would be angrier if he wasn’t so damn exhausted. 

“She’s gonna do it. I can’t stop it,” Lando insists, voice pitching higher, like if he says it with enough force the world might finally listen. His voice cracks as he looks up at Max, the words spilling out of him, “How could she change her mind like that? How—how do you just wake up and realize you don’t love someone anymore?”

Max leans back, arms folded. “People are like that,” he says gently. “We change our minds.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Lando snaps before he can help it. The words stick in his throat. “I haven’t changed my mind. I still love her.”

And there it is. 

Because after every shitty thing he’s done—after every shortcoming, every moment when he could have been kinder—the truth glares like a neon sign against a brick wall. He loved you, he loves you, he will love you through Tuesdays and whatever else waits on the other side of this nightmare. He will wake up at 10:30 for the rest of his life, feeling your loss like a phantom limb. 

He will not change his mind. He doesn’t want to. 

It hits Lando how raw that sounded, how he didn’t even try to hide it behind a joke this time. Max doesn’t laugh or deflect. He just watches him, steady, like he’s holding space for something fragile.

“Sometimes,” Max says after a beat, voice softer than Lando expects, “we think we’re doing our best for the people we love. But not hurting them isn’t always the same as giving them what they deserve. You haven’t been a bad boyfriend, Lando. You just haven’t been a good one, either. And that’s okay. That’s just life. You live and you lose and you learn.”

Lando stares at the carpet, jaw clenched, chest tight. He wants to argue. He wants to say Max doesn’t know everything, that it’s not that simple, that he tried. But the words don’t come, because Max isn’t wrong. Lando knows that too well. 

He can try, and try, and try, but it won’t undo the weeks, the months. The cracks are already there. The story has been written, and somebody has to leave. 

It’s going to be you. 

Lando takes in a deep, shaky breath. “Fewtrell, you’re not gonna remember this,” he mumbles, “but thanks.”

Max frowns. “Why wouldn’t I remember?”

“Eh.” Lando shrugs. “Just a feeling.”

(When Lando finally leaves, it’s late afternoon. He doesn’t make it to you. He doesn’t pick up your calls. He tricks himself that it’s just like any other day.

Hours later, like clockwork, the breakup text arrives anyway. It’s short, familiar, and perversely comforting. He reads it once, presses his thumb against the glass like it might change the words, then flips the phone face down on the table.

10:30 comes for him anyway.) 

–-

That morning ‘after’, Lando doesn’t bother acting like he’s fine.

His eyes are bloodshot, hoodie half-zipped, hair flattened in weird places from not caring. When your eyes land on him, your first instinct is concern, not anger, which feels like a small, temporary miracle.

“Hey,” he says. His voice trembles embarrassingly on the single syllable. “Can we… just have a good day? Please.”

You look at him like you’re searching for the catch. There isn’t one. He doesn’t have a speech prepared. He doesn’t even have a plan beyond this pathetic, desperate ask. Just one day. One good day before everything caves in.

Something in your expression shifts. “Of course,” you say, your shoulders loosening, and he feels so bad. 

He feels so guilty to ask you this. He feels terrible to demand your patience and your love when both have already worn so thin. But he’s tired, and he’ll take whatever love you can still afford to give him—even the bits and pieces of it. 

The day unspools like a song playing a little too softly. Lunch at a café where he keeps his hand on your thigh the whole time. Not in a casual way but like if he lets go, the world might end. A walk by the pier where he buys you ice cream you don’t finish, where he laughs too loudly at your jokes, as if volume alone could keep things alive. 

You don’t push him away. You don’t ask questions. You indulge him, which Lando finds to be infinitely worse than everything he’s gone through so far. He once had so much more than your indulgence. He had your devotion, your affection. He had deserved it once. 

He keeps catching himself staring at you like he’s memorizing your face. Every time, he forces a smile, then forces you to laugh. It works, sometimes. Other times, the air between you stretches thin and trembling. A string pulled too tight.

By the time he drives you home, the sky is bruised purple. The car idles at the curb, headlights washing over the pavement. You reach for the door handle, mouth opening to invite him inside, and something in him splinters.

“Wait,” he says. It comes out shaky, barely a sound.

You turn back to him. His hands are clenched on the steering wheel, knuckles pale. He’s trying so hard to hold it together that it’s painful to watch. “I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t do this.”

Tears slide down his cheeks before he can stop them. Hot, humiliating, relentless. He drags in a breath like he’s drowning. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Your eyes are glassy too, and that’s what gets him. It’s—what? His twenty-second Tuesday?—and you’re only crying now. 

The two of you sit there, the engine humming low beneath the sound of quiet, shaky breathing. It’s not a breakup conversation, not technically. Both of you just cry, and cry, and cry, watching four years crumble somewhere between the dashboard and the rear view mirror. You walk back into your house alone. Lando waits until all the lights are off before driving away.

He doesn’t remember how the night ends. Only that when he wakes up, it’s 10:30 again.

–-

Lando wakes up to the same ceiling, the same pale shaft of light sneaking through his curtains. He’s lost count of how many times it’s been Tuesday. His phone screen blinks 10:30 at him, but for the first time in weeks, he doesn’t scream into his pillow. He just lies there, breathing, heart a strange mix of calm and ache.

It’s not just any Tuesday. It’s the Tuesday.

He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does. Something in his chest has settled. He’s stopped hoping the loop will break if he just fixes enough small details. He’s stopped pretending this is about finding the trick. Today isn’t about winning.

He showers longer than usual, stands under the hot spray until his skin turns pink. He pulls on a shirt he knows you like. Then he drives to the flower shop across town—the good one, not the petrol station where he’s grabbed wilted stems in a panic. He asks for your favorite flowers by name, arranges them himself, fussing over each stem until the bouquet looks like it belongs in a photograph. The woman behind the counter gives him a knowing smile. He doesn’t explain.

You give him a surprised smile when you see the flowers, and for a brief moment, he sees a glimmer of the old you. The one who used to look at him like he was the sun.

“Wow,” you say, touching the petals gently. “You remembered.”

“Course I did,” he says, pretending like he didn’t have to drive twenty minutes out of the way and nearly break down in the parking lot.

At lunch, he takes you to the tiny bistro tucked into the corner of an old street, the one where you first told him you loved him, voice shy but steady. Your eyes widen when you see the place. For a heartbeat, he sees it. Your guard slipping, a flash of the old warmth. It punches the air out of his lungs. 

He keeps the conversation light, cracks jokes, listens harder than he’s ever listened. You laugh, softly, like you used to, and he feels both full and hollow at once.

Lando realizes halfway through dessert that this is it. This is his final act of love: Letting you go.

He doesn’t say it out loud, though. Doesn’t make this about him. He just reaches across the table, brushes his thumb over your knuckles, memorizes the way your hand feels in his. This could be the last time, or it could be another Tuesday. It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters except for the way he hopes he’s done halfway right by you. 

When he drives you home, the silence in the car is gentle and kind. The streetlights blur into streaks through the windshield. He tries very hard not to cry.  

Lando parks outside your house and kills the engine before you can ask. 

He turns to you and takes in every inch of your face like he’s storing it somewhere safe. This is how he wants to remember you. Still his, for a brief, beautiful moment. 

“Hey,” Lando says, voice cracking. “Before I walk you in—can I get a kiss?” 

He sees the hesitation. That heartbeat where you wonder if it’s something appropriate, when you’ve already prepared for what you’re about to do. Lando is just about ready to start begging when you nod.

Your first kiss had looked a lot like this, too. His car, a streetlight above, the promise of something. When Lando leans in to kiss you, this time, he tastes salt instead of giddiness. He’s not sure whose tears it is. He kisses you until he can’t breathe, until his lungs protest, until he has to face the inevitable. 

There used to be a car battery inside Lando’s chest—one that would roar to life when you kissed him, looked at him, said his name. 

Tonight, that battery is cold.

Your forehead presses against his. Tears cling to your lashes. Your mouth moves, devastatingly slow, against his, as you whisper, “Lando.” 

The car battery inside his chest clicks one last time,—

lando paused for a second, watching how oscars thigh flattened as it rested against the chair then moved up again, jiggling with each movement. he drowned out the noise of zal’s incessant rambling as his gaze moved up, up oscar’s leg and to the place his cock was buried between his thighs. he bought a hand to his lips, picking at a price of skin that had torn.

his mind delved into fantasies of the man beside him — it disgusted him, really, the thought of fucking his teammate was a fantasy and nothing more.

right?

lando couldn't take his eyes off the outline of oscar's bulge. he could feel his own cock chubbing up behind the zipper of his pants.

he thought back to the night before, the city was quiet, and all he could focus on was the soft moans coming from the hotel room beside him. when he realised that oscar was jerking off, he couldn't help but sink a hand down his shorts and wrap it around his own cock, matching the pace of oscar’s moans as he imagined sinking into his teammates tight ass while he squirmed beneath him.

zak placed a hand down on the table, hard enough to snap lando out of his thoughts. he fought hard to not grimace at what ran through his head.

“well, ill leave you both to talk this through,” zak announced as he stood from his chair.

fuck, lando hadn't listened to a word he'd said. oscar would know he wasn't paying attention and notice how flustered he looked, surely.

he dragged his gaze back towards oscar's face when zak left the meeting room, not looking at his eyes, but instead studying the faint pattern of moles that lined his cheekbones.

oscar watched the way lando looked at him — eyes soft and calm.

blue met brown as their eyes moved upwards, both settling into an uncomfortable silence. the air in the room felt too hot, their chairs too close together, the faint noise of staff outside suddenly too loud.

oscar dragged his tongue over his bottom lip, causing lando’s gaze to flicker downwards. the latter's eyes widened as he looked at his teammates lower lip, his mind conjured up images of his cum coating oscars lips and he couldn't help but groan aloud at the thought.

“. . . you alright?” oscar mused, tilting an eyebrow.

lando paused before he answered, trying to come up with a sensible answer.

shit, lando thought, what do i say? tell the truth and make it uncomfortable, or low and sound like an idiot in front of oscar?

but if he waited any longer, oscar would've thought he was ignoring him. he went for the first option, hoping his teammate wasn't overly judgemental. surely he would understand . . .

“nah, mate. magui hasn't been giving me any . . . y’know?”

“yeah, nah, lily’s been a bit dry lately too,” he huffed a breath through his nose, sending a crooked grin his teammates way.

lando breathed out a sigh of relief. “mm, been thinkin’ it's time i actually do something myself, but there's no time anymore.”

oscar hummed quietly in agreement. lando could almost see the cogs turning in his head as his eyes drifted to the laptop sticking half out of his backpack, lazily dumped on the floor beside their chairs.

they locked eyes once again, but this time oscar questioned silently. lando nodded, and oscar eagerly pulled the laptop from the bag.

his fingers tapped over the keys quickly to unlock it, then opening an incognito tab.

“give it here,” lando motioned for oscar to handover the laptop, and he did so obediently.

lando tapped the mouse on the search bar, heading straight for his go-to website. “any suggestions?”

“no,”  oscar answered bluntly. he was quickly growing needy, his dick throbbing against his jeans as he watched lando's thick fingers fly over the keys.

he studied the videos on the screen that appeared underneath lando's humble search of “STR8 Aussie Guy Gets WRECKED by Hung British Twink, FIRST TIME.”

lando selected the video, enlarging it to fullscreen and placing the laptop on the desk before them.

“you, uh . . .” oscar cleared his throat, “watched this one before?”

“mm, once or twice. only when i really need to get off.”

oscar thought about the fact that his teammate, of all people, watched lookalike porn of the two of them. it made his mind buffer, and all he could focus on was his cock aching in his jeans. he wondered if lando felt the same — no, he prayed lando felt the same, because he couldn't deal with the thought of lando not being as turned on by this as he is.

lando eyed oscar from his position next to him. “well, what you waitin’ for?”

oscar had been too lost in his thoughts to realise that lando has already freed his cock and was now lazily gliding his hand up and down,  thumbing at the top every few strokes to gather precum.

“fuuuck,” oscar groaned, tipping his head back.

this didn't mean anything to lando, why the fuck would it mean anything to him?

he fumbled with the zipper of his jeans, growing more and more desperate by the second to come, gasping when lando muttered a “good boy” in his direction.

his cock, red and leaking, sprung up against his stomach when he tucked his boxers under his balls, the action caused precum to smear along the abdomen of his mclaren team polo, but his mind was too clouded with the need come to  even care.

he didn't bother to look at the video playing out on the screen, not when his teammate was jerking off right in front of him. plus, watching lookalike prom of himself felt rather self-centred.

“osc, shit,” lando groaned through his teeth.

oscar’s hand stuttered at the nickname, interrupting the pace he had so perfectly matched to lando's. his dick twitched in his hand, and precum rapidly edged its way down his fist with each pump.

lando's hips bucked and he thrusted up into his palm, eyes squeezed shut, blissfully unaware of oscar's piercing gaze on his every movement.

obscene sounds echoed in the meeting room as the two approached their orgasms, not caring if the staff passing by heard their increasingly loud moans. they both fucked their fist at the same pace, one with his eyes trained on the screen and the other with his eyes trained on his teammate.

“fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” lando groaned, giving his cock one last tig before he spilled onto his hand. oscar followed close behind, suppressing his moans with his hand as he came.

oscar reached into his bag for a spare shirt — anything that could clean the mess they both created. he pulled out a spare polo, shoulders drooping when he realised he would have to leave the room in his come-smeared one.

he cleaned his hand first, resenting the way his drying come felt between his fingers, then carefully wiped up the mess on his sensitive cock. when he was done, he handed the dirty polo to lando.

“thanks,” lando murmured. he cleaned himself quickly, not flinching at how his right twitched when he touched his cock.

oscar watched the polo wrapped in lando's hand, his come so close to his teammates . . .

“well, thanks for that, man.” lando reached out a hand to fist bump oscar.

he returned it slowly, standing with lando and placing the laptop back into his backpack.

seriously? they had just jerked off together and all he got in response was a pathetic “thanks for that, man”?

oscar stood still, frozen in place as lando left without another word, closing the door behind him.

The sound of your front door slamming open and heavy, stumbling footsteps in the hallway made you jump. You knew you had given some friends a spare key, but before you could even process which one it could be, your bedroom door flew open, hitting the wall with a thud.

Oscar stood there, silhouetted against the hallway light, breathing heavily. He was groaning, a low, pained sound deep in his chest, and he swayed on his feet.

"Oscar?" you gasped, pausing the movie and scrambling off the bed. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

He didn't answer, just staggered into the room, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Panic seized you. You rushed to his side, guiding his unsteady form toward your bed. He collapsed onto the edge of the mattress with a heavy sigh, his body limp. You could tell he was desperately trying to keep his head up.

"Talk to me, Oz," you pleaded, your voice tight with worry. You dropped to your knees on the floor between his legs, your hands resting on his knees, trying to ground him. "What happened? Are you okay? Did you get into a fight?"

He shook his head, his brow furrowed in confusion or pain, you couldn't tell. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, the words slurred. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what? Oscar, you’re scaring me.” You squeezes his knees, trying to get him to focus on you.

“Event. Drank too much," he slurred, his head lolling back and forth. "And then... someone... chocolate. They gave me this chocolate. It's making me feel... so warm. Everywhere. So fucking warm."

His hands, which had been hanging limply at his sides, suddenly came to life.

They slid from his own thighs onto your fingers, the touch hesitant at first, then more deliberate. Your breath hitched as his palms smoothed up the back of your hand, over your arms, and onto your collarbones, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to the juncture of your chest. This wasn't a gesture of a hurt friend. This was something else entirely.

"Oscar... what are you doing?" you whispered, your voice trembling.

His eyes, dark and hazy with alcohol and something else—something raw and hungry—locked onto yours. "Please," he begged, his voice a low, desperate rasp. “Love, please. You have to touch me. No—I need to touch you. It's the only thing that'll make it stop. The only thing that'll help."

Shock rendered you silent. This was Oscar. Your Oscar. The one you studied with, the one who brought you soup when you were sick, the one who knew all your most embarrassing secrets. He’d never use the nickname “love” in such a heavy, hungry tone. He'd never looked at you like this, like you were the answer to a question he was burning to ask. 

He misread your silence for refusal.

"Please," he begged again, his hands moving higher, cupping your face, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. "I'll be good. I'll make it so good for you. Just say yes.”

Your heart was hammering against your ribs. You'd never done anything like this. You'd never even been kissed properly, let alone... this. But it was Oscar. And the sheer, naked need in his eyes was breaking down every wall of hesitation you had. 

Slowly, shyly, you nodded.

The effect was instantaneous. A groan ripped from his throat, and one of his hands dropped, grabbing your wrist. He guided your hand from his knee to the prominent, hard bulge straining against the front of his dress pants. The heat of him, even through the fabric, was startling. You let your palm press down tentatively, and he bucked his hips up into your touch with a choked-off curse.

"Yeah, just like that," he encouraged, his voice thick. Emboldened, you leaned forward, pressing a soft, experimental kiss to the same spot through his trousers. That was his undoing.

With a strength that belied his drunken state, his hands were under your arms, hauling you up from the floor. In one fluid motion, he tossed you gently onto the center of your bed, the blankets tangling around you. Before you could even gasp, he was crawling over you, caging you in, his body a solid, warm weight.

The playful, gentle Oscar was gone, replaced by a man possessed by lust.

His touches became erratic, frantic. His mouth crashed down on yours in a searing kiss that was all tongue and teeth, nothing like the sweet, romantic kisses in the movie you'd just been watching. His hands roamed your body, tugging at your sleep shirt until the buttons gave way. The cool air hit your bare skin, and you gasped. His eyes dropped to your chest, to your breasts now exposed and bouncing with every ragged breath you took.

"Fuck," he breathed, staring with unabashed hunger. "I knew you'd be perfect."

He didn't just look; he devoured. His mouth was on your neck, your collarbones, then closing over one peaked nipple. You cried out, arching off the bed, your hands flying to his hair. The sensations were overwhelming, foreign, and utterly intoxicating. He licked and sucked, his free hand squeezing and kneading your other breast, before his journey south began again.

He kissed a hot, wet trail down your stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your sleep shorts and panties, dragging them down your legs in one rough movement. The cold air against your now naked body sending a shiver up your spine. You were completely bare to him, exposed under his intense gaze.

"Oscar, I... I've never." you tried to say, but the words died in your throat as he settled between your legs.

"I know," he murmured against the inside of your thigh, his breath ghosting over your core. "That's why it has to be me."

And then his mouth was on you.

A sharp, guttural moan was torn from you, a sound you didn't even know you could make. His tongue was flat and firm against your most sensitive spot, licking into you like a man starved. Just as you were adjusting to that incredible feeling, you felt the press of a finger at your entrance, then two, sliding into you slowly. The stretch was unfamiliar, a little uncomfortable, but the dual sensation of his mouth working your clit and his fingers curling inside you short-circuited your brain. Pleasure, white-hot and shocking, began to coil deep in your belly.

"You taste even better than I dreamed," he groaned against you, his words muffled by your flesh. His fingers pumped in and out, his thumb circling your clit. "Dreamed of ruining you for anyone else. Of being the only one to feel how tight you are... to smell you... to taste you."

His confession, filthy and possessive, sent another jolt through you. You were moaning uncontrollably now, your hips moving of their own accord, meeting the thrust of his fingers, grinding against his mouth. You tugged at his hair, not to pull him away, but to pull him closer. The knot in your stomach tightened, growing more and more intense.

A whine escaped you, your eyes screwing shut as your brain quickly became static. 

Oscar lifted his head, his chin glistening. “Fuck,” he panted, his eyes dark with hunger. “Let go, love. Now, come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it."

It was all the permission you needed. The coil snapped. Your back arched violently off the bed as a climax crashed over you, wave after wave of blinding pleasure. A loud, throaty cry erupted from you, your body convulsing around his fingers.

Oscar didn't give you a moment to recover. As you lay there, panting and boneless, he reared back onto his knees, tearing at his own clothes. His shirt went flying, then he was fumbling with his belt and pants, shoving them down his legs. And then you saw it. His cock, fully erect, was thick and heavy, the tip, red and angry, already slick with pre-cum. It looked intimidating, impossible.

He positioned himself over you again, the head of his cock pressing against your soaked, sensitive entrance. "Gonna try to be slow," he grunted, but as he pushed forward, breaching your tightness, a guttural groan was ripped from him. "Fuck... you're so tight. You— shit, you’re sucking me in.”

The initial stretch was a sharp, burning pain that made you whimper. But it faded quickly, replaced by an overwhelming feeling of fullness as he sank deeper, until his hips were flush against yours. He stilled for a moment, letting you adjust, his forehead damp with sweat as he dropped it against yours.

But the restraint was short-lived. The animalistic need took over again. He pulled out almost all the way before slamming back in, and this time, a different kind of moan left your lips-one of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He set a brutal, punishing pace, folding your legs up against your chest, the new angle making him hit a spot inside you that had you seeing stars.

You were just a mess of whimpers, whines, and choked sobs beneath him, taking every deep, frantic thrust. You were shocked, overwhelmed, but your body responded to him instinctively, your hips meeting his, your nails digging into his hands that squeezed your thighs hard.

"That's it, take it," he growled, his voice rough with exertion. "My good girl. Fuck, it feels so good, you’re doing so good.”

His words, combined with the relentless friction, built another orgasm inside you, faster and more intense than the first. You were crying now, tears of overwhelm and ecstasy streaming down your temples into your hair. He was everywhere-his scent, his taste, the feel of him pounding into you-filling all your senses.

With a final, deep thrust that buried him to the hilt, he shouted your name, his body shuddering as he spilled himself inside you, hips stuttering as he fucked through his orgasm. He collapsed on top of you, his weight a comforting anchor, both of you slick with sweat and struggling for breath.

In the sudden quiet, broken only by your panting and the hum of the TV still paused on the romcom's happy couple, reality began to trickle back. Oscar, still buried inside you, nuzzled his face into your neck.

“Love?” he mumbled, his voice already heavy with post-coital sleep.

"Yeah, Oz?"