box, box.

Isack Hadjar has grown used to many bizarre things. Being recognized on the street, waking up and appearing in Twitter controversies, having childhood friends sending him thirst trap edits of himself. Ever since he started out on Twitch in the early months of the pandemic, it’s become his new reality. A steady drumbeat of everyday existence.

He didn’t expect that the one thing to catch him off-guard would be meeting with his online friends in real life.

“I think Isack should take us on a tour of Paris after TwitchCon,” Franco says, stretching his arms over his head with a quiet groan.

The five of you sit on whatever chairs and chaises you’ve managed to scrounge together from the Airbnb you’ve rented together. The second monitor of the stream scrolls by with a flurry of rapid-fire messages from the chat.

Isack isn’t exactly sure what time it is—all he knows is that it’s late, and timezones apparently don’t mean shit, because he’s still staying up and awake at some ungodly hours even when they’re all in France.

Arvid, Doriane and Kimi have each long since left to sleep in their bedrooms—a smarter choice. Though from the way Ollie’s eyes are starting to droop, Isack would be willing to bet that he’ll be the next one to duck out of the stream.

 “I’d be down for that,” you say, sitting next to Isack on the chaise lounge. “We could make a whole video out of it.” You lean closer to the second monitor, trying to catch any half-legible sentence from the chat. “A lot of people are here ‘cause of TwitchCon though,” you hum, thinking out loud. “Maybe it’s not the best idea—reckon we’d get recognized at every other place we visit.”

“Ellaaaa, la famosa,” Franco teases. It sparks a few responses in Spanish from the chat.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Gabi replies easily.

You roll your eyes, throwing a can you believe this guy? look at the camera. Isack matches your expression, leaning his head back. “Of course you wouldn’t,” he says.

“Olha só quem fala!” Gabriel exclaims, leaning up from his slouched position on his chair. At Isack’s raised brow, he repeats, “Look who’s talking, Mr. I’ve-done-like-ten-shirtless-streams.”

Isack’s cheeks turn pink. He hopes it’s at least somewhat hidden by the shitty illumination of the room. “It wasn’t ten times! It was, like, barely twice,” he defends, voice cracking at the end, which promptly earns a laugh from Franco. “And it was a subgoal, asshole.”

“I’ve had subgoals,” Gabriel deadpans, though the amused curl of his lip gives him away easily. “I’ve never been shirtless on stream.”

“Fuck you,” Isack says, with no real bite.

“Fuck me yourself, coward,” Gabi shoots back.

“Get a room you two, jeez,” you call out, holding back a laugh as you bite down the inside of your cheek. “And no one in chat’s complaining about Isack’s shirtless streams, by the way.” You tilt your head, typing something down that is obscured to the rest. “Maybe we should make it this stream’s subgoal.”

“If you want him to get naked just say so,” Franco quips, which earns him a swift smack with one of the cushions. Gabi watches Franco topple back from his chair and cackles loudly—which quickly pries the attention away from you.

“É, você devia ter previsto isso,” Gabi tells Franco in a mocking tone. Franco flips him off from his spot sprawled against the floor.

Isack glances at the chat, unsurprised by the comments he manages to catch. 

hadjarfan theyre both blushing AGAIN fork found in kitchen francosqt he should invite her to the next subgoal stream  ynlove francosqt lmao they are not surviving that bearmanfan pool stream w all of them WHO SAID THAT borboletobortoleto franco said CLOCK ITT idestroyedzecar HES SOOO BLUSHING 

He averts his eyes just as quickly, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he clenches and unclenches his hands uneasily. His face still feels embarrassingly hot.

Ollie yawns, unusually quiet for a group stream. “I reckon if we’re gonna be taking a tour around Paris we should know at least a little French.” He shrugs, ignoring Franco and Gabi bickering off by his side. “We can’t rely on Isack and Dori for everything.”

“Fair,” you say, nudging your knee against Isack’s. You tilt your head towards him, lips curved up into a smile. “Are you up to teaching us a little French?”

Isack feels keenly aware of your knee against his—frustratingly so. Still, he can feel his lips mirroring your smile before he can help himself. 

He hums, a low sound at the back of his throat. “I would consider it.”

“Yeah, teach us French, Hadjar,” Franco says, straightening his chair and taking a seat. There’s something about his tone that feels pointedly dragged, like he’s making fun of him. He rolls his eyes.

“C’mon. Say something in French,” Gabriel adds.

Isack scoffs. “That is such a bad—like, what would I even say?”

You nudge his leg again, and his eyes are already on you before he can help it. “Say something to me,” you say, and he wonders whether the microphone even manages to pick it up. “I like hearing you speaking it.”

Well. He’s definitely blushing now.

“Ah, I…” He clears his throat. Considers it for a beat, then shakes his head before he can convince himself otherwise. “Je passe un moment vraiment incroyable depuis que vous êtes arrivés,” he starts, words smooth and well-rounded, “C’était trop beau de t’avoir—de vous avoir ici.” As soon as he stumbles, Isack bites down his tongue and cuts himself off before he can ramble and give himself away.

He looks back to find all four of you staring at him. Blinking slowly. 

“Was that attractive or what?” Franco asks. Isack’s eyes widen unexpectedly. “Decímelo al oído y soy todo tuyo,” he says, earning a laugh and a shove from Gabriel.

You tilt your head at the boy sitting alongside you. “What did you say?”

Ollie shrugs with another yawn, ready to end the stream. He sighs tiredly. “He said he wants to eat your face.”

“I did not!” Isack sputters. “I did not say that,” he says, his voice bleeding with more panic than he would’ve liked. “I didn’t,” he repeats helplessly.

But Franco and Gabi are cackling like hyenas now, the former nearly slipping from his chair again. 

His ears feel burning hot now, and in an effort to avoid your gaze, he catches a glimpse of the chat once again.

kimitagliatelle CRYING isacklewisfan as a french person i can confirm isack wants to eat her face yep arvidlawson i was gonna go to sleep but my show is on!!!!!! gabibubbles isackyn? in this economy???? francopintacola ollie is their number shipper istg  doripocketrocket u dont have to be french to know that he wants her BADDD unfortunatelyyn not to be parasocial but the way she looks at him thoughhhhh

He should’ve gone to sleep and avoided all this. ‘All this’ of course, being his supposed friends.

“You can find your way around Paris yourselves,” Isack says, earning a combination of amused looks and pouts from the room. “I’m not showing you shit.”

It’s still late at night—or early in the morning, depending on who you’re asking—when the group decides to end the stream and get some rest. Ollie disappears at some point before the stream truly devolves into chaos, leaving just you, Gabriel, Franco, and Isack.

It’s around four in the morning when Franco suggests doing a drinking game before going to bed, though the cabinet filled to the brim with beer, wine, gin and vodka seems far too convenient to be a spur of the moment idea.

“Verdad o reto. What is that in English? Truth or… challenge. Or something,” Franco says distractedly, trying to open the bottle of gin with a bit of a struggle.

“Truth or dare?” you supply.

“Yeah. But you drink instead. So, y’know. Truth or drink.”

It’s how the four of you wind up inside Gabi’s room, sprawled between the floor and the foot of his king-sized bed.

You spin one of the empty gin bottles. It lands squarely on Franco, who gives you a sideways grin from his spot on Gabriel’s bed. 

You drum your fingers against your knees, thinking. Franco rolls his eyes, curls muzzed against the navy bedspread. “Okay—Have you ever found another streamer from our circle attractive?” 

Franco huffs disappointedly. “That is so… like a livestream question. It’s late enough that you could ask me anything.” He shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling. “So boring.”

“Answer the question, coward.”

“Easy.” Franco shrugs. “Antonelli.”

“Kimi?” Isack repeats, brows raised.

Franco twists his body around to look at Isack. “Don’t act so surprised. Es re lindo, boludo.” He waves his hand, like the choice is obvious. “We all know he is pretty. And Italian.” 

“I’m telling him you said that.”

Franco rolls his eyes again, unbothered by the thought. “Is it my turn now?” At the groups’ nods, Franco reaches out for the gin bottle and spins it. As soon as it lands back on you, his amused smile stretches into a grin. “Oh, finally.”

The Argentinian shares a brief look with Gabriel, and something uneasy curls in Isack’s gut. Because he’s grown all too familiar with those dumb-shit expressions on their faces.

Ever so casually, Franco props his chin against his open palm. “Be honest. Did you watch one of Isack’s shirtless streams?”

Isack watches as your face heats up, the tips of your ears reddened as your jaw goes completely slack. You reach across from you to slap Franco’s arm, who starts laughing. “Fuck you, I told you that in confidence!” 

“You should be glad I didn’t expose you on stream,” Franco says, finally capturing your wrist. “Thought about it, too.” 

“Asshole.”

Gabriel glances at Isack, amused smile spreading across his lips. Knowing.  “You have to answer or drink. Rules are rules,” Gabi says solemnly. “Though you’ve basically given it away, so…”

You hit Franco’s forearm one last time for good measure. Begrudgingly, you settle back into your spot, and this time Isack doesn’t miss you averting his eyes. He perks up at that, heart beating unsteadily inside his ribcage. 

“Yeah, fine, sue me,” you mutter, hiding your face behind your palm. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about!”

He blinks once. Twice. Watches as you stammer your way out of this hole you’ve dug for yourself. His throat feels dry when he swallows. “You—what?”

Because Isack is many things—a little loud, a little short-tempered, but he’s not an idiot. He did two shirtless streams—technically three if you count that pool one he was invited on. 

(They were all for charity, by the way! Not that anyone ever seems to remember that.)

He’s read the comments. Seen the edits. Scrolled through posts of him until late at night from his private spam account. He’s not been shy about doing sports. He’s mentioned it offhandedly during different streams; enjoying boxing, being a brown belt in judo. Then again, people in his line of work are not exactly known for being physically fit. 

It wasn’t a secret that he worked out. It still took his fans by surprise that he was quote, ‘reaaally fucking ripped’. And it’s not like he’s not aware of it—he knows he’s fit. He’s even been cocky about it in the locker rooms after last year’s Twitch charity football match. 

He just hadn’t considered the possibility that you’d been paying attention. That maybe you enjoyed watching.

You finally meet his gaze, and his heart flips and jumps inside his chest. 

Gabriel leans in. “Did you like what you saw?”

You stammer, shaking your head. “That’s two questions, Bortoleto.”

“Fine,” the Brazilian shrugs. He reaches for the bottle and, without spinning it, points it at you. “Did you like watching our dear, innocent friend Isack here get naked for money?”

“You’re making him sound like a whore, dumb shit.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Isack nudges the bottle away with his knee, shooting a glare at the two of them. “Stop it,” he says, accent thicker now with a combination of lack of sleep, alcohol and whatever the hell these two idiots think they’re pulling. “You’re being pushy.”

Franco groans. “No puede ser. Have you ever heard of wingmanning?”

But Isack simply glares at him, eyes narrowed. “Ça suffit. Enough.” Franco arches a brow in response, but raises his hands innocently.

“You’re no fun.”

There’s a loud knock at the door followed by Doriane opening the door with squinted eyes. All four of you peer at her as she rubs her hand over her face. “Si j’entends encore un seul cri dans cette pièce, je commets un crime,” she says, voice rough with sleep. “Allez au pieu, bordel.”

She closes the door behind her with an annoyed yawn. Franco tilts his head at the rest of you.

“Did you guys catch any of that?”

“Yeah,” Isack says, already on his feet. “Bedtime.”

It’s eleven in the morning when you wake up. Unsurprisingly, for a house full of streamers, you’re the only one awake—other than Arvid and Doriane, who have apparently gone out early.

Your head feels like lead—a French hangover, if you try to find the nonexistent silverlining. It gets worse when last night’s game debacle finally resurfaces in your head.

Fucking Colapinto. Fucking Bortoleto. You’re not trusting either of them ever again.

It was ages ago—a year, maybe more, when you went to Argentina for a week with Franco. It was a slip of tongue, a mistake. A horribly-timed edit of your mutual friend on your For You page, followed by a clumsy explanation from you. The jig was up, and Franco was endlessly amused.

“So, you think he’s hot,” he’d told you, and you hadn’t admitted it. Not verbally, but in every other way that mattered.

And here’s the thing: Isack is attractive. Objectively speaking. That’s a fact that sort of sneaked up on you somewhere along the line. You can’t pinpoint when, exactly—not when you’ve known him for over six years. Six years where, at some point, he went from an awkward teenager to… well.

You’ve seen the videos of him— or more like they’ve found you. Slow-motion frames that repeat over and over as you sink deeper into the covers of your bed, unable to look away. And when your job consists of being in front of a camera, none of your fans ever make it easier.

Somedays, it feels like Isack Hadjar is trying to ruin your life.

A door by the end of the hall creaks open, and the devil himself steps out. Curls mussed, eyes blinking slowly as he stretches his arms over his head.

His shirt rides up. Your hand gets burnt by your coffee mug.

“Shit!” you exclaim, yanking your hand away and accidentally spilling hot coffee over the counter. 

Isack’s still-sleepy eyes flit over to you with a start, straightening. He blinks once, twice, before he makes his way over to the counter.

“Sorry,” you say, embarrassed. Isack simply reaches for a dishcloth and wipes down the stain. “Did I startle you?”

He dodges your question with pinched brows. “Did you burn yourself?”

“No, I—” you trail off, clearing your throat. “I was just… I wasn’t paying attention. It’s fine.”

He nods, and you can already feel an awkward tension seeping in through the cracks. Wordlessly, Isack gently reaches for your wrist, and guides it under the steady stream of cold water.

He doesn’t let go. Not immediately, anyway. Not until you meet his gaze. You watch Isack’s throat bob before releasing your wrist. 

He clears his throat, folds his arms over his chest. “They were way out of—”

“So, about last night—”

The two of you stop at the same time, words catching in your throat. The corner of your lips pull up into a half-smile that Isack mirrors.

“Sorry. You go,” you say apologetically.

“They were out of line last night,” he starts. You turn off the tap and dry your hand with a washcloth. Something else to focus on. “Franco and Gabi, I mean. I am sorry if they made you feel...” he inhales, exhales, as if bracing for a crash. “You know. Awkward.”

You furrow your brows. “You are apologizing… for making me feel awkward?”

“Yes?” he says, hesitation dripping from his voice. “I know it was mostly them leading the charge and all but… I know it was about me. And it kinda feels like my fault that you got dragged into it.”

You blink at Isack. Frown. “What are you talking about?”

Isack swallows, staring back at you like he’s dreading spelling it out for you. “You know.”

“I really, really don’t,” you respond slowly. “I was gonna apologize to you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah,” you say, and you can feel warmth climbing up your face. “Because I told Franco something and he doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.”

Isack tilts his head, heart skipping a beat. “What did you tell him?”

You’re closer now than you were before. His knuckles nudge against your fingers on the counter. His breath catches in his throat.

A yawn comes from behind you. “That she thinks you’re hot.”

The two of you jolt apart, faces blushing furiously. Behind the counter in his pajamas is none other than Franco Colapinto. You throw the dirty washcloth at his face with murderous intent. 

“What is wrong with you?” you demand, your frustration a poor attempt at hiding your flustered state.

“You were talking in circles,” Franco says with a tired shrug. “Someone had to say something.”

“I despise you.”

“Whatever,” he yawns again. “You owe me.”

“I owe you?”

Franco arches a brow. Pointedly glances at Isack before turning back to you. Nudges his head towards him. “Yeah. Obviously.”

You stare at him, your disbelief momentarily outweighing your embarrassment as he takes his leave. You turn back to Isack, who is already looking at you with slightly parted lips and a pink blush on his cheeks. 

You suppose there’s no use denying it now.

“You think I’m—”

“Yeah,” you say, heart thudding in your ears like a drum. The corner of his lips curve upward. Your face feels unbearably hot. “Maybe. On occasion—”

The way Isack kisses you is quick—lasts a second, maybe less, but you feel it. The warmth of his mouth on yours. The electricity it shoots through your body.

“Sorry.” His pupils are blown wide, his lips slightly parted. You can’t help yourself. “I couldn’t—”

You tug him closer by his hand, swallowing his words as your lips meet his again. This time, it lasts longer. He can feel you smiling against him—you’re sure. His hand settles around your waist, unwilling to let you go now. 

Isack licks into your mouth, and the thought crosses your mind that he’s been doing this on purpose—driving you insane and pretending otherwise.

When you finally pull away, you do so reluctantly.

“So,” Isack starts, breathless.

“So,” you repeat, face flushed.

His palm settles along the side of your waist. He still looks flustered—the cocky smile playing on his lips does nothing to hide that. “So, you did like watching me shirtless, huh?” Isack hums, leaning closer to the shell of your ear. “Petite voyeuse.” 

Your words dry in your throat as you blink at him owlishly. A grin tugs at his mouth, amused. You’ve seen Isack being confident—at times overconfident—before. But something about the way he’s looking at you now makes your brain short-circuit.

You lean into him again, bringing his mouth to yours. You drag your teeth over his bottom lip before pulling away. Isack still chases your mouth, ever the overachiever. 

“Eager,” you murmur, and you can feel his heart pounding in his chest. It shoots a light, giddy feeling in your gut.

“Yeah,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Very.”

You bury your face into his shoulder, biting down your smile. You don’t think then—not really. You reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

“C’mon,” you hum, and lead him down the hall to your room.

hadjarfan has gifted you 20 subs! where are y/n and isack?? feels like we haven’t seen them :(((

Kimi watches as the donation is read out loud on the stream, ignoring Ollie and Franco bickering behind him. The chat scrolls by with variations of the same question. He tilts his head.

“I… don’t know, actually,” he responds, apparently the only one paying attention to the stream anymore. He nudges Doriane. “Where are they?”

Gabriel snorts. “Oh, don’t worry about them, chat,” he says with a casual shrug and a devious smile. “They’re both right where they wanna be.”

you’re not subtle about it either. it’s probably why when he plays against ollie, he makes a point of boarding him.

the sound of ollie being slammed against the board is loud, painful, enough to make you wince. it lands isack two minutes in the penalty box—though not before throwing you a look.

the look, actually. the type of look that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

asshole.

regrettably, you’re not surprised he also makes it to the winter olympics.

no matter how many snide comments you might make to the media about him or vice versa, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s got some semblance of talent in the ice.

so, when you find him at the bar in the olympic village you can’t say you’re shocked. annoyed, definitely. though not surprised.

you recognize a few of the hockey players drinking with him—all french, representing their country.

it’s still early in the night when you go to the bar to order another round for your group, when someone sidles up beside you.

he orders in italian, because of course he does. he tags on at the end— “e la stessa bevanda anche per la ragazza con la faccia arrabbiata.”

the bartender chuckles, sparing you a brief glance. you grind your teeth together, already glaring at him. “what did you tell her?”

“oh, hi. i did not see you there.” you narrow your eyes at him. the corner of his lips curve upward. “i said another drink. for the lovely lady.”

“you’re such a shit liar.” the bartender slides back two drinks—one for isack and one for you. “you’re also playing italy in less than two days. maybe you shouldn’t be drinking that much.”

“oh, so you are keeping tabs on me now?”

“i’m keeping up with kimi. he just happens to be playing against you.”

isack rolls his eyes. gestures at the group you came with: kimi, gabi, aurelia and rafa. “your friend with the lousy backhand is also drinking. are you on his case too?”

“y’know what, hadjar?” you take a long sip of your glass. it’s fruity—the same drink you’d ordered earlier. “people are wrong about you. you really can grow on someone. like a rash. but, you know. beggars can’t be choosers.”

“that is ironic, coming from you.”

you’re not sure why you don’t leave. why, unlike all the other times you’ve encountered him, you don’t just cuss him out and make your exit. instead, you order another round. he doesn’t leave, either.

doesn’t mean he becomes any less annoying, though.

“so, if you’re on thursday for the free skate round, does that mean you’re gonna go see our game against italy?”

“someone’s gotta cheer for every goal you miss.” isack rolls his eyes. “plus, kimi agreed to lend me one of the team italy jackets if i go for him.”

“is that not treason?” isack asks, leaning against his palm and looking awfully annoyed for someone who can just get up and leave whenever he wants.

“what’s my team gonna do? make me take it off?”

you’re already three drinks deep—you think isack might be four, when he stops bickering with you and instead starts watching you. curiously, maybe. a glint you don’t recognize.

“why the hell are you looking at me like that, hadjar?” you ask, even when what you really wanted to ask is, do i have something on my face? you don’t, only because it makes you sound self-conscious. and you’d never wanna give him the upper hand.

instead of mocking you, he looks down at his glass. his accent drags over his words when he says, “you’re always so tense. so wound up.” he shrugs, glancing up at you through his lashes. “just, you know. makes me wonder what it’ll take to make you relax.”

and maybe you’re in too deep already. maybe it’s the light, the music, the way his voice feels like it’s hitting different. it’s probably the fact that it’s well known among the athletes here that getting laid in the olympic village is infinitely more likely than winning a medal.

you still wanna win that medal.

you don’t kiss him until you reach the hallway of your room. once the elevator door opens—isack beside you, who had insisted on walking you back—you reach for the collar of his jacket and press your lips against his. whatever snarky comment he intended to make dies in his throat.

the two of you barely manage to make it into your room. and he kisses, well. it’s not like you expected anything. though the way his teeth tug at your bottom lip is certainly making you feel some sort of way.

the back of isack’s knees hit the frame of your bed. you push him onto it. his hand tightens around your waist, bringing you down with him. he still chases your mouth, even as you pull away.

his cheeks are flushed and his pupils are blown wide. and that dangerous, reckless part of you threatens you could get used to seeing him like this.

“just for the record,” you say breathlessly, pushing your palm against his chest when he tries to go for your lips again. “m’not kissing you because i like you.”

he breathes out something like a chuckle. and—have you been running your hands through his hair? you can’t be sure.

“oh, really?” his hand steadies itself against your waist, bringing you closer to him as his fingers slip underneath your top.

your nose nudges against his. he’s breathing unevenly. you feel lightheaded. “m’kissing you ‘cause it’s the only thing that seems to shut you up,” you finally say, just as his lips brush against yours. he licks into your mouth, palm warm against your skin.

he grins against yours lips. “it’s like you can read my mind.” he eventually moves onto your neck, planting a trail of kisses leading to your collarbone. “you know,” he hums against your skin, “just a few weeks ago i said i would rather kiss a snake than you.”

“did you now?” you reach for him, using your thumb and index to hold his face back in front of yours. he lets you maneuver him, not even making a sound of protest. “don’t worry, hadjar. i can bite.”

if isack blushes a shade darker at that, it’s simply nobody’s business.

you move to sit on his lap, kissing him as you unbutton his shirt. and—you knew hockey players were fit but… fuck.

when you start grinding on him, moving to kiss his neck, you hear his breath hitch. “putain,” he curses, big hands on either side of you. “driving me fucking crazy,” he mutters. you nip at his throat, making him groan.

you’re smiling when your lips brush against the shell of his ear. he stifles a shudder. you feel his adam’s apple bob before he brings you back to him.

he helps you take your top off. his eyes are heavy-lidded and dark as they look at you. his accent falls heavier, gravely on his words. “i’ve heard you figure skaters are really flexible,” he hums against your skin.

you push him back so he’s underneath you. “you’re disgusting.” his brown eyes look darker in your dimly lit room. his gaze keeps dropping to your mouth. “try to keep up.”

when it’s time for france to play against italy in hockey, isack is readying into position when he spots you close to the rink—antonelli’s seats, most likely. and even though you are wearing the team italy kit, he finds it doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it did before.

pepemartiofficial Slowest lap Nabella Karting has ever seen 🥇

yourusername BOOOO 🍅🍅🍅 why do always have to expose me like this

sebasmontoya58 estuvo insoportable después de ganar?

yourusername HE WAS THE WORST

pepemartiofficial yourusername You’re such a liar 🙄👎

yourusername you lapped me nine times you ass

pepemartiofficial ???? And it could’ve been ten what’s your point

user1 okay jawline

isackhadjar so that’s why he canceled on me…

yourusername he likes me better :)

pepemartiofficial Skill issue

pepemartiofficial replied to your story

You have soooo many pictures of me why did you choose the one where I’m doing something boring :/

yourusername

i liked your smile in this one 😁

pepemartiofficial

Oh! Carry on then :)

you [ 2:14 PM ] : HELLOO EVERYONE

you [ 2:14 PM ] : how are we doing this fine morning 😁

pepe 🌟 [ 2:14 PM ] : It’s like 2 pm

pepe 🌟 [ 2:15 PM ] : Are you just waking up???

you [ 2:17 PM ] : how are we doing this fine afternoon 😁

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 2:17 PM ] : wait i forgot we had this gc

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 2:17 ] : i’m not even with campos anymore??

you [ 2:18 PM ] : mr celebrity over here 🙄

you [ 2:18 PM ] : neither is seba but you don’t see him complaining

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 2:18 PM ] : yeah i was gonna say that

you [ 2:18 PM ] : anyways!!!!!

you [ 2:19 PM ] : i happened to notice we’re all in barcelona for the week

you [ 2:19 PM ] : soooo what do we think about meeting up at my place and hanging out for a bit? kinda miss seeing u all :(

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 2:19 PM ] : yeah if pepe feels like sharing your time

you [ 2:20 PM ] : ??? what

pepe 🌟 [ 2:20 PM ] : Sure I’m down to meet

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 2:20 PM ] : well look who decided to come back!!!

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 2:21 PM ] : thought you’d muted the gc with how quiet you got lmao

pepe 🌟 [ 2:21 PM ] : @ you Have we considered replacing dumb and dumber with Chloe and Arvid?

you [ 2:22 PM ] : i had not!!!!

you [ 2:22 PM ] : chloe recently added me to her close friends on ig so it’s a trade i’m willing to make 😌

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 2:23 PM ] : yo you’re the one that decided to revive this dead gc

you [ 2:23 PM ] : yeah

you [ 2:24 PM ] : that’s why i’m the glue of the friend group :D

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 2:24 PM ] : we’re more coworkers if anything

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 2:24 PM ] : workplace acquaintances actually

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 2:24 PM ] : i don’t even work with you guys anymore

you [ 2:25 PM ] : wowww

pepe 🌟 [ 2:25 PM ] : You get promoted to f1 ONCE and suddenly you’re too famous for the rest of us peasants

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 2:25 PM ] : that’s not what i said at all??

you [ 2:25 PM ] : @ pepe 🌟 barely halfway through the season and he already has a big head 😔

pepe 🌟 [ 2:26 PM ] : HUGE head

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 2:26 PM ] : ayo???? 😭

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 2:26 PM ] : @ you @ pepe 🌟well that’s no way to talk to your ex work acquaintance 💔

you [ 2:27 PM ] : work acquaintances my ass

you [ 2:27 PM ] : look at those chubby cheeks 🥰

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 2:27 PM ] : WHERE DID YOU GET THAT

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 2:27 PM ] : @ pepe 🌟 WHY WOULD YOU GIVE HER THAT

pepe 🌟 [ 2:28 PM ] : She asked nicely :)

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 2:28 PM ] : of course

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 2:29 PM ] : can you like TRY not to fold like a cheap plastic lawn chair for ONCE in your life

you [ 2:30 PM ] : oh i have more where that came from

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 2:30 PM ] : STOP DONT

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 2:30 PM ] : the two of you are a menace to my career and my image

pepe 🌟 [ 2:31 PM ] : You mean this image

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 2:31 PM ] : eres un arrodillado de mierda josep maría

pepe 🌟 [ 2:32 PM ] : ?? No tengo idea qué significa eso

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 2:32 PM ] : IT MEANS YOU’RE WORSE THAN THE CHEAPEST FUCKING LAWN CHAIR MARTÍ

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 2:32 PM ] : @ isack hadjar 🥷🏽 bro help me out 😭😭

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 2:33 PM ] : do NOT drag me into this

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 2:33 PM ] : i don’t wanna see the pictures she has of me

you [ 2:33 PM ] : good call hadjar :)

you [ 2:35 PM ] : soo monday at my place? 😁😁

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 2:35 PM ] : 👍

pepe 🌟 [ 2:35 PM ] : Yep

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 2:36 PM ] : i hate all of you

you [ 2:36 PM ] :

— sebas montoya 🤠 has left the chat

sebasmontoya58 replied to pepemartioffical’s story

LMAOOOO IS THIS YOUR ATTEMPT AT A THIRST TRAP oh my god i’m crying

pepemartiofficial

🖕🖕🖕 Que te jodan

isackhadjar replied to pepemartiofficial’s story

pepe mate surely there are better ways to go about this ☠️

pepemartiofficial

I have no idea what you’re talking about

isackhadjar

🤨 uh huh did she at least reply?

you replied to pepemartiofficial’s story

don’t ask me the color of anything

pepemartiofficial

What Is this like a reference I don’t get

yourusername

oh it’s nothing 😇 just put a shirt on jesus christ

liked by f1fan, yourusername and 51,079 others

f2fanpage are we in agreement 🇪🇸

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user1 YEP YEP YEP

user2 i have never had an original thought in my life

user3 PAUSE why did pepe’s engineer friend like this 😭😭

user4 being friends w pepe doesn’t mean she’s blind?????

notisackhadjar @pepemartiofficial hey so funny story……………

you [ 11:16 PM ] : are you guys on your way

you [ 11:16 PM ] : doors close at 11:45 sharp

you [ 11:16 PM ] : if you’re late you’re out

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 11:17 PM ] : on my way 🥷🏽

pepe 🌟 [ 11:17 PM ] : Yes ma’am 🫡

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 11:18 PM ] : she’s got you well trained

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 11:18 PM ] : are you gonna roll over like a good boy too?

pepe 🌟 [ 11:19 PM ] : Que te folle un pez

you [ 11:19 PM ] : sebas if you’re running late i swear

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 11:20 PM ] : i’m not late

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 11:20 PM ] : i’m just fashionably not on time

you [ 11:20 PM ] : SEBAS

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 11:20 PM ] : I’M GONNA GET THERE ON TIME

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 11:21 PM ] : I PROMISE 🫵

you [ 11:21 PM ] : put that thing away

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 11:21 PM ] : SORRY 👊

you [ 6:31 AM ] : send me your location and lmk when you get home x

pepe 🌟 [ 6:31 AM ] : 📍 Live Location

pepe 🌟 [ 6:31 AM ] : The uber’s name is Roberto

pepe 🌟 [ 6:32 AM ] : He doesn’t look really serial killery to me tbh

you [ 6:32 PM ] : good news then!!

you [ 6:32 AM ] : i had a really great time tonight

pepe 🌟 [ 6:32 AM ] : Me too :)

pepe 🌟 [ 6:32 AM ] : I always have a great time whenever I’m with you

pepe 🌟 [ 6:40 AM ] : Did you fall asleep?

pepe 🌟 [ 6:40 AM ] : You’re supposed to be tracking that Roberto doesn’t brutally murder me on the way home

you [ 6:41 AM ] : no no i’m here

you [ 6:41 AM ] : just thinking

pepe 🌟 [ 6:41 AM ] : About?

you [ 6:41 AM ] : whether i should say something really stupid

pepe 🌟 [ 6:42 AM ] : Well I think that between the four of us we’ve said plenty of stupid things tonight

pepe 🌟 [ 6:42 AM ] : What’s one more?

you [ 6:42 AM ] : okay so um

you [ 6:42 AM ] : god this is so embarrassing

you [ 6:42 AM ] : before you left.

you [ 6:42 AM ] : i kind of was dying to kiss you

you [ 6:43 AM ] : just a little bit

pepe 🌟 [ 6:43 AM ] : Para para donts ay thabt asdddddddddd

 you [ 6:44 AM ] : pepe?

pepe 🌟 [ 6:44 AM ] : Sorry sorry sorry I dropped my phone

pepe 🌟 [ 6:44 AM ] : Roberto and I are going back now

you [ 6:44 AM ] : ??? what

pepe 🌟 [ 6:44 AM ] : To your flat

pepe 🌟 [ 6:45 AM ] : Cause I was really dying to kiss you too

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 10:21 AM ] : okay everyone who’s alive please status report

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 10:23 AM ] : what the fuck did i drink

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 10:23 AM ] : i feel like death

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 10:24 AM ] : the real question is what didn’t you drink

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 10:24 AM ] : hasta el agua del florero te tomaste

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 10:25 AM ] : no hablo espanol

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 10:25 AM ] : also just out of curiosity did i get ran over

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 10:25 AM ] : ??

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 10:26 AM ] : that’s just what an entire bottle of fireball will do to you

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 10:28 AM ] : yo are you guys alive or not @ you @ pepe 🌟

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 10:29 AM ] : what are the chances they got alcohol poisoning and died in her living room

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 10:30 AM ] : HELLO @ you @ pepe 🌟

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 10:31 AM ] : is it that bad

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 10:33 AM ] : HELLOOOOOO ?????????? @ you @ pepe 🌟

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 10:35 AM ] : pepe i know you keep your alerts on bc you’re a freak

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 10:35 AM ] : you’re gonna give sebas a heart attack

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 10:36 AM ] : just give any sign that you’re alive n u can go back to sleep

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 10:37 AM ] : i’m driving to his place

pepe 🌟 [ 10:40 AM ] : Hi

pepe 🌟 [ 10:40 AM ] : I’m not at my place

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 10:42 AM ] : pepe i need you to be honest with me

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 10:42 AM ] : did you pass out on the street

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 10:43 AM ] : if you did we wont judge

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 10:43 AM ] : WELL maybe we’ll judge a little

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 10:43 AM ] : yeah maybe a little

pepe 🌟 [ 10:44 AM ] : ????? I did not pass out on the street

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 10:45 AM ] : okay great cause i was gonna judge you a LOT

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 10:46 AM ] : where are you?????

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 10:46 AM ] : also has anyone checked on y/n????

pepe 🌟 [ 10:46 AM ] : She’s fine

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 10:47 AM ] : now how would YOU know

pepe 🌟 [ 10:48 AM ] : Uhhhh about that

you [ 10:48 AM ] :

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 10:50 AM ] : fucking finally

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 10:51 AM ] : WOW WARNING

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 10:51 AM ] : did you guys fuck

pepe 🌟 [ 10:51 AM ] : WHAT

you [ 10:51 AM ] : NO

you [ 10:52 AM ] : we just made out a little

you [ 10:52 AM ] : maybe more than a little :)

pepe 🌟 [ 10:52 AM ] : DONT TELL HIM THAT

sebas montoya 🤠 [ 10:52 AM ] : I DID NOT NEED TO KNOW THAT???

isack hadjar 🥷🏽 [ 10:53 AM ] : i’m going back to bed

you [ 10:53 AM ] : he’s a reaaaally good kisser @ seba montoya 🤠

you [ 10:53 AM ] : he’s also blushing a lot rn

— sebas montoya 🤠 has left the chat!

eve’s notes: really really random but fun fact!! that last confession was actually based on how two of my favorite singers (duki & emilia) confessed to each other 😁

Lando had been the one to come up with the idea. He’d realized he spent more time away from his apartment than living in it—and he didn’t quite like the idea of strangers looking after his place and personal belongings while he was away. He’d also been insisting for years already that you should move to Monaco, to which you always replied that you weren’t exactly in the correct tax bracket to do that. You intended it as an off-hand comment when you mentioned your job was becoming more of an online situation, when you mentioned you would be able to visit more often.

Really, it was a joke when Lando said it. You’d both gone out to some fancy restaurant after Max had ditched the two of you last minute. He’d been sipping his drink when he teased, “Maybe it’s finally time you move here—you could move in with me.”

You’d laughed it off, but by the time Lando had set down his drink, paper umbrella poking his cheek, there was a more determined set of his brows—and he wasn’t laughing anymore.

You don’t know how he managed to convince you. Though, really, it’s Lando—and Max likes to tease that you always fold for him. Which you deny. Obviously.

It’s since been six months since the two of you started living together. He keeps the rent very cheap for you—even though he insisted you didn’t have to pay for it—and you keep his apartment well-taken care of while he’s off being famous. For a while it felt more like you were house-sitting rather than being his roommate, with triple headers and flights to MTC becoming more and more noticeable. Still, you’ve noticed he’s found more time to come back to Monaco. You know that only because Max pointedly mentioned during a stream that he didn’t used to spend as much time in Monaco as he has this season.

“Yeah, ‘cause I’ve missed my bed,” Lando retorted, but you knew he was doing it for your benefit. Probably because some misplaced guilt was catching up to him in leaving you alone in a home that still doesn’t quite feel like your own.

Either way, living with Lando is… surprisingly nice. He was cautious the first few days of him being back. Constantly checking on you, asking “is this okay with you?” more often than not. But by the fourth day, you could see his shoulders relax, his posture ease, as if he suddenly remembered that it’s just you. From then, it doesn’t take him long to start streaming late at night with shouts that make you want to put your head through the wall.

“Are your neighbors complaining?” Ginge asks through Lando’s headset. “They must loathe you. Y’should install a soundproof booth, Lando.”

“What? No, my neighbors don’t—SHIT!” His yelling is promptly followed by a loud banging against the wall besides him. He winces. “Sorry!”

“Oh, someone’s angry at you.”

“Yeah, she’s gonna kill me,” Lando replies distractedly, ducking to lower the master volume of his headphones. He calls out an apology followed by your name. It’s late, and you’re working tomorrow—and he rather appreciates not being maimed and killed in a fit of sleepless rage.

“She’s visiting?” Ginge asks, and Lando huffs as he finally fixes his settings.

“What?” He scrunches his nose. “No you muppet, she lives with me.”

Lando doesn’t realize the impact those seven words have until much later.

Next morning, when you’re sitting on the kitchen island with your laptop propped open and your breakfast served beside you, you hear a muffled phone call from Lando’s room—something you can’t quite make out. Either way, it’s not a moment later that Lando is standing across the table from you, shirtless, with a half-panicked half-pleading expression on his face.

“Please don’t be mad.”

Your eyes slowly shift away from your screen and towards him. “What did you do?”

“You have to promise not to be mad at me. ‘Cause it was an accident, and I didn’t mean—I didn’t realize—”

“Lando,” you enunciate slowly. “What did you do?”

He winces, looking borderline constipated. He tilts his phone screen towards you, where you find texts from Max accompanied by a screenshot of the trending tab on Twitter.

You arch a brow. “I thought you didn’t use Twitter.”

“I don’t, I just—” he inhales deeply, exhales. “Just read it.”

You squint, and your brow furrows as you read the trending topics.

“You have a girlfriend?” you ask, turning back to your laptop. “How come you didn’t tell me? Do I know her?”

“You’re my girlfriend.”

You raise your brows. “Oh my god, babe, really? This is so soon though! So unexpected!”

Lando doesn’t even look slightly amused. “You’re not funny.”

You can see his frown deepen when your lips curve with a bemused tilt. “So, why does Twitter think I’m your girlfriend?”

Lando closes his eyes, scratching his neck. “…I might’ve mentioned that we’re living together.” He quickly scrambles to continue, “I-I didn’t realize what that would look like until the head of my PR team and Max left me, like, a hundred messages. I’m—genuinely, I didn’t mean to pull you into this.”

You stare at him for a beat. He looks fidgety. As if there’s something else he wants to say, but hasn’t quite figured how. You click your tongue, closing your laptop. “Spit it out, Lan.”

He perks up at that, caught off guard. Now that you’re staring at him more pointedly, you realize he does look a little out of it. Guilty, maybe.

“Lando.”

He tugs at his curls a little too harshly. “My management saw it.”

You furrow your brows. “Okay. Are they, like, mad? Can’t you just tell them it was a misunderstanding?”

Lando finally takes a seat, and despite his bedhead and his lack of a shirt, you can’t help but feel he’s getting serious.

“I need a favor.”

And those words shouldn’t sound too bad—except he looks nervous. You’ve seen Lando nervous before, it comes with the territory of being in his close circle. But it’s been a long while since he’s acted like this when it’s just you.

“…I don't think I like where this is going,” you say carefully.

“Just—hear me out.” He runs a hand through his face, this weird, jittery energy emanating from him in waves. “My team has been on my ass for a while to set me up with some PR girlfriend.”

You snort. “And they say romance is dead.”

He shoots you a look. “Be serious.”

You’re deflecting—Lando can tell. But you can’t stop yourself—it’s a nervous habit. “Have you tried dating apps? I thought your sort used… what’s it called? Raya?” You squint at him. “And since when do you need your management to score you a date?”

“I don’t,” he says defensively. “And it’d be a PR relationship—it’s not a real thing. It’s just to, y’know, create a better public image. It’s a press thing. Tons of celebrities do it.”

“Do other drivers do it?” Lando pauses at that, and your eyebrows shoot up as you inch forward. “Oh my god. Oh my god, who? Do I know them? Have I met them?”

“I feel like you’re missing the point of this conversation.”

“Yeah, only ‘cause you’re dancing around the subject.” You straighten, and Lando mimics the action. “Just say what you wanna say, Lan.”

“My team thinks we’re dating,” he finally manages.

“Yeah, I figured.”

He shifts on his seat to inch closer to you, gesturing with his hands. “Yeah, but they’re happy about it—they say it’s a good thing, for my image or whatever.”

You pause. He’s fidgeting with his fingers, avoiding looking you in the eye. Oh, surely… “So you told them it was a misunderstanding.”

He scrunches his nose as he turns his head up to the ceiling, avoiding your gaze.

Your eyes widen. “Lando!”

“I really need your help in this,” he pleads. “It’d be, like, a small favor! And I’ll pay it back somehow, I promise. Whatever you want.”

“Small favor?”

“It would just be for a few months—just so I can get them off my back about this.”

You blink at him in utter disbelief. It takes you a moment to find the words to answer. He just sits across from you, looking at you pleadingly. “…So what?” you start slowly. “You’re asking me to be your pretend girlfriend?”

Lando tries to smile, but you can see the uneasy anxiety brewing behind it. It’s an important season for him—and if he wants his voice to have weight, he first needs to satisfy his team’s demands. Give in order to get. Even if they are as ridiculous as getting someone to go out with.

“You’d be the prettiest pretend girlfriend,” Lando tries. He inches forward again, stray curls sticking at odd angles. “Please? I love you.” Then, as a last ditch effort, “…There’s no one I’d rather be fake dating than you?”

You don’t appreciate the butterflies that flutter in your stomach. At all. “I need to think about this.”

“Okay, yeah, cool, no problem.” He’s already nodding a little too eagerly, as if you’ve agreed instead of saying you’ll consider it. Lando rushes around the table to press a kiss into the crown of your head. Warmth shoots in your belly as you watch him head back into his room. “Thank you!” he calls out.

“I haven’t said yes yet,” you shout back.

The smile you hear in Lando’s voice goes directly against his words when he calls back: “I know!”

Max was right. You hate that Max was right.

So, you caved. Big surprise there. It’s Lando, after all. He’s your friend, and you’ll always wanna help him in any way you can. Plus, you two already live under the same roof. Just how hard can pretend dating be?

The only person you’ve told—that you both agreed you could tell—was Max. And the moment you did, he responded with a two minute audio of him laughing himself into tears.

Needless to say, it’s not the encouragement you needed.

Now you’re both sitting in the living room across from each other. The two of you are still in pajamas, the golden Monaco sun filtering through the open curtains of your shared flat. 

“If we do this, we need to set some ground rules,” you finally say.

“Rules?” he repeats, slowly. “For dating?”

“Pretend dating,” you correct.

Lando tilts his head at you, green eyes watching you for a second. A glint you can’t quite place dances in his gaze for a beat. Finally, he straightens from his reclined position on the couch. “Alright, bug,” he says, with all the formality of someone who hasn’t showered yet. “What are your rules?”

You set your phone on the table, opening your notes app to see the guidelines you’d scribbled out nearing three am last night.

“One.” You hold up your index finger. “You’re dating me for the next four months. I don’t wanna see you or find out you’re flirting or making out or hooking up with other people. If I’m gonna be in the public eye, I don’t wanna be thrown into some scandal.” You narrow your eyes and watch as he raises a brow. “If you get exposed for it I will be calling you a cheater on Twitter.”

Lando gasps dramatically. “Already preparing for the worst case scenario? On our first day of pretend dating?” He makes an over exaggerated motion, pressing his hands against his chest. “My pretend feelings are so hurt.” You arch a brow, to which he nods his head half-heartedly. “Fine, point taken. And it’s seven months.”

“Five.”

“Six.”

“Deal. Number two.” You pause, embarrassment tinging your cheeks. The words feel like molasses in your throat. Viscous, sticky. Hard to get out. You awkwardly shift on your spot on the rug, finally looking at Lando. “No kissing.”

“What?” Lando makes a face, squinting at you. “But we’re dating. How’s anyone gonna buy that if we never kiss?”

You tilt your head. “You’re sounding a little eager there, Lan. Anything you wanna share?”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Fine. But can I at least kiss you on the cheek when we’re in public?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Italians do it all the time. And it’s not like we’re not already doing that.”

Heat licks at your face with that last comment. He says it so casually—which, yeah, you suppose it is normal for the two of you. But hearing Lando saying it like that. Like it should be a compromise in a situation like this, but not for the two of you.

Still, you consider it. “Okay. Yeah, cheek kisses are fine.”

Lando nods. “Okay then. Three.” He notices the look you’re giving him and makes a face. “What? I can’t set rules of my own?”

You roll your eyes. “Go ahead.”

“Three,” he continues. He turns his three fingers around to face you. “You go to at least three races with me.”

You hum. “Three is a lot.”

“Not in six months,” Lando says. “They can be like… mini vacations. All expenses paid for.”

“Already trying to prove you can be a decent boyfriend?” you tease, making him roll his eyes again with a smile. “Okay. But I get to choose which races.”

“Deal.” He clicks his tongue. “But Monaco doesn’t count.”

You part your lips to complain. “What? Why not?”

“‘Cause I want you to travel with me,” Lando says in a sickeningly sweet voice as he leans closer to you. You shove his face away. “Oh! And dates.”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He toys with his thumb as he looks at you. And if you squint, you’d swear he looks borderline embarrassed—that he’s trying to hide it. “Dates. We need to be seen in public. Y’know. Together.”

You hadn’t thought about that. You just figured you would make appearances in his streams, post a picture or two. It makes sense, though. “You’re paying for those.”

“Mhm,” he hums.

“And flowers,” you add. Lando tilts his head at you curiously. Maybe it’d feel more embarrassing to say this if it were anyone but Lando. You raise your chin. “I wanna get flowers. Not generic ones, though.”

Lando nods slowly, almost confused. “Okay, sure.”

You blink. “That easy?”

“Yeah, ‘course. It’s not hard.” He shrugs, unlocking his phone and opening his notes app. He types something before his eyes peer at you. “You like tulips, right?”

“Um, yeah.” You straighten, surprise catching on your voice. “Yeah, tulips work.”

Lando nods. “Okay then. So, just to recap: six months, no kissing, three races—not including Monaco—public dates, aaand tulips.”

You run through your mental list and nod in agreement.

Lando grins impishly. “Okay, then. Are you ready to be my girlfriend?” He leans closer to you, as if telling you a secret. His voice drops. “Remember though: you’re not allowed to fall in love with me.”

You scoff with a smile. “Please. I’ve done your laundry before. It can’t be that hard.”

Your first date with Lando is at a place that is nice, fancy. Fancier than any date has ever brought you on—and living in Monaco, that’s saying something. Even then, you know Lando hasn’t gone all out. You know, because you explicitly asked him not to. The last thing you need is to stress over which fork you’re supposed to use for a salad. Still—the restaurant is more posh than you’re used to.

Warm lights illuminate the terrace, appetizers already set in front of you on your plates. For a moment you wondered whether you should’ve ordered something to share, but you are not willing to compromise on fish because of Lando.

It’s not like this is the first time you’ve gone out to eat together. You’ve gone out with Max, or Ria, or Martin—or just the two of you.

Even so, it’s easy to forget you’re here under false pretenses.

It’s hard, putting it into words—but it feels like you’re more aware this time. Unlike other times, today you did your makeup with more attention to detail. Spent more time fixing your hair—even longer choosing a paparazzi-ready outfit. Your nerves still simmer in your gut since Lando told you his team had tipped off a few photographers about the place of your date. It makes you wonder, how often casual pictures in casual settings are staged.

Still. Despite the hours of mental and physical preparation, the fancy restaurant and the pep talk you gave yourself in the bathroom—the moment you sit across from Lando, it becomes easy to forget. Maybe too easy.

When you look up from your plate, you find that Lando is already looking at you.

“What?” you ask. He’s wearing that white shirt of his with the first two buttons undone, his curls as unruly as ever. You lick your lips, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh my god, please tell me I don’t have anything on my face.”

Lando blinks. “No, no, you’re fine,” he says, quickly. “Really. You just… you look pretty.”

Warmth shoots across your stomach. You shake your head. You think you hear yourself scoffing. “Already flirting, huh?” you say amusedly, shaking your head as you reach for another forkful of your plate. “You’re quick.”

Lando winks, and you roll your eyes with a smile.

As dinner goes on, you can feel yourself falling into that familiar rhythm. It’s Lando, after all—and it’s always been natural for you to feel at ease around him. And by the time the two of you have ordered desserts, you forget about the fancy restaurant, or the fake-dating thing—and, for a moment, it’s just you and Lando. Not performing some convoluted plan, but just you. Friends. Easy.

You find you like it better when it’s just that. You and Lando.

You listen attentively as he talks, explaining with his hands. The terrace feels noisier now, so you lean closer to hear him. At some point, Lando reaches for your hand, and your heart does a weird thing in your chest. He’s still smiling while he’s talking, but you’re unfocused. His fingers are warm as he caresses your palm. Honey spills inside of you, warm and sweet, casting the night in liquid gold.

Lando smiles softly, tenderly, and your heart jumps. “Okay, that’s good,” he says.

“Hm?” you hum, sounding distracted, maybe even a little dazed.

Lando tilts his head somewhere to the side, and you follow his gaze. Off by the street, a man is packing up his camera.

Oh. Right. 

“Really good job.” Lando smiles, offering an encouraging thumbs up. You nod in return with a smile that doesn’t feel as genuine. He lets go of your hand, and you don’t let yourself linger on how you miss the weight of it against yours.

“Yeah,” you say, reaching for your glass of wine. “Thanks.”

deuxmoi DEUXMOI EXCLUSIVE ...... NEW WAG ALERT? McLaren Driver Lando Norris & mystery woman spotted dining at Cipriani Monte Carlo, a local restaurant in Monaco 📸 monaco_celebs

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📌 user1 not to be that person but i’m like 90% sure its lando’s friend from those older quadrant videos!!! ♥️ liked by author

user2 okay and this comes out DAYS after lando reveals they’re living together???? this is not a soft launch this is hitting us with a BRICK

user3 WHAT 😃😁

user4 i hope that if it is yourusername then it means we get to see her again in quadrant videos :(

user5 OH MY GOD??

user6 so no one can have a private moment anymore is what i’m hearing

user7 okay but they’re totally kissing right??

user8 i mean the angle is kinda funky so it’s hard to say?

user9 idk it looks like they’re just talking tbh

user10 THEY’RE TOTALLY KISSING

user11 AGREED!!! you are never catching me talking THAT close to other people 😦😵‍💫

liked by maxfewtrell, lando and 101,871 others

yourusername he got me tulips 💐

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user12 HELLO?????? i thought this was a prank 😭

user13 if it is… they’re really committing to the bit

user14 lando liking this post after being photographed with a “mystery woman”? stop this madness

maxfewtrell orange tulips huh 😐

lando don’t be jealous

yourusername yeah it’s unbecoming max

user15 oh hello hard launch

user16 welp there go my delusions of ever having a chance with lando norris

user17 might we call those…….. papaya tulips

user18 yes

maxfewtrell don’t even start

The picture the paparazzi took of you has been haunting you more than it should.

As soon as you left the restaurant, food sitting oddly in your stomach, it was already making rounds on social media. Each time you open Instagram, you find that you’ve been tagged in yet another upload of it.

It looks like you’re kissing him. Which you’re not, by the way—something you had to explain to Max over text. It was a really loud place! Really, maybe they should invest in less open concepts instead of wasting all their high-end budget in a bajillion differently-sized forks.

Point is, it’s a compromising picture making rounds on gossip pages. It should be a good thing. And yet, it makes you feel… odd. A strange weight on your gut.

It only hits you a little after the date. After the two of you arrived back at the apartment, kicking off expensive shoes and tucking your to-go bag that definitely was not restaurant-certified into the fridge. You bid Lando goodnight and close your door behind you.

Then it hits you. Within the confines of your room, just a wall away from Lando’s. An odd tingle on your skin. A long-dormant flutter in your stomach.

So, here’s a small bit of totally irrelevant information you neglected to mention to Max.

You used to have a crush on Lando. Used to. Past tense. Long forgotten. A thing of the past tucked alongside childhood embarrassments and picture day mishaps.

And, really, could anyone blame you? It’s hardly your fault that you blinked one day and little Lando Norris—Lando who used to be five inches shorter than you—suddenly decided to have a growth spurt.

( “Would you look at that! Looks like I’m taller than you now,” he’d say with that squeaky voice of his, grinning. You squinted at him, noticing it but refusing to acknowledge it. The giveaway should’ve been his trousers—which were significantly shorter on him than they should’ve been.

Summer break had certainly been kind to Lando. And while his voice was still high-pitched and cracking at the edges, not even you could deny noticing the inches he had on you. Or the more golden color of his skin. The sharper lines of his jaw.

Your throat felt tighter, your face warm. You batted his hand away regardless. “You’re wearing sneakers. It doesn’t count.”

But Lando wasn’t listening anymore. He tilted his head at you with a smug look on his face.

“What?”

“You look better from up here.” He poked your cheek with his finger, smiling pleasantly behind his fringe. “Like a cute little bug.” )

Your body slumps against your mattress. Your make-up suddenly feels like too much, your skin crawling. Staring up at the ceiling, your stomach still flutters with that feeling that you refuse to acknowledge.

You can’t possibly be that easy. What, all it takes is a somewhat decent date—a very decent, very fake date—and suddenly you’re back in high school again?

This isn’t happening. You refuse to let it happen.

Your keys jingle in your hand, bedroom door closing behind you. Days are warmer in Monaco—early morning breeze, sunlight stretching across streets and shop awnings. There’s something particularly refreshing about waking up to ocean air in the summer. If anything, it’s one of the many things you love about Monaco.

You open the door of your flat, as quiet as you can manage. Before you can step out, however, you’re met with a roadblock.

“Morning,” Lando greets from the hallway, face sweaty as he pulls out his airpods. 

“Hi,” you say, dumbly. A part of you had hoped Lando would’ve stuck to his summer break schedule—waking up late, going around the city in the afternoon. You should’ve known he’d go for morning runs this time of the season.

He gives you a pearly-white smile—similar to those in magazines and ads, except the real thing is more crooked, wider at the corners. He side-steps you, and for a moment, you think you’re in the clear. Before you can make a break for it, though, he asks: “Are you going somewhere?”

“Just the mall,” you say casually. 

“Cool,” Lando says, picking up one of the snacks left by his trainer. He’s halfway through chewing his protein bar when he adds, “Can I come with? I need to buy another pair of trainers.”

And because you’re weak—so, so weak—all it takes is a glance at Lando for your resolve to crumble. Despite your best interests, you find yourself smiling. “Yeah, sure.” Lando straightens off the counter. “Just… shower first. You stink.”

He grins. And with his sweaty running gear and sweaty face, he still leans closer to you and presses a kiss to your temple. “I’ll be quick!” he calls out, already halfway into the bathroom.

You wipe your face off, making a sound of disgust. “Lando!”

You can hear his laugh even as he closes the door.

You open the curtain in front of you, walking across the fitting room to nitpick your reflection in a large mirror. Lando lounges on one of the small seats provided for the boyfriends, brothers and husbands that seemed to have all gotten dragged into shopping for women’s clothes. He scrolls on his phone, sinking into his own Quadrant hoodie.

“How’d it go?” he asks absentmindedly.

You tilt your head at your own reflection. Sundresses are tricky—but somehow, after spending the better part of the morning searching for one, you think this is finally it. The material is soft to the touch. It’s not uncomfortably short nor impractically long. It really is beautiful, with blue and white floral details that remind you of those porcelain botanical patterns. 

“I think I like it,” you say, turning to see how the skirt fits around your waist. You tilt your head at Lando through the mirror. “What do you think?”

Lando raises his head, meeting your gaze through the reflection. He stops, just a beat, barely a second, before straightening in his seat. “You look—um,” his voice cracks. Lando clears his throat, offering an encouraging smile. “It looks great. I like it.” 

You arch a brow, unimpressed. The guy sitting next to him masks a laugh as a cough.

“What?” Lando asks, voice rising an octave. “What’d I say?”

“I need actual, genuine encouragement here, Lan.” 

His face twists, brows creasing into a confused bordering on offended look. “What do you want me to say?” he asks, always just a smidge theatric. “That I think you’d look better with nothing on?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. “Lando!”

“What?” he repeats, voice pitching another octave higher. His cheeks turn noticeably pink. 

Your face is warm as you walk past the pointed glances thrown your way. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, shaking your head and closing the curtains behind you. Much to your surprise though, it’s only once you’re alone in the fitting room again that you realize you’re smiling.

Up until you see the tag.

There are many things you love about living in the principality. The prices, though… they’re certainly not one of them.

“Ah,” you say quietly. You bite into your bottom lip with regret. You get paid every fifteen, meaning you’re still a few days out to have the money to spend on it.

Damn it. You can hear your friends’ voices telling you to pay it with your credit card, but you’ve never been keen on spending money you don’t have yet. What if you have an emergency? What if you break a leg? You already depend on Lando for rent—you can’t depend on him for everything.

You don’t like that, the idea of asking Lando for it. It feels wrong. Because he’d say yes—of course he’d say yes. It feels like taking advantage of him, especially when you’ve seen it happen in the past. People using him for fame, money, access.

You never want to be that person to him.

It’s easier than you thought, putting the dress on the hanger and making the decision. It’s just a dress. You can live without a dress.

You open the curtain as you’re still pulling your thin sweater over your head, fixing the sleeves around your arms. Lando looks up from his phone, giving you a lopsided smile. There’s still a lingering pink flush on the apples of his cheeks. 

“You ready?” he asks, already standing up.

“Yeah.” You nod, but as Lando walks you to the register, you leave the sundress where you found it. 

He does a double-take, nearly tripping over himself in the process. “Wait, I thought you liked it,” he protests, tone nearing concern. “I was just teasing before, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s not that, it just…” You reach to scratch the back of your ear. “It wasn’t really worth it. Itchy,” you say, trying to go for nonchalant.

From the way Lando lingers, even as you’re heading towards the entrance of the store, you know he doesn’t buy it. You can hear him catching up to you.

“But—”

“C’mon.” Unthinking, you reach for his wrist, tugging him forward. Whatever comment he was going to make dies in his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “We still have to find those trainers you wanted.”

He follows you without protest.

You’re starting to get used to the butterflies. They settle occasionally—other times you have to crush them down. Even if you were to pluck their wings one by one, you’re certain you would still feel them fluttering about in your stomach.

You’re getting used to them. To the feeling that comes with the prolonged touches. The fleeting glances. The way Lando seems to linger close, always either with his palm guiding you at the small of your back or interlacing your fingers with his. It’s a rhythm that is all-too easy to fall into.

Getting used to the butterflies doesn’t make any of it easier, though.

You’ve committed to your agreement, though. Saying you’re grateful for the invasiveness of gossip media and tabloid magazines would be going a step too far. Still, you’re surprised that planting seeds of your fake-relationship has been easier than you would’ve expected. Going out for a few intentionally public dates, some well-timed paparazzi pictures leaking to the press. Everything that’s been manufactured and orchestrated with detail has been like a feast for F1 rumor sites. There’s blurry pictures of you ordering at a boulangerie holding hands, a few soft-launches in each other’s Instagrams. 

There are other pictures, though. Pictures that weren’t planned. An impromptu walk down the piers of Monaco, where neither of you had been wanting to pretend anything. A few clips resurfacing of you and Lando in the Quadrant channel. Glances from you that lingered a beat too long. Smiles that were too wide. Shoves and jabs that bordered on something other than friendship. 

When you’re locked in your room at night, scrolling down Twitter threads and Tiktok comments, the butterflies in your stomach feel more like scorpions. 

You can hear Lando giggling and shouting through the walls of his room. He’s live on Twitch—right on schedule as you agreed. It’s been a bit under an hour, playing with Max and a few other people you’re not as familiar with.

You knock on his door. It creaks as you open it just slightly.

“Yeah?” he calls. 

The room is dark, save for a few purple ambient lights. You don’t think you’re in the frame of his camera—not yet, anyway. 

“Lan?” you say, the hesitation and inexplicable shyness in your voice genuine. It’s nervewracking, knowing that this is the first time you don’t really get any do-overs. That thousands of people are watching Lando’s livestream. “Are you still live?”

Even from the doorway, you can see his second monitor speeding through a sudden flood of comments. Lando turns on his seat, pulling down his headphones. 

“Hi,” he says, the traces of a grin still lingering at the corners of his lips. It softens, though. Less wide, more private—something kinder. 

“Hi,” you repeat, fighting off a smile. “I can come back later.”

Lando shakes his head, leaning back against his chair. “No, it’s okay,” he says. Finally, he glances back at his screen, tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he considers it. “You can come say hi, if you want.”

You pause at that. Hesitate. You were just supposed to barely appear in frame. Confirm what’s been obvious to most fans since you started with your little agreement. Then again, it’s not like you haven’t shown up in his streams a handful of times in the past.

It feels… different now. For good reason. 

You walk into frame, feeling Lando’s gaze following you as you rest your arms against the backrest of his chair. The violet and orange lights are low, but recognition is evident from chatters. They know who you are—they know what this means.

“Hi chat,” you hum quietly. It almost feels like a challenge, asking you to come close. It makes you bolder. 

You can’t be sure where the burst of confidence comes from. Your body moves of its own accord, not allowing you a moment to overthink it. One of your hands reaching down and resting loosely around his neck. Lando freezes for just a split second, caught off-guard, before he nuzzles his nose into your arm. Ticklish. 

It feels too soft, too domestic. Bordering dangerously on something you won’t be able to come back from. Still, you can’t help yourself when you murmur into his hair, “Food’s here.”

Lando nods a moment too late, like the words wade through honey before they reach him. He hums in response, stretches a bit, leaning into your touch. “Mhm.” He looks up at you and for a second—just a second—you catch a glimpse of something in his eyes. Something too warm, too tender. It’s gone before you can really place it, overshadowed by a toothy smile. “I’ll be right there,” he says lightly.

You nod, moving to pull away. His hand tightens around yours just briefly—a casual goodbye, probably. 

You don’t know what compels you to do it. Unthinkingly, you lean into him from the back of his chair, pressing a kiss into the crown of his head. Lando doesn’t freeze this time. If anything, it’s almost like he leans into you. 

It feels a little like revenge, pulling away then. A part of you wants to believe Lando’s not that good of an actor. But the issue is that he is—it’s part of his job, lying. Looking into the barrel of a camera and smiling and pretending like he doesn’t want to cuss out some journalist and tell them all to fuck off. And while the boy you grew up with has always worn his heart on his sleeve, you’re also well-aware of the consequences that has in his line of work.

“Don’t stay until too late.”

By the time Lando walks out of his sim room, takeout is already on the kitchen island, waiting. The smell of Chinese food is enough to make your stomach growl, a handful of spring rolls already missing from the box.

“So? How’d I do?”

Lando’s hair is mussed, his blinks owlish. “Huh?” he asks dazedly. “Oh, um, yeah. You did great. Really convincing.” His voice feels odd, distracted. 

Lando grabs one of the kitchen stools, dragging it to sit in front of you. “Max texted me,” you say. 

He perks up at that. “What’d he say?”

The corner of your mouth quirks upward as you unlock your phone to show him. “That you’re down horrendously bad. I think it’s his way of saying we really sold it.”

You look up when he doesn’t respond, only to find Lando staring down at the screen with blushing cheeks. It spreads up into the tips of his ears as he scoffs.

“What a fuckin’ prick,” Lando says under his breath. “Don’t listen to a word he says,” he mutters.

The teasing smile on your lips dims at that. Something inside your chest splinters. A fracture line that widens by a fraction. You quietly take back your phone, picking at your lemon chicken. You went too far. When you swallow, it feels like pebbles are lodged against your throat.

you [ 2:01 AM ] : hi so

you [ 2:01 AM ] : this was a bad idea

max f 🐼 [ 2:07 AM ] : Yeah no shit

you [ 2:07 AM ] : stop it stop it stop

you [ 2:07 AM ] : i’m being so serious

you [ 2:08 AM ] : what do i do?????? i think i ruined it. like everything

max f 🐼 [ 2:08 AM ] : Are you gonna listen to me? Coz lately it feels like I’m giving advice to people that just do the exact opposite of what I tell them to

you [ 2:09 AM ] : MAX

you [ 2:10 AM ] : i just

you [ 2:10 AM ] : i think i went too far

you [ 2:10 AM ] : i think he hates me now

max f 🐼 [ 2:10 AM ] : What????

max f 🐼 [ 2:10 AM ] : Mate there’s no world in which he hates you

you [ 2:11 AM ] : be serious

max f 🐼 [ 2:11 AM ] : I AM being serious

max f 🐼 [ 2:11 AM ] : Stop typing rn I can see the little text bubble just listen to me for a sec

max f 🐼 [ 2:12 AM ] : He doesn’t hate you. You just think he does cause you’ve probably spent the night locked in your room staring at your ceiling

you [ 2:13 AM ] : i am being vulnerable here can you not mock me for a minute

max f 🐼 [ 2:13 AM ] : IM LITERALLY NOT

max f 🐼 [ 2:13 AM ] : What I’m trying to get at is that nothing good happens after 2 am.

max f 🐼 [ 2:14 AM ] : Just sleep it off mate I promise you’ll wake up feeling better

you [ 2:14 AM ] : did you just quote how i met your mother to me

max f 🐼 [ 2:15 AM ] : It’s a great show and it’s great advice??????

max f 🐼 [ 2:15 AM ] : I feel like you’re missing the point

you [ 2:16 AM ] : what even is your point

max f 🐼 [ 2:16 AM ] : That you’re getting stuck inside your head

max f 🐼 [ 2:17 AM ] : Why do you think that is?

you [ 2:17 AM ] : it’s just something dumb he said

max f 🐼 [ 2:17 AM ] : Lando’s always saying something dumb

max f 🐼 [ 2:17 AM ] : You’re just too busy staring at his face to notice it most of the time

you [ 2:18 AM ] : MAX

max f 🐼 [ 2:18 AM ] : WHAT

max f 🐼 [ 2:18 AM ] : If he said something hurtful I can talk to him

max f 🐼 [ 2:18 AM ] : Knock some sense into that big head

you [ 2:18 AM ] : it’s okay you don’t need to do that

max f 🐼 [ 2:19 AM ] : I’d like to though

you [ 2:19 AM ] : i think i’ll take what you said before and try to get some sleep before this spirals out of hand

you [ 2:19 AM ] : thank you max <3

max f 🐼 [ 2:20 AM ] : You know what could also work

you [ 2:20 AM ] : what

max f 🐼 [ 2:20 AM ] : Telling him how you feel about his big dumb face

you [ 2:20 AM ] : i would rather die :)

The flat is unusually quiet in the week leading up to the Monaco Grand Prix. You’ve grown accustomed to the silence whenever Lando is off racing across different countries in the calendar. It’s different then, though. His laughter is still tucked like a secret into the corners of the room, exhausted voice notes in your phone lingering in the quiet once his day is over. It’s never this quiet when he’s around.

It becomes an unspoken thing amongst the two of you. A pause. An interlude between the moment that got too real and the day you’re going to be holding hands, walking side-by-side in front of reporters and photographers in the paddock.

Even if the distance wasn’t noticeable, even if it wasn’t tugging at your heartstrings more than you’d like to admit, you’ve got other things to worry about.

The Monaco Grand Prix, for example. The crown jewel of Formula 1—the legendary, glamorous, historical track. And the dreaded realization you don’t know what the hell to wear for it.

It creeps up on you suddenly, unexpectedly. Once it does, though, there’s no shutting down the alarms blaring inside your head. 

Clothes are strewn across your bed, closet door and floor. Shelves and hangers alike are left empty. You end up stalking Alexandra Saint Mleux’s Instagram like a psychopath, finding that—unsurprisingly—none of your clothes remotely match hers. 

There’s a knock at your door. 

“Hey,” you hear Lando’s voice, muffled through the wood. “You there, bug?”

“I’m a little busy!”

There’s a beat, a pause. “You okay?” he asks, voice tinged with a hesitant concern. “You sound…”

You open the door, throat tight and insides tangled into a knot. “I don’t know what to wear. What do wags wear?” you ask, and even amidst your blind panic you can hear your frantic tone. “They’re gonna eat me alive.”

Lando raises a brow. “You’ve gone to races before.”

“Yeah but I wasn’t your girlfriend—fake—whatever!” You huff, turning your back to him and sorting through your discarded clothes again. “I’ve seen the posts people make about the wags. I’ve seen them get destroyed for overdressing and underdressing.” You breathe in. Breathe out. Feel as embarrassment tints your cheeks. You turn to Lando apologetically. “I’m sorry. You’re the one that’s driving, and I’m freaking out over clothes.”

A fond smile curls at the corner of his lips. “We’ve all been there, bug. I just get to skip it now ‘cause I have a stylist.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” Lando concedes. Only then do you notice he has one of his hands behind his back. “But hopefully this is.”

He pulls out a dress. The dress.

You blink once. Twice. Three times to make sure you’re not hallucinating the white and blue fabric in Lando’s hand. “You bought it,” you say softly. “When?”

He looks at the ceiling sheepishly. Almost embarrassed. “I’d… rather not say.”

“Lando,” you insist.

“I might’ve doubled back. That day. When you were distracted.” He shrugs, trying to go for nonchalant. “I just asked them to set it aside.”

You look down at the dress. Reach out to feel the fabric underneath your fingertips. “You didn’t have to,” you argue, though there’s no edge to it.  

“I wanted to.” It feels a bit like an apology. You’re not sure whether he knows what he’s apologizing for, exactly. Still, here he is—showing up regardless. “You’ve always been shit at getting stuff for yourself.”

Lando hands you the dress, the tag still on—though the price has been conviniently scrawled out with sharpie. 

“Besides, rule number three,” Lando says, voice reeling back into something more casual. “I said all expenses paid for race weekends.”

“That’s not what you meant, though,” you protest.

“You don’t know what I meant.” 

“Lando.”

“Just learn to take a gift, Jesus,” he says, faux exasperation drawing a smile from him. “Wear it, don’t wear it—it’s your choice.” His lips part to add something else. You see the brief, split-second hesitation before he adds, voice soft, “Either way, you looked really pretty in it.” 

His gaze drops down to your lips. Just a second. He clears his throat.

“We leave in an hour!”

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yourusername monaco has never looked better 🧡

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user1 HELLO

riabish gorgeous gorgeous girl <3

lnfour our favorite wag 🧡

user2 ain’t no way the first official confirmation is coming from lando’s merch account

user3 i mean it’s pretty much confirmed that they’re dating though 😵‍💫😵‍💫 we all saw the way lando was looking at her during his last stream…..

user4 fully grown adults over here playing at tripping each other btw 😭

lando aww did you write that

yourusername that was NOT me no

lando okay plausible deniability i see what you’re doing 😍

yourusername how long did it take you to spell that

lando jokes on u coz i love it when you’re mean to me

user5 wait why is boyfriend lando kind of endearing :(

user6 no cause i see what you mean…

Nothing could’ve ever prepared you for flashing lights and hounding cameras that greet you at the paddock. You’ve been here before—two years ago, with Max acting as a green-eyed buffer to whatever feelings you’d long wrestled down when it came to Lando. 

It’s different now. You can feel it in the way cameras don’t just gloss past you, but rather fix their lenses upon the two of you.

It may have something to do with Lando holding your hand. Fingers interlaced. Walking just half a step in front of you, blocking the most invasive photographers from your path. 

You don’t know how he deals with it every race week.

Thankfully, the McLaren garage offers what feels like some semblance of privacy—however misleading that may be. At the very least, you can appreciate that the attention’s no longer set on you. Not for the most part, anyway.

Lando gives you a quick peck on the cheek for the broadcast camera before being pulled away by one of his engineers. Controlled chaos, a reporter from Sky once called it. Engineers and mechanics moving across rooms with spare gear, adjusting comms, analyzing telemetry.

Over on the opposite side of the garage—Oscar’s side—you spot his girlfriend Lily with an orange headset that matches with yours. She meets your gaze, offering a small polite smile.

You swallow your nerves. Smile back. Try not to throw up your breakfast on your shoes. It still makes you anxious, you find—watching Lando race. When it’s just him on a screen, you can at least put it on mute and look away whenever your pulse starts racing.

You don’t think that’s much of an option here.

“Hi,” you hear behind you. You’re met with a friendly blue gaze. She smiles again, warmer this time. “I’m Lily. You must be Lando’s girlfriend.”

It’s one of two options. Either you don’t have as good a poker face as you thought, or Lily’s better at reading people than you could’ve given her credit for. Maybe both—probably both. The way her expression is laced with sympathy tells you she sees the nervousness. Understands it.

You end up sticking by her until the race starts. You’re not surprised to find out she’s soft-spoken and kind-hearted—not that you’d seen or heard much from her before. You suppose that’s probably the whole point. 

It’s impossible not to make the comparison. Private, genuine, in a long-time relationship with Lando’s teammate versus you; very public, very fake, placeholder of a girlfriend.

The thought lands harder than you expected it to.

“If it makes you feel any better, I still get nervous every time,” Lily says halfway through your conversation. “Although—actually, you have been at a race before, right?” 

“Yeah,” you nod, pushing away your wreck of a train of thought. “Came with Max Fewtrell a few times. Still, everything makes me feel a little…” 

“Exposed?” she suggests, nodding knowingly.

“Exactly! I just, last time it wasn’t just me, so I felt less… on the spot. And obviously last time I wasn’t Lando’s—” you trail off, the lie feeling surprisingly heavy on your tongue.

“Lando’s girlfriend,” Lily finishes comprehensively, and you hate the fact that you’re starting to really like her. You hate that your first conversation, your first semblance of common ground, is a boldfaced lie.

“I mean, Lando and I have always been close,” you say, trying to veer the conversation towards the truth.

“Oscar’s mentioned.” Lily’s mouth curls up into a smile. “I don’t know if it’s my place to say, but he kept wondering when Lando would finally ask you out.” She tilts her head, sunglasses perched over her head. “How was that, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, you know,” you say vaguely, toying with a lock of your hair. A nervous habit. “It sort of just… happened. I don’t know.” You swallow, and hope that this time she doesn’t see through you. “It still feels unreal.”

Lily’s lips part to ask something else, before a sudden silence washes over the garage. You frown. Lily places it immediately.

She squeezes your hand. “Best of luck.”

Even when resting around your neck, you hear the unmistakable phrase coming from your McLaren-issued headset.

It’s lights out and away we go.

The world narrows into the racing line between the Nouvelle Chicane and Turn 19. Your heart thunders in your ears, as the leading cars make it past Anthony Noughes—the very last corner. 

In the tenths it takes for the number four car to make it past the finish line, the McLaren garage is suspended in air. Quiet. Hearts beating.

Someone screams. You’re not completely certain it wasn’t you. Mechanics and engineers run out the garage and onto the pitlane, grinning and shouting. 

Lando Norris, Monaco Grand Prix Winner. 

The McLaren garage splits into two large groups, a sea of sunset orange overtaking the parc fermé. A woman in a McLaren uniform—probably from Lando’s PR team—helps you make way towards the very front of the crowd. The metal barrier presses against your body.

You watch as Lando jumps off his car, his energy boundless and ecstatic even with his helmet still on and hiding his face. He leaps into the papaya crowd, receiving congratulatory pats, hugs and cheers. 

He takes off his helmet and balaclava. Runs a hand through matted curls. You watch as he looks around, scanning the crowd, searching—

Until he spots you.

His helmet is left behind and forgotten as he runs towards you, grinning widely and brightly. He embraces you instantly, your arms wrapping around his neck like second nature.

His hands reach over the barrier and settle around your waist with a firm grip. Then, without giving you a moment to pull back, he brings you over the barrier and spins you in a hug.

“You’re golden,” you say, giddiness overwhelming. You vaguely register the flashes of cameras. Distantly. Your entire world narrows down into the sweaty, lovely, sunlit boy in front of you. You hold Lando’s face with a grin as he puts you down, hands still resting around your waist. You bury your face into his neck. “Oh my god, you’re golden.”

When he finally pulls away—already sensing some McLaren spokesperson waiting for him—he looks at you and grins. Unguarded. Unrestrained. 

And in a way that thoroughly undoes you.

“C’mon, champ,” you say, matching his smile. He’s glowing—honey dipped in sunlight. “They’re waiting for you.”

Music beats against the walls of the club. Blue and pink strobe lights set the dance floor aglow. You vaguely recognize a handful of faces—mechanics, interns, even a couple of social media admins. 

As far as clubs go, you suppose it fits the celebration. McLaren footing the bill of the open bar is just the cherry on top.

Alcohol thrums steadily underneath your skin—a pretty combination of Fireball and fancy drinks you didn’t really care to learn the name of.

The night has unfolded in a series of syrupy moments that seem to melt into one another. You remember arriving with Lando—hand in hand, the high of his win still ripe. You remember being introduced to a few other drivers—Oscar, Carlos, maybe Alex—as his girlfriend. Later in the night, you recall dancing with Lando. More than once.

The night stretches like melted sugar, sweet and honeyed. Purple and red lights flash against the floor, leaving the club half-lit half cast in shadows.

You’ve found a more private spot by one of the corners of the club. VIP table, by the looks of it. 

You lean back against Lando’s side, legs perpendicular to his. One of his hands rests on your lower back, steadying, while yours toys with the curls at the nape of his neck. 

You don’t remember when exactly you ended up on Lando’s lap—not that you’re complaining, anyway. Maybe it’s the lights, the high of his win, the alcohol in your veins—it all has a way of stripping down your inhibitions.

Some distant, muted part of you is half-aware that maybe this is too much. Too close to being PDA. Bordering too much on intimacy. But then Lando leans into your ear to murmur some comment about Carlos’ story and you laugh—you laugh and you forget.

It’s dangerous, this closeness. More so, it’s dangerous how easy it is for you to fall into it. Hook, line, sinker. You never stood a chance.

As Lando talks, as you gaze down at him, you catch Oscar and Carlos sharing a look out of the corner of your eye. You pay them no mind—not when the club lights cast Lando’s face aglow.

“You have really pretty eyes,” you tell him, because it’s the truth. He looks up at you then, lips slightly parted. “Have I ever told you that?”

You hear Carlos attempting to stifle a laugh. He’s not very good at it.

Lando doesn’t pay him any mind. Instead, he gives you a lopsided smile. “D’you think so?” 

“I know so.”

“Not to interrupt,” Oscar begins, already moving to stand up. “But I should get going. Congrats on the win, mate.”

“We should do one last round of shots before you leave!” you announce, but Lando’s hands tighten around your waist.

He presses an unintelligible murmur onto your shoulder. When you turn your head, you find he’s already looking up at you. Long lashes cast crescent shadows on his cheeks. “Don’t go,” he mumbles into the exposed skin of your neck.

Your stomach flips. You grin nonetheless. “It’s my mission today to get you just a little drunk, race winner.”

He considers it. Then, “Okay,” he finally says, smiling softly.

There’s a moment before you stand up. A full second. A beat suspended in time. And maybe it’s the drinks you’ve had—but maybe you’re the only one still pretending this isn’t exactly what you want. 

“I’ll be right back,” you hear yourself say, before you’re moving into the crowd. You weave through the throngs of people dancing, finally making it to the bar. You flag down the bartender, give him your order—making sure to highlight under who’s tab this is.

“That’s a lot of shots,” you hear someone say beside you. He’s cute—shaggy blonde hair, brown eyes—not your type necessarily, but cute. “Are you here with friends?”

“Yeah!” you say, voice bright. “Celebrating.”

“That’s nice.” You can barely hear him over the music. “What are we celebrating?”

You grin proudly at that. “My best friend won a race!” 

“Yeah?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound like he’s really listening. He steps a little closer. Only then do you feel his hand on your waist. “That’s cool,” he says relaxedly. “What’s your name?”

It hits you then, how out of it you really are. You shake your head politely, ready to tell him that sorry, you’re not interested, you’re actually here with—

“Hey, you were taking a bit,” you hear behind you. You don’t even have to turn around to know it’s Lando—Lando, who sounds suspiciously out of breath. 

He pulls you closer to him—away from the man—and wraps his arms around your waist like a shield. Hooking his chin over your shoulder, he mutters, “Who’s your friend?”

“Actually, we were talking.”

Lando narrows his eyes. “Yeah, well, I kinda wanna spend the rest of the night with my girlfriend, so if you don’t mind.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Girlfriend?” the guy repeats, not quite apologetic. Not really. “Oh, shit, my bad.”

“Yeah.” Lando glares at the guy until he finally walks away. It’s only once he’s gone that he looks at you properly. “What the hell?”

You feel dazed. “What?”

“What happened to rule number one? No flirting?” 

You blink once. Twice. “Right. Sorry.” You clear your throat. “I wasn’t flirting, by the way. He just—he sort of came onto me.” You lick your lips, glancing behind him. “Did, um, did anyone see?”

Lando’s been drinking too—you know so, because when he does, he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve. Has a harder time hiding what he feels. This time, he looks conflicted. “Uh, no,” he says, as if finally settling on a response. He swallows. “No, just me.”

The two of you walk back to the table, quieter this time. You take a seat next to him, the world still swimming around you to the beat of the songs playing. Lando places the tray of shots on the table before he lays his arm on the backrest. Close. Too close. Not nearly close enough.

Oscar winces as he downs his shot, cheeks pink. He clears his throat before turning to you. “Y’know, I’m glad you two finally got together.”

Lando drops his arm. Instead, he tentatively reaches for your hand. Carefully interlaces his fingers with yours. 

“Yeah, it was unexpected, huh?”

“Right,” he says with a laugh, as if you’re joking. You don’t get it. Lando’s thumb gently brushes against the back of your palm, drawing quiet patterns. “To be honest, I’m just glad I don’t have to stand by watching and hearing Lando pining after you anymore.”

Lando stops at that, back stiffening. “Oscar,” he hisses.

You blink. “Sorry?”

“Yeah—didn’t he tell you?” Oscar freezes for just a split second as his eyes meet with Lando’s over your shoulder. You can feel Lando tense against you. “Oh. Um.”

You turn to Lando, confused, maybe a little lost—but sobering up. Even in the flashing magenta lights you can see the deep-rooted shame taking shape in his face.

“Lando?” you ask, voice drowning in the music.

But then he’s taking your hand again, and guiding you out. Past the table, past the crowds—out of the club where the two of you can hear yourselves think.

Didn’t he tell you?

Oscar’s voice echoes in the marrow of your skull like the chorus of a song that gets stuck in your head. The cold night air that greets you on the terrace is enough to make the world feel firm around you again. 

Lando lets go of you then, tugging at his hair. You want to tell him to stop, that he’s pulling too hard, that he’s going to hurt himself—

“Lando—”

“It wasn’t like that,” he says abruptly, defensively. “It sounds so fuckin’ creepy when he says it. It’s not like—like this is some scheme to get you to go out with me. You know that, right?” Lando doesn’t look at you. Won’t look at you. “I swear, Oscar just has this whole movie in his head about me being into you, but I swear he’s just… he doesn’t get that we’re friends. He’s probably confused because he thinks we’re going out so, just. That thing he said about me pining—I don’t know where the hell he got that from.”

It’s a lot like being punched in the stomach, the way you feel the air leave your lungs. A gut punch. Low. Horrible. Painful.

“‘Cause being into me would be crazy,” you say slowly. The words leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

“Yeah,” Lando agrees. His face twists a second too late. “I mean—no, that came out wrong, I meant, like,” he gestures with his hands, struggling to find the right words. He shrugs half-heartedly. “We’re us, yeah?” he says, voice small. “We’ve been us for so long.”

“Right,” you say. 

You were sure you knew heartbreak. You knew it when he introduced you to his first girlfriend, when you thought she was lovely, when you found you couldn’t even bring yourself to hate her. You knew heartbreak. You picked him up at some club in London when he was too drunk to drive. You watched him being flirted with by models and actresses—watched him flirt back.

This feels worse than heartbreak, somehow. It aches deep inside your chest. A fracture line that finally fragments all the way through. 

You swallow down the stones lodged in your throat. “Look, I think I’m tired,” you say, voice tight. You can feel the tears threatening to spill. You blink them back. Not here. Not now. “I think I underestimated the jet lag.”

“Jet lag?” He looks understandably confused. You landed days ago. 

You bite your tongue. “I mean, like—I think I’m still a little overwhelmed.” Your voice breaks. “I think I wanna go back to the hotel.”

Lando’s face falls. He’s nodding, already moving, “Okay, let me get my—”

“I’ll take an uber,” you cut him off, reaching for your purse and finding you left it at the table. You just can’t get anything right. You’re already pulling away when you add, maybe for your sake: “Really, I don’t wanna ruin your night.” 

“Hey, no,” Lando protests, words weak and fragile and filled with something you can’t bring yourself to name. “Wait.” His fingers latch around your wrist. He tugs at your hand. “Please.” 

You don’t think he knows what he’s begging for.

The night settles around you. Cold air, the dull sound of music on the other side of the door. You can’t blame the winner’s high. You can’t blame the club music. You can’t even blame the drinks. 

You press your lips into his without thinking of the disastrous consequences it will reap. You kiss him like it’s goodbye. For just a second, you let yourself forget the hurt, the heartache, the heartbreak. 

His lips are warm against you, soft. It feels like gravity. Inevitable. Like it was always going to end this way.

He doesn’t kiss you back.

When you pull away from him, the world goes on. Cars honk at each other in the street below. The moon hides behind the clouds. Realization of what you’ve done fully settles in your gut.

“Oh my god,” you say, mortified. “Oh my god, I shouldn’t have done that.”

But Lando blinks down at you, dazed. He doesn’t step back. Doesn’t look away. Instead, his eyes search your face. Ultimately, they dip down to your lips.

“You said no kissing,” he says slowly, absentmindedly, and you’re unsure whether he’s telling you or reminding himself. 

I didn’t mean to, you want to say, but the lie gets stuck in your throat.

Your bottom lip trembles. The back of your eyes prick. You think you’re gonna cry.

Lando’s touch is gentle. His hand tips your head up, thumb caressing your cheek. “Rule two. You said no kissing,” he repeats, voice barely a murmur.

He leans into you then, kisses your forehead. Then presses another kiss below your eye. Then one to your cheek. To the corner of your lips. But not where you want him most.

“Lando—”

“Tell me,” he mumbles into your skin, hand still cradling your face like you’re fragile. Like you’re going to slip through his fingers. His lips press against the corners of your mouth. “Tell me the truth. Tell me what you want. Please.” 

“I want you to kiss me,” you whisper.

His lips find yours in a heartbeat.

When you eventually call a cab in the late hours of the night, the two of you end up clumsily stumbling into the backseat. Exhaustion wears you down like gravity.

Lando interlaces his fingers with yours. Tugs you closer to him. You lay your head on his shoulder, breathing out softly. Quietly.

He kisses the crown of your head. Leans down into you.

And for the first time in a long while, it feels like coming home.

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yourusername okay, take two. for real this time :)

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user1 ?????

user2 what

maxfewtrell well that’s just a wildly inconvenient way to water tulips

yourusername can you ever just lay off

lando pretty girl 🌷

yourusername pretty boy 🌻

user3 are we supposed to know what that means

Isack closes his eyes briefly, relishing in the absence of those white, glaring lights that make his head throb. The world still spins around him. It has never given him respite—he shouldn’t be expecting any mercy now.

The door opens with a creak, the chaos of the underground ring still as loud and reckless as it was minutes ago. You close the door behind you, shutting out the world along with it. 

“Tonight was… rough,” you start, and Isack thinks your voice might be too far away, blurring at the edges. “But the good news is you nearly doubled your earnings from last time. Really pulled it through, champ.”

Isack opens his eyes, slowly, drowsily. The dim lighting of the room still stings against his eyes—though that might just be the bruise.

He doesn’t really feel like a champ.

Finally, the colors and silhouettes take form into the shape of you. He squints, not quite being able to figure out the odd look on your face.

“You stink,” you say after a beat, voice surprisingly gentle. Isack is certain he’s delirious now, definitely concussed—because that’s concern he hears in your voice.

“Occupational hazard,” he says, swallowing back a chuckle when he feels his ribs aching. He watches as you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to bite down whatever it is you want to say. Isack cracks half a smile, resting the weight of his body against the cold cement wall. “You can be honest.”

“You look like you got run over.” 

He’s not sure when you got closer to him—close enough that he can catch a faint scent of lavender and coconut over the coppery smell of blood. 

Your leg brushes against his knee. “By a truck. Multiple times.”

That draws a laugh out of him—something hoarse and fleeting—before he winces, covering his ribs with his open palm. “You have a way with words.”

Once the pain becomes less jagged, more bearable, Isack realizes you’ve fallen silent. He watches you as you crease your brows, deep in thought. Planning, most likely. Or plotting. Planning and plotting.

“Hey,” you snap your fingers in front of him, making him blink and open his eyes wider. “Keep those open for me, yeah?” You shove a few things into your duffle bag, muttering something Isack doesn’t quite catch. Duck, or maybe fuck. Knowing you, it’s probably the latter.

He doesn’t get why you’re acting so worried today. You said it yourself. He won—he doubled last time’s earnings. He finally feels he’s making a real step forward. And while he doesn’t exactly feel like a winner, that’s never really the point to any of this.

“Can you stand?”

Isack nods. Or, he thinks he nods. His head is still throbbing as he looks at you. He leans against the wall for support, feet stumbling as the entire world tilts to the side. Isack’s vision swims for a moment, black dots ebbing at the corners of his gaze. 

You’re wrapping his arm over your shoulder in a blink, helping him stand up. Even in his state, he can tell you’re struggling to keep him upright. Isack makes the conscious effort to keep his weight steady, his limbs light. 

The two of you take one step forward. Another one. You aren’t even out the door when Isack asks, “Where are we going?”

You huff, adjusting your grip on his arm. “Somewhere to get you patched up.”

Isack has never been inside your apartment before. He’s met you outside of it—once—back when you were in the early days of managing him. 

The inside of your flat is only slightly less pitiful than his. Sparse furniture, one-bedroom, creaking wooden floors. It might have a better view, though—especially since that perfume billboard was set up across the street from his.

The two of you stumble into your bathroom with little to no coordination.

Isack blinks sluggishly. “Are we gonna shower?”

You set him down on your toilet, gently making sure the back of his head doesn’t get hit by your cabinet. You rummage through your drawers, before finally pulling out a small first aid kit, ice pack already in hand. 

“A warm shower will just increase swelling,” you mutter, quiet enough that you probably didn’t intend for him to hear.

“Since when are you a doctor?” he asks, the ringing in his ears finally subsiding.

“You’re not the only one with a rough upbringing, champ,” you say, glancing down at him. “C’mon. Arms up.”

Isack tugs at his shirt, pulling it over his head. “If you wanted to get me naked, you could’ve just asked, chérie.”

He tosses the shirt onto the bathroom floor, blinking up at you. Your eyes linger on his bruised torso for a beat. Two. You look away, clearing your throat—and Isack makes the conscious decision not to call you out on it. Not today, anyway.

You tap his leg, and Isack brackets you between his thighs so you can get a closer look at his face. Gently, you reach for his chin, tilting his head up. Isack’s eyes flutter closed.

“You’re gonna wake up with a black eye tomorrow,” you murmur, fingers absentmindedly tracing the outer edges of the bruise. Isack shivers under your touch. “Sorry,” you say quietly, pulling your hand away from his swollen eye.

You hand him the ice pack for his face, giving yourself a moment to take in the rest of his bruises and cuts. Finally making up your mind, you let go of his chin, instead reaching for his still-wrapped knuckles.

Your touch is careful, feather-light. Like he’s fragile. You apply some cold, disinfectant cream onto his bruised knuckles, cleaning away the blood. You wrap them with clean gauze, double-checking it isn’t loose.

You’re going to start cleaning the cuts in his chest when Isack pulls away slightly. “I’m sweaty,” he says.

“I know, champ,” you hum quietly, reaching for him again. 

He pulls back, hand catching your wrist with none of the brute force he showed earlier tonight. “But you smell nice,” he insists, not quite sure whether he’s making sense or not. He still feels dizzy. “I can do it myself.”

“You’re being an idiot.” You clean his cuts anyway, all with a tenderness that feels near foreign to Isack. He’s had bad fights before—fights he’s lost, fights he’s had to crawl his way home after—but he’s never been this tender to himself. You’re gentle—too gentle. It feels unearned.

“Do you know why I’m always so calm before your matches?” you ask suddenly. 

The warm light of your bathroom hums in response, water droplets dripping from the faucet.

“Because of my charm?”

Cotton swipes at an open cut. He hisses in a breath. “Because when I’m arranging matches for you, I trust you not to get hurt.” 

Isack chuckles, something not quite humorous. It tugs at his ribs. “I think you chose the wrong career path, then.” It comes out sharper than he intended, sharper than he wanted. He watches it land.

“Maybe,” you say, voice sounding somewhere far away. “Maybe when you make your next step into the big leagues, you can get yourself another manager.” 

His hand holding the icepack drops to his lap, brown eyes staring back at you with a quiet, near regretful confusion. 

You shrug, finally done with his cuts. You pull away from him. “I’m sure they’ll all be fighting to get a piece of you.”

“Hey,” he reaches out to you, more urgently this time. Like he knows he’s left a crack in the tender space between you. That’s not what I meant, he wants to say. 

Instead, he says, “I want you. Just you.”

He knows what other managers are like. Even when he’s boxing against other fighters, he still holds a somewhat civil relationship with a handful of them. Yuki. Liam. He knows for a fact their managers don’t look after them the way you do for him.

And maybe it’s selfish—to want to hear those five words spoken back to him. To hear you only want him, too. Isack has been fighting for scraps since he was a child. And that selfish, greedy part of him doesn’t want to share you with anyone else.

You look after him—in more ways than one. Maybe it’s just a part of the job description for you. But occasionally, when the city is quieter and Isack is alone in his flat at night, he likes to think it isn’t just about the job to you. That there’s a part—at least a small part—that cares for Isack.

“It’s late,” you say. You’re busying yourself by organizing your medical equipment back into your first aid kit. 

He stares up at you. Some pathetic part of him wants you to look his way. Instead, he nods. “Yeah. I’ll—I’ll get out of your hair.”

He’s standing up, swallowing the groan that threatens to slip past his lips. He reaches down to grab his shirt, and moves to leave. 

“Isack,” you say like a pin drop. He stops like a dog on a leash. You stare at the floor before meeting his gaze. “You can stay for the night. It’s already late—you can take the couch.”

He knows better than to protest. 

The rest of the night moves quietly. You bring a pillow from your bed and a handful of blankets for him. You arrange a makeshift bed on your couch as he watches. With the adrenaline rush over, he can feel his body starting to sway, eyes closing sluggishly with day-earned tiredness.

Finally, as he rests his head on the pillow—one that smells like lavender, like you—he mumbles, “It’s not your fault, you know.”

His eyes close before he can hear your response. The door to your room closes with a faint click. And for the first time in weeks, Isack sleeps soundly.

eve’s notes: still catching up on the last requests for my 2k event 😵‍💫😵‍💫 i was kinda reluctant to make this request because kae did a banger fighter!isack au a while ago so hopefully this reads differently!!!

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yukitsunoda0511 nice to get away for a bit

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user1 posted 50 seconds ago he’s gonna think i’m a fan 😞

user2 HELLO didn’t think i’d be opening ig to a pic of shirtless yuki but i’m not complaining

user3 never been so jealous of a bird before

isackhadjar did the swan find your phone?

user4 LMAO were these pics from the cloud?

user5 rip yuki’s phone (???-2025)

user6 why is everyone talking about yuki’s phone…?

user7 user6 check his stories xx

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yourusername mornings in varenna 💐

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friend1 bought you pepper spray for your date!!!!

yourusername it’s not a date??

The day is sun-kissed and sun-warmed. Mornings in Varenna are growing on you—fresh breeze weaving through narrow streets, honeysuckle and wisteria climbing the walls of the piazza. 

The air of the restaurant smells something like early summer and afternoons—coffee and brick-oven pizza. It makes your stomach grumble in protest, begging for you to order something instead of waiting politely. Another waiter passes by with a plate of risotto, and you consider giving up. At the very least, the terrace of the La Vita è Bella has an amazing view that manages to distract you—if only temporarily. Conversations drift in Italian around you as you fold your arms over your chest, fingers drumming impatiently. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the rest of your friends sitting three tables away to make sure you’re not kidnapped.

Another waiter with a tray and a basket of freshly baked bread dodges past your table as you stir the sorry remains of melting ice, lemonade and mint leaves in your glass. This is what you get for being a good person.

You hear someone call your name, and you look up with the straw caught between your lips. 

The sight before you is laughable. Ridiculous. Both.

It’s nearing thirty degrees out, and the man before you is wearing a hoodie, a baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses. You momentarily wonder whether he’s hungover or famous. Fuck. Maybe he’s a serial killer.

“Can I sit?” he asks, voice lower than you expected.

You blink once. Twice. Briefly consider turning around to the table your friends are at and ask Are you guys seeing this?

He blinks at you. You blink at him. There’s too much blinking involved before you finally come to your senses and stop chewing on your paper straw. “Yeah—Yeah. Sit. Um. Yuki, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, if not a bit suspiciously. Despite the sunglasses—which, now that you’re sitting across from him, you notice look surprisingly high-end—you can see that he’s glancing around, as if checking whether he’s being followed.

Well, shit. Maybe he is a serial killer. Or a criminal. Even with the loose-fitting sweatshirt, he looks strong. Then again, you can scream—very loudly.

“Are you okay?”

Yuki turns his head back to you. “What?”

You shift on your seat, pushing aside your empty glass before you start toying with the straw again. “You look fidgety. Are you expecting someone else?”

Yuki pauses at that, his jaw setting into an expression that borders on unreadable. Inescrutable. With one last glance to the terrace doors, he sighs. “No—sorry.” He takes off his baseball cap and folds his sunglasses, tucking them into his shirt and. Oh. “Do you have my phone?”

You were prepared for a catfish. Some old, crusty and musty grandpa looking to scam you and maybe rob you blind in the process. You weren’t expecting him to be. Well. Attractive.

“Are you hot?” you ask.

Yuki bristles. “Excuse me?”

Your eyes widen. “N-No—like, I meant as in. Are you hot like, are you heating up? That sounds weird. It’s just—” Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, like you’ve never strung a proper sentence together. You want to dig a hole into the ground and maybe—hopefully—die. “I just mean it’s really hot out. And you’re wearing a hoodie.”

His guarded expression softens. Or doesn’t—not when the corner of his lip is curving up into something amused. A smirk that is equal parts smugness and teasing. “It’s barely been five minutes and you’re already asking me to undress?” Yuki tilts his head, leaning back against his chair. Like suddenly you’re not the one with his phone in your purse. Like you’re not the one with the upper hand anymore. “That’s bold of you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you protest, and you can feel your cheeks heating up.

His grin sharpens. “You’re blushing.”

“It’s a hot day,” you defend uselessly. “I thought we established that.”

“Right,” Yuki drawls, endlessly entertained. He looks like he’s considering saying something else before he stops a waiter passing by. “Could we get some menus, please?”

The waiter hands you two red menus. You straighten, watching as Yuki opens it and rests it on his lap, scanning through the wine list and pasta dishes. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Deciding what to order. I’m hungry.” He glances up, only to catch you staring at him. “What? I’m paying.”

“No, I meant like—this. What are we doing?”

“Oh.” Yuki shrugs. “My afternoon’s free. You found my phone. You’re apparently not a stalker.” 

“So, the bar is in hell.”

“You’re also very pretty. And I heard the seafood risotto is really good here. So.”

Yuki doesn’t even look up from the menu. Still, the curve of his lips lets you know he is all-too aware of the heat warming your cheeks. 

You swallow any words that tangle at your throat and look down at the menu. Then—

“You’re flustered,” Yuki says.

“Shut up, oh my god.” You hide your face behind the red menu—not that it does anything. Your face burns. Yuki laughs, and you’re surprised to hear the sound. Even more so when it settles somewhere in your chest between your ribcage and your heart. Warm. Bright. 

For all intents and purposes, Yuki was right—the seafood risotto is really good. It’s easy, talking with him—even if he drops flirtatious comments like cocoa powder sprinkled on tiramisu. He’s smoother than you’d like—and by the time he ends up pulling off his hoodie, he doesn’t miss the chance to catch you staring when his shirt rides up, revealing the smooth planes of his stomach. 

You make him laugh, though—make him blush not as often as you’d like, but enough that you’re satisfied with yourself. Especially when it eventually means he has to swallow his earlier comment of how come you were bolder on Twitter? 

True to his word, Yuki picks up the bill. Before the waiter can come back, though, you turn back on your chair and pull out his phone. Blue case. Screen slightly cracked by the upper corner. When you turn it on, it still looks waterlogged. There’s a black line across the screen, a cyan square where the battery icon should be.

Yuki goes to take it away. “Thank—”

You pull it back. It ends with your hand still wrapped around the phone, and Yuki’s palm on yours. He raises a brow. “You remember the deal, right?”

His lips part, some mock-offended tinge to his voice when he answers with, “After I just paid for lunch?”

“A deal is a deal.”

He rolls his eyes but nods nonetheless. You let go of the phone, handing it to Yuki and ignoring the spark that runs down your spine when he finally lets go of your hand. He shakes his head, muttering something unintelligible under his breath before he types the passcode and turns the screen to you. “Happy?” 

“Very,” you muse, though your eyes linger on the wallpaper. Yeah, the lockscreen one is a drab, boring one—but the homescreen is startlingly different. Personal. And even with the cracks and color-glitches, you can clearly see it’s a picture of a man in a suit and helmet getting out of a race car, fireworks framing him against the night sky. 

“Fan of racing?” you ask.

“Huge,” Yuki says, and there’s an amused lilt to his voice you don’t quite understand.

With the bill paid, lunch over and the phone back in his possession, you fold this moment into a neat little memory you’ll be able to share at parties. You thank Yuki—and out of the corner of your eye, you catch your friends making wild gestures, pointing at their phones. You look away—just for now.

“How long are you staying in Como?” Yuki asks casually, considering you as you stand up.

“Two weeks,” you say.

“Cool.” He nods, standing up with you. “I could give you a tour, if you want.”

“A tour?” you repeat, mirth in your voice. “I thought you said it was your first time here.”

“So?” Yuki shrugs, effortlessly nonchalant. He clicks his tongue, like he’s fighting off a smile. “We can get to know the place together, then.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

Yuki tilts his head. “Are you gonna say yes if I am?”

There it is again—that spark of electricity buzzing underneath your skin. Excitement, maybe. Thrill. Maybe something else entirely. 

“Yeah,” you smile. “I’d like that.” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he grins. “I don’t have your phone number though. And I think your phone is not very functional at the moment.”

“That’s okay,” Yuki says, pulling out a different phone from his back pocket. It clicks, then, that he must’ve been messaging you from somewhere. “I got a new one.”

You blink once. Twice. Then: “Are you rich?”

Yuki shrugs again—loose, relaxed—as a smile pulls at his lips. “I’m comfortable.”

“That’s such a rich person thing to say.”

Yuki laughs, and some stupid, really delusional part of you wants to bottle the sound and save it. It rings like early summer. Bright. Golden.

Yuki waves goodbye, and you stand there smiling and waving back until he’s gone. Your heart is still running a few beats too fast, butterflies fluttering against your stomach. You huff a laugh before you remember your friends.

When you turn around, they gesture frantically at their phones. You frown, pulling out yours. Over fifty messages from them. 

“What…” you mutter, reading the first one that pops up.

PHONE GUY IS YUKI TSUNODA. YOU’RE ON A DATE WITH YUKI TSUNODA!!!!!!!!!

They come stumbling your way, and the first thing out of your mouth is—

“Who’s Yuki Tsunoda?”

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user1 STOP WHAT’S YUKI DOING HERE 😭

user2 saving this to my yuki folder rn

user3 is this how i find out yuki isn’t single??? stop this madness

user4 ariana what are you doing here

user5 i feel like i skipped a few episodes what did i miss?????

And—really, it’d been a miracle that you hadn’t stumbled upon each other throughout the entirety of your first year. It’s not like there’s many people in your major, either. And now, there he is—like a persistent weed, suddenly making space for himself in four out of your five courses.

You hadn’t minded him at first. Not when he sat next to you during the first week of Quantum Physics, smiling politely and asking if the seat next to yours was taken. You hadn’t minded him halfway through the second class, when he glanced over at your notebook, saw a rainbow of highlighters and asked “Are you making a coloring book or taking notes?”. You hadn’t minded him when he started nodding off halfway through Computational Physics, head propped on his palm and breath evening slowly.

It wasn’t until the first assignment that you started feeling it. That slow burning heat at the bottom of your stomach. Frustration, maybe. 

It started out small. A quiz with a 92 percent—only for Isack to poke your shoulder from the row behind you and show you his 98. 

“Tough break, huh?”

After that, you were quick to find out why Professor Rosberg had more openings in his classes than other professors that taught the same course. Not only did he grade assignments on a curve, he also relied on norm-referenced grading. 

In other words…

You checked your test—a red 99 percent neatly scribbled on the corner—pleased, up until you realized that there wasn’t a single mistake on your paper. You turned around, bordering on instinct, finding Isack in a blink. There was an easy grin on his lips. Relaxed. Confident. Infuriating. Held between his hands, a perfect 100 on his test.

He glanced down at your paper. Shrugged. “Better luck next time.”

…There can only be one top scorer.

The competition only scaled from there—especially after your TA for Atomic and Molecular Physics handed you and Isack your matching 95s on your quizzes. 

Max paused for a moment, hair mussed like someone who had spent the entire night correcting assignments. “You two are in Brit—Rosberg’s class, no?” The two of you nodded, eyes scanning over your respective answers and subsequent corrections. “You should know, if you’re gunning for that TA position—he only offers that to the top-scorer of his class.”

Both you and Isack froze. Static equilibrium—no movement, no shifting, no weight redistribution. Just a pause. Shoulders drawn together. Backs taut like wire. Max simply carried onto the next row, telling one guy in front to meet him after class—blissfully unaware that, in the silence he left behind, battle lines were being drawn.

It was a pendulum oscillating between you two. You’d get the 100. Then Isack would. Then you would. And when you thought you had the upper hand, you’d realize you had completely forgotten about a quiz for Professor Vowles’ class, and promptly want to shoot yourself between the eyes to avoid seeing Isack’s triumphant grin.

The digital clock you purchased specifically so you could keep a healthy sleep schedule blinks at you. 

2:55 AM. 

You sigh, momentarily resting your chin against your desk while Doriane sleeps on the bed across from yours.

This feels reminiscent of a badly told joke—or maybe like you’re the punchline. Your eyes keep closing for brief respites, and you’ve already almost fallen asleep on your chair thrice already. Not to mention the hellish heat that has decidedly not dropped since the moment you sat on your seat. Having a dorm window that doesn’t even open all the way hasn’t exactly made things any better, either.

You’re scribbling down the relation between wavefunction and probability current when the tip of your pencil gives away. You blink sluggishly at your paper. Once. Twice. Your eyes burn, pinpricks at the back of them—in your current state, you can’t even tell apart frustration from exhaustion.

This feels useless. Futile. You haven’t even started on Rosberg’s homework—but you keep lagging behind on Professor Vowles’ assignments. You don’t understand why his class won’t make sense to you. Why you can’t just get it.

“Isack gets it,” you mutter bitterly, reaching into your pencil case for a sharpener. “He aaalways gets it. Prick.”

You’re landing that TA position for Rosberg. You’re passing Vowles’ unnecessarily complicated class—and you are not losing your merit scholarship just because you can’t tell apart wave particle duality from observer effect.

You blink. Slowly. Drowsily. You’re pulling this off. You’re making this make sense—even if your eyes melt off trying. Why did you choose Physics as your major, again? You should’ve listened to your mum when she said Engineering was a safer bet. Whatever. You’re not moving from your desk until you are finished.

You wake up to the deafening blare of alarms. You jolt upright on your desk, sheets with gauge transformation exercises sticking to your cheek. You peel them off, disoriented—blinking repeatedly to make sense of your surroundings.

“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” Doriane asks, looking just as lost as you feel. But the alarms keep blaring—loudly, ear-piercingly so—and you feel that the sensible, rational part of you hasn’t quite woken up yet.

“Is this an earthquake?” you rasp.

Someone bangs repeatedly on your door. You vaguely recognize your RA’s voice calling out, “There’s a fire, we need to evacuate now.”

That’s enough to knock some sense into you.

Both you and Doriane stumble onto the hallway, the hallway crowded with other disoriented residents climbing down the stairs. Over by the steps, you spot two RAs from your floor guiding other students outside. You can’t be sure whether you’re imagining it or not, but you’re certain you can smell something burning in the distance.

The entirety is outside the building, waiting by the designated safe zone. A few students are on their phones, probably texting family members or writing emails for professors, while others lean over each other as they nap on the curb.

You run a hand through your face—trying to make sure you don’t have any drool on your cheek—and briefly wonder whether you should also be sending an email to Professor Vowles. You raise your phone to your face. 4:31 AM. Maybe your assignment was a casualty of the fire. Surely you can play that up for pity points.

You look up from your phone when someone nudges against you, muttering a quick ‘Sorry’. Your blood runs cold.

Standing just a few people away from you, is none other than Isack Hadjar. Shirtless. In his boxers.

Isack turns around just in time to catch you staring. You flinch, too late to feign dementia and look elsewhere. Not that you would. Probably.

To say you’re dumbfounded would be an understatement. You blink as he approaches you. Since when is Isack, like—ripped?

“Hey,” he says, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Where is your shirt?”

Isack blinks. “Sorry?”

 Heat crawls up your neck, something akin to embarrassment coiling in your gut. “Did I say that out loud?”

He huffs a laugh. The corner of his mouth curves upward. “Yeah, I—I run hot. Especially during summer. That, and Pepe broke the handle of the window like three weeks ago, so it doesn’t open properly.” He scratches the back of his ear. “I wouldn’t have gone to bed like this is I knew there was gonna be a fire.”

“Ah,” you say. Are you still staring? You’re not sure. You make a point to focus only on Isack’s eyes. Just in case.

“Were you studying?” Isack asks casually.

You narrow your eyes. He wants to get in your head—you can tell. “Why?”

“You, ah…” Isack’s gaze drops to your hip. “You kind of have a wave function exercise sticking to your shirt.”

You flush. Looking down, there is in fact a ripped notebook page hanging from your shirt by a flimsy staple. In that same second, a number of realizations fly past your head—among them, the fact that you’re in pajamas. Shorter shorts than you’d like, but it could’ve been worse. You could’ve been wearing your snoopy ones.

You would’ve never lived that down.

“Right,” you say quietly, embarrassedly tugging away at the sheet of paper. 

Isack’s lips part to add something else, before his eyes shift sideways. He raises his brows. “Dori?”

You spin, finding your roommate blinking at Isack. “Isack? Que faites-vous ici?”

“Je vais ici,” Isack responds, and you feel like you’re bordering on giving yourself whiplash. 

You turn back to Doriane, blinking wildly. “Do you know him?”

“We went to Lycée together,” she says. Then her brows crease as she tilts her head, glancing at you. “Isack. Is this your Isack? Like the one from—”

“He’s not my Isack!” you respond, alarmed and a little too loudly. “He’s not my anything, he—”

You hear Isack laughing behind you as he makes a poor attempt at stifling it. Great. This is your nightmare.

You hear a handful of excuse me’s as you turn to glare at Isack. A boy with brown hair and a shirt in hand you recognize as Pepe nudges his way past the crowd, finally reaching your little trio.

“There you are,” Pepe huffs, palm on Isack’s infuriatingly toned shoulder. Isack turns, only to have the top shoved into his hands. “Put a shirt on, you whore,” Pepe says, palm rubbing against his eye tiredly. “Jesus Christ.”

It’s still dark out, so it makes it hard to tell—but, if you didn’t know any better, you’d swear Isack looks flustered.

He mumbles something in French that makes Pepe roll his eyes. He slips the shirt over his head, and your gaze dips. Your breath catches in your throat. And, seriously—is he doing this to you on purpose? This has to be some sort of twisted mind game to throw you off. Of course he’s devious like that.

This time, Pepe is the one that catches you staring. He arches a brow, lips pulled into an amused smile. You look away, face hot, pretending that you didn’t just get caught checking him out by his roommate.

Isack runs a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. The shirt is tighter-fitting than his usual ones. Maybe a size too small. You forget how to breathe normally.

“It looks like we’re gonna be a while,” Pepe says, a yawn getting caught in his throat. “They found something in the kitchens. Apparently, someone decided to test baking for the first time.”

Doriane furrows her brows. “I thought the kitchens were closed at this hour.”

“Yeah,” Pepe says blankly. “The prick that started the fire seemed to be the only one out of the loop.”

“Fantastic,” you mutter—and now that your adrenaline isn’t spiking anymore, you can feel tiredness starting to catch up to you. 

Doriane seems to have the same idea, yawning into the back of her palm. “M’gonna sit down,” she says, blinking away the sleep from her eyes. 

The curb is hard. Slightly cold. Definitely not ideal. You spot a few students already leaning against the hedges, quietly drifting off. It doesn’t look like it’s ending any time soon.

Soon enough, all four of you are sitting down on the curb, with Doriane promptly resting her head on your shoulder.

Isack plops down next to you. 

“I am going to close my eyes for a bit,” Doriane mumbles into your shirt, accent thicker with drowsiness.

“You do that, Dori.”

Distantly, you can finally hear the fire alarm being put to rest. You exhale. You lean your head against Doriane’s. Your eyes flutter closed—just for a moment. 

“Huh,” you hear Pepe hum. “Donc c’est elle la fille dont tu es fou—”

“Piss off,” Isack mutters.

When you open your eyes again, the sky is slowly turning into that morning color, the sun not quite rising over the horizon just yet. You squint and blink—a poor attempt at waking yourself up. 

Your body feels sore, aching at odd angles. Maybe you should’ve tried out the bushes like other students did. They certainly seemed softer.

Though you’re not complaining, given the situation at hand. Especially when you’ve got your head tucked into Doriane’s shoulder. 

You blink again. Glance up. Freeze.

Both you and Isack lie against the grass next to the curb, your head resting between his shoulder and neck. His chest rises and falls steadily. If you leaned just an inch, your nose would brush against his.

You scramble to move back, before you feel his hand tightening around your waist. He mumbles something unintelligible, before his eyes open sluggishly. 

Big brown eyes meet yours. Isack’s brows furrow slowly, blinking. You see the exact moment it clicks. The way his sleep-laden expression drops into one akin to panic. 

The two of you jolt apart, with Isack accidentally hitting Pepe’s sprawled body. “Mate, what are you doing?” the Spaniard groans, shifting against the grass with his eyes still closed.

“Nothing,” Isack responds, too sharply, too quickly. You find it in yourself to be thankful that Pepe is too out of it to point out your flustered states. “Nothing.”

“Is it morning already?” Doriane asks, voice rough with the sands of sleep. She yawns, and you flinch.

“Sorry,” Isack says hastily. “That—That was not like, on purpose or anything.”

“Yeah, uh-huh,” you say, nodding and all-too eager to end this conversation. “That’s fine. That’s great. That’s—”

The sky looks brighter than you initially thought. You pause, heat climbing up your face and reaching the tips of your ears. “What time is it again?” You reach for your phone, keenly aware of Isack’s gaze still on you. “Fuck. Shit. Professor Vowles’ class starts in, like, fifteen minutes.”

That seems to make Isack snap out of whatever train of thought he was having. He scrunches his nose. “What? No, that’s impossible, that class isn’t until—” He glances at the screen on your phone and his eyes widen. “Oh, shit. Okay—uh, Pepe. Mate.” Upon receiving no reaction, Isack gracefully kicks his friend’s back.

“You’re so violent,” Pepe groans into the ground. “Qué te he hecho yo, ah?”

“I need the key to our room,” Isack urges.

You spot a few students already getting back to the entrance, apparently negotiating with the three RAs posted out front. Finally, it seems, they manage to convince them.

“Dori, come on—let’s go,” you say, reaching for your roommate’s arm and propping her up.

“Today should be a free day,” Doriane mutters.

For the first time in the entire term, both you and Isack are late. When you arrive, your socks don’t match, your hair is a mess, and Isack’s shirt is inside out.

Professor Vowles glances at the two of you from the whiteboard, marker in hand. He raises a brow, but says nothing.

You and Isack quietly get into your seats, scrambling to open your notes and try to figure out what you’ve missed. 

No one comments on how both you and Isack are late together. How your hair is tousled, matching his. The way your clothes are miss-matched and messy.

You definitely don’t notice Isack glancing down at you throughout the entirety of the module. And if either of you are still blushing when you make eye contact, neither of you mentions it.

You still think he’s infuriating.

It was only his second week in the country when he saw a Heartrender being dragged away from the shady place he’d been hunkering down at. A Heartrender—Grisha capable of manipulating a person’s internal organs, of bringing men to their knees, second in ranking only to the Black General back in Ravka. Taken away from the boarding house like a dog.

It was an easy lesson—the first one he learned. Ketterdam is a city where the only thing more dangerous than being a tourist is being Grisha. 

A definite complication considering Oscar’s situation. 

Kerch isn’t like other places, not like Fjerda or Shu Han. Being Grisha is not exactly a crime here—the silver lining being that, if he’s found, at least he won’t be burned at a pyre or have his insides tossed around by an overeager scientist. But the island nation is moved by greed and coin. A place carved from bricks upon bricks of sins and debauchery. And the line between legal indentures and slavery is kept vague. Terrifyingly vague.

Oscar did not escape his home country to become prisoner to another. 

The tavern he steps into is not a tourist trap, as far as he can tell. No flashing lights around the sign—just the curved Kerch script in an oak slab. 

The Gilded Maw. Not foreboding at all.

Oscar leaves any remaining hesitation at the door. The bar is not crowded—not as other establishments on East Stave are. If anything, it seems like it’s mostly dock workers and fishermen from Fourth and Fifth Harbor drinking the end of the day away. 

He sticks to what he was told. Reaches for the papers inside his pocket to ensure they’re still there, alongside with the last of his money. It’s reckless, he knows, walking around Ketterdam with an envelope of kruge on his coat. If anything, he’s begging for someone to steal it right off his pocket.

He made it though. Now, he just needs to find you.

Conversations are in an unintelligible mix of languages sewn together by the ocean. Kerch, Shu, Zemeni. Men of the sea that laugh loudly, voices hoarse with brine.

Sitting at the bar, he spots you. He thinks. Strictly speaking, he hasn’t met you. He wasn’t exactly in the business of befriending smugglers back in Ravka. Nonetheless, he has it under good authority that if he wants passage out of the island—something quick, something discrete, something he can afford—you’re the one to go to.

Oscar hesitates a moment too long. Stands just steps shy of the entrance uselessly, staring at the back of your head like you’ll stand up and greet him. He realizes a beat too late he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to say. 

His legs move of their own accord as he takes a seat next to you. You barely raise your head, and before he can think on it again, Oscar hears himself saying, “I need passage out of Ketterdam.”

He’s not sure what he expects, exactly. He’s too aware that his back is too straight, that nerves are buzzing underneath his skin. His face is impassive, though. He makes sure of it.

You snort. “And I need a deck that stops stinking of rotten fish.” You raise your glass, a murky liquid that does not smell like it should be ingested sloshing around. “But hey, dreaming is free.”

“I have money,” Oscar says.

Your eyes brighten at that, ears perking up. “What can I do for you?”

“I heard you leave for Novyi Zem in the morning. Before sunrise. I want to be on your ship when you do.”

“You and many others,” you say casually, though Oscar isn’t too sure he buys that. He’s not Kerch, sure, but he’s not gullible either. You don’t exactly have people lining up to get on your ship. That, and—well. He doesn’t mean offense, but you’re not… you’re not what he had in mind when he was told there was a smuggler that could get him out. “Why should I take you?”

“…I have money?”

You huff a laugh. “I heard. The journey to Novyi Zem is long, though. At least two week’s worth. Have you been part of a crew before?”

“No.”

You raise a brow, and there’s a glint in your eye that unsettles Oscar, if only slightly. He gets the sudden, uncanny feeling that he’s being tested. It might still be all in his head—especially since your relaxed, uninterested posture hasn’t so much as shifted an inch. “Of any kind?” 

Oscar considers it just for a split second. “I was in the army. Does that work?” It’s more truth than lie, anyway.

You narrow your eyes. “Stadwatch?”

He doesn’t know what the right answer is. “Um.” Oscar hesitates a second too long.

“You’re Ravkan, not Kerch,” you say finally, conclusively, and Oscar promptly realizes that he’s failed whatever test you had laid out for him. Your eyes drop across his frame, lips setting into a line. “I don’t transport Grisha.”

“I’m not,” he responds a beat too quickly. Even when the tavern is brimming with laughter and loud conversation, Oscar’s voice drops. “I am Ravkan, but I have papers.” Either for emphasis or justification, he adds, “I’m not Grisha.”

You raise an unimpressed brow, but extend your hand nonetheless. Oscar reaches inside his pocket, a yellowed page neatly folded into a rectangle. Your eyes barely skim over it, reading over his name and dropping below. The corner of your lips twitching upward into an amused smile.

“I’ve seen better forgeries scrawled on napkins,” you say with a laugh that scratches against the back of your throat. “I hope you didn’t pay good money for that.”

“It’s not fake.”

You seem to tire of this dance. You turn to look away from Oscar once again, flagging down the bartender as he serves you another glass of something cheap. He wonders, not for the first time, if this whole thing would’ve gone differently had he been born a Heartrender. He could’ve made you bend the knee with a flick of his wrist, hold the beat of your heart within his reach. Maybe being a Heartrender would’ve meant he never would’ve left Ravka in the first place. 

Alas.

“Oscar, yeah?” You ask, though it’s not much of a question. You meet his gaze evenly, and even when you’re sitting down, even when he’s taller, there’s something off-putting about you. Intimidating. “You have a particular brand of desperation to you. Only Grisha and indentures have that in Ketterdam. Saints forbid, maybe you’re both.” You take another drink from your glass. “I make a living off jobs from Fourth Harbor, so I’m not about to break the law for a stray like you.”

Oscar decides it then—just as he had the first week he stepped foot in this Saints-damned country. He hates this city. “But you’re a pirate.”

You scoff. “Privateer. There is a distinction.”

Oscar blinks uselessly. “Which is?”

“Important to take into consideration, of course.”

Exasperation starts showing in the crease of his brows. “And you don’t break the law?”

“Not all of them,” you say flippantly. “Especially the laws that could land me a seat on the Council of Tides’ bad graces. Getting my ship ran aground is not exactly great for business.”

“Then—let’s say, hypothetically, that I am…” he trails off, the word lodging inside his throat. Six months, and it’s the closest he’s come to saying it out loud. 

You tilt your head, amused. “Uh-huh.”

“I can make myself useful.” 

“Cute,” you say with a shrug. “But you’re not my type.”

He furrows his brows, before realization dawns on him and his ears turn pink. “That’s not what I—” he tries, but you’re already standing up.

“It’s been fun,” you shrug on your jacket, “but I have people waiting on me.”

“Wait—”

Oscar doesn’t think then—not rationally, anyway. Not when his last ticket off the country is already turning her back on him. He doesn’t think. His hands move of their own accord, and before he can blink, you’re stopping dead on your tracks.

Bare inches away from your face, you watch as Oscar’s envelope of cobbled together kruge drifts in the air—floating, suspended, but never quite falling.

Even with your back turned to him, he watches as you consider it for a beat. He can see it in the tilt of your shoulders, how you weigh the pros and cons. It’s a beat, barely a moment, and Oscar dreads finding out whether the risk was worth it.

“You said it takes two weeks to Novyi Zem—at best,” he says, keeping his voice steady. Like he knows what he’s offering. “With me on your ship, you can make it in one.” 

You pick out the envelope mid-air as you turn to him, pirate frock coat billowing slightly behind you. Caught in an invisible breeze that has no clear point of origin. No windows open. No doors left ajar.

Just Oscar. 

“Would you look at that,” you say, mischief in your eye. “A spot just opened up.”

You were right. The deck of the Driftmoor stinks of rotten fish.

“Oi, Captain,” one of the crewmen calls out from near where Oscar stands. Kerch seems to drift further away into the ocean, the coasts shrouded in fog as the ship is steered into the True Sea. Oscar can feel the deckhand lingering near him. “Your new friend is looking green in the face.”

“He’ll get used to it,” you call back, unbothered. “Just give him a bucket, Arvid.”

The man—or boy, really—side-glances at Oscar, before promptly shoving a wooden bucket into his arms. “Do us all a favor and aim inside it.”

Oscar’s certain he does not look green. He’s been on ships before. Just not ones that reeked of rotten carcasses. He’s much fonder of land travel. Carriages. Horses. Walking.

“Eyes on the horizon, Piastri,” he hears you call out.

He chose this, he tells himself. This is his own doing.

The laughter that follows grates at his ears. Waves rock the boat, the sleek deck tilting from side to side.

Oscar vomits into the bucket.

It’s during the second night that Oscar hears noise from his not-so comfortable hammock in the underbelly of the Driftmoor. Unintelligible voices speaking phrases he can’t make out. Among them, though, he recognizes one—yours. And tangled between sentences he can’t string apart, there is one word that stands out. Grisha.

Oscar stands up from his hammock in a blink. No hesitation, no second-guesses. Just regret. Pungent. Bitter. His mind is already deciding the worst. Of course he shouldn’t have trusted a smuggler. Of course a smuggler would sell him out.

He should’ve stayed in Kerch—risked his future as an indentured servant. He’s long been told what they do to people like him in countries like Shu Han. How they cut Grisha open to figure out what makes them different. Or Fjerda—where their sacred drüskelle hunters take pleasure in lighting pyres under their feet and watch their skin splinter into charred flesh.

Oscar’s footsteps are light. Careful. Practiced. He’s already trying to chart a plan in his head. He’s in the middle of the True Sea—the closest strand of land being the very place he only just left. He’s not sure how many people you have in your crew—but it could be anywhere from seven to twenty. How is he supposed to take twenty people on his own?

The main deck is illuminated by oil lamps. You stand at the center of it, unsurprisingly, with a handful of your crewmen around you. Cast in the flickering glow of the lamps, Oscar sees the shadows dancing on your faces—human, then monstrous. Waves and foam kiss the hull of the ship.

He’s still considering his options when your voice rises. “Well, look at that,” you say, and Oscar freezes on his spot. He turns, and although he’s sure you can’t see his face, he schools it into something impassive. Neutral. Not terrified. “Our guest of honor has decided to grace us with his presence.”

You haven’t drawn your sword, even when it sits by your belt. Firm. Too sharp. Neither does the rest of the crew. Oscar steps down from the quarter deck, only to realize a handful of barrels have been set up as tables, salted meats and rum at the center.

“Have you decided to join us?” you ask, voice deceivingly light. In lieu of a response, Oscar reaches for one of the bottles offered to him and takes a long drink. It tastes awful.

As he sets the bottle down, he hears Arvid say something to you in Zemeni. He doesn’t speak the language—though he picks up two words. Little Palace.

“What did he say?” Oscar asks, an attempt to sound relaxed that doesn’t quite sound like it should. His voice has too sharp an edge—paranoid. 

You snort, and Arvid grins in response. He tilts his head towards Oscar. “I said you must be too accustomed to the luxuries of the Little Palace. Do we not meet your standards?”

“I never said that,” Oscar responds, shoulders drawn tight.

“Lay off,” you tell Arvid, not unkindly. “Tomorrow Oscar’s gonna be taking up half your job.”

Arvid raises a glass to that, though he suspects the boy shouldn’t be drinking in the first place. 

“In fact,” you say, emboldened. “Here’s to Oscar—who will fill the sails of our beloved Driftmoor from dawn to dusk.” There’s a twitch of your lips, something amused, devious. He can’t place it. 

Then, louder, “Grisha of the year!” you mock, and the rest of your crew cackle and crow in unison. 

Heat crawls up Oscar’s neck. Deckhands raise their bottles under the flickering glow of the oil lamps. His face feels hot. The insult is there—he knows it is. And yet, there you stand. Drink in hand and lips curved into a grin. Moonlight casts shadows on your face. You tip your bottle in his direction, and make a mockery of a bow.

Oscar’s jaw ticks. He looks away.

The sun hasn’t quite risen over the horizon, the dark color of the sky progressively fading into a lighter shade of blue. The ocean, for once, feels calm. Peaceful.

Oscar is not the first to rise that day. He spots Arvid up on the crow’s nest, a boatswain by the name of Chloe climbing down the ropes of the main mast.

Brine is heavy in the air—very nearly hiding the scent of rot. And Oscar doesn’t quite understand where it comes from. As far as he’s aware, they haven’t been fishing—and it stands beyond reason that the smell only stinks on the deck, but seems to fade underneath it. Like the floorboards themselves refuse to let it contaminate the rest of the ship.

A boy with curly hair nudges against Oscar, uncaring. It severs his train of thought, reminds him of the task at hand. 

He stares up at the sails—wide, not as worn as he’d expect. If anything, they almost look brand new. Not full, though. His feet fall into stance like second nature, sleeves rolled up, his left palm positioned diagonally over his right. 

The ocean air kisses his cheeks, salt cleansing his lungs. Reaching for his power is a steady thing. Familiar. And even when he hasn’t truly summoned how he was intended to for months…

Wind picks up in a sudden, ferocious manner. Coats billow and flap, pressure dropping on the main deck as stray hairs fall into Oscar’s eyeline. He closes his eyes, allows himself to hear the steady thrum in his veins over the whistling and howling of the wind. He outstretches his hands, guiding the stream and filling the sails of the Driftmoor.

He hears a loud whistle from the side. Oscar glances, if only momentarily, and catches you besides Arvid. The boy tilts his head appreciatively, last night’s jeering nowhere to be found. “Etherealki are always so impressive,” Arvid says, eyes wide with amazement as he watches Oscar guiding the current. “I’ve never met a Squaller before.”

“And not just any Squaller,” you say, tone undecipherable. “One from the Little Palace. You might as well be meeting royalty, Arvid.” There’s a barb there, sharp. For the first time since you’ve met, Oscar briefly wonders if your jabs are less about him being Grisha, and more so about where you suspect he was brought up. He supposes he hasn’t denied it.

The Driftmoor cuts through the tide, faster than it has for the past two days. Something like pride swells in his chest. When he turns to face you, though, he finds you’re already looking at him.

Wind brushes against Oscar’s hair and cheeks. Cold. Sharp. This time, you’re the one to turn away first.

Oscar gets the chance to properly approach you late in the afternoon. His arms feel sore, his body spent, but he doesn’t complain. Doesn’t let it show. 

Instead, he approaches you once he’s relieved from his post. You sit on one of the crates, back leaning against one of the outside wooden walls of your quarters. Even when there’s an open spot next to you, he chooses to stand. 

“I never said I was from the Little Palace,” Oscar says, in lieu of a greeting.

You shrug, body still angled towards the horizon. No land in sight—just endless waters. “Didn’t need to,” you say, tilting your head in his direction, “you reek of it.” 

His brows furrow, jaw tensing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The way you hold yourself,” you say, and Oscar catches the moment your gaze sharpens with something he can’t name. “Even in Ketterdam. You still stand straight. Proud. Like you’ve got nothing to be afraid of.” You take a drink of the blue-glass bottle in your hand. 

Oscar thinks it’s ridiculous, your assessment of him. He has spent the past months terrified out of his mind, looking over his shoulder so often it became second nature.

You continue, uninterrupted. “In a world so openly dangerous for Grisha, only those from the Little Palace carry themselves like that. ‘Suppose it’s easy, when you grow up between gilded walls.” You meet Oscar’s gaze evenly. He straightens. “So. Were you?”

There’s no purpose in lying—not when they’re already beyond a point of return. Literally. Ditching him in Kerch would be a waste of time.

Oscar nods once.

“The Little Palace,” you hum, and you tap the crate next to yours. Oscar isn’t sure why he follows the quiet command—why he chooses to take a seat next to you. “Safe haven for all Ravkan Grisha.” You pause, just for a beat. “I didn’t think Grisha ever left the Little Palace.”

“It’s not common,” Oscar finds himself saying. Perhaps it’s the exhaustion. He knows it won’t show on his face—it never does for people like him. Grisha that hone their talents age slowly, their faces taking a natural, beautiful glow after using their powers. Glossy hair. Brighter eyes. Soft skin. Even so, it doesn’t mean he can’t feel the weight of the day on his limbs. “And Little Palace has four syllables, not ten,” he says, words sharper than he should’ve let them. “You don’t need to say it like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, turning your gaze away from the horizon and towards Oscar. He watches as your eyes catch on his features for a split second. Just long enough for him to notice.

“Like it’s some grand title,” he responds, a huff scratching at the back of his throat. “It’s meant to be demeaning. The Grand Palace for the royal family, and the Little Palace for their attack dogs.”

You hum again, more thoughtfully this time. If any resentment had slipped into Oscar’s voice, you neglect mentioning it. Even so, you don’t respond immediately, so he takes it as a sign that the conversation is over. Until—

“Does leaving the Little Palace make you a deserter?” 

Oscar bristles at that. Deserter. It catches him off-guard, not the word itself, but the weight of it. It lodges inside his chest, an odd feeling. Deserter.

It takes him a beat. Two. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice quiet. Small. 

“Ah,” you say. The ocean rocks the Driftmoor, evening wind picking up. The sun sinks over the horizon, painting the sky with threads of gold. “I’ve met deserters in the past. From Shu Han. From the Wandering Isle.” You meet his gaze again, and Oscar is surprised by his breath catching in his chest. Waiting. “You should know, it’s all the same at sea.”

Oscar can feel himself lingering then, not just on your eyes, but on the slope of your nose, the angle of your jaw. He nods, once, before he forces himself to turn away. The ocean bleeds into a molten color. Rose, then tangerine. His gaze flicks down to the floor of the quarterdeck, the handrails that seem to glow in the sinking light, a glossy sheen over the wood of the railing and floor alike—the sort of quality that has no place in a pirate ship.

“If you were in the Second Army, then,” you start lightly, “does that mean you used to wear a kefta?”

He turns to you, with a raised brow and an unamused expression. He finds you tampering down a grin. 

“Fox fur lining everything?” you continue, mirth lively in your tone. “Etherealki are blue, right? I could see that looking good on you.”

“For a pirate captain, you are awfully unserious.”

“Privateer,” you correct with a grin. “And I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Oscar snorts. You tilt your head, thinking. “I’ve always found it a bit ridiculous—this hierarchy you have in Ravka.”

That piques Oscar’s interest. “How so?”

“Well, you divide Grisha into Orders. Corporalki. Etherealki. Fabrikators,” you list. “So, what? Corporalki are soldiers. Fabrikators are workshop workers?”

“Etherealki are also soldiers,” Oscar says, his voice tinged with a defensiveness he should’ve forgone the second he left the Little Palace. 

“Of course,” you say, faint amusement dripping from your words. “But you don’t think it’s arbitrary?”

He leans back against the polished wood. “I suppose there is reason to it. Corporalki can manipulate your organs. Etherealki summon elements. It’s no surprise they make better soldiers than Fabrikator metal workers.”

You nod once, as if considering it. “Yeah, maybe,” you say, offering him a drink from your bottle. His knuckles brush against yours, a spark of something Oscar can’t seem to place running down his spine. He takes the bottle into his hand and brings it to his mouth. 

Days bleed into one another, and Oscar can feel the change in the air. Nights are warmer, wind currents tinged with something fresher. If he closes his eyes, he can nearly make himself believe that he’s smelling the scent of Zemeni jurda flowers.

By the time night falls, the rest of the crew seem to have noticed the shift as well. Twilight feels lighter aboard the Driftmoor, with a handful of wine bottles somehow making rounds, passing from hand to hand.

In the midst of it, a couple of deckhands take out a concertina and two fiddles, the rest of the people aboard stringing words together into a sea shanty. Sitting down against the hard floor, Chloe and Arvid sing along.

Don’t haul on the rope, don’t climb up the mast.

If you see a sailing ship, it might be your last.

Across the main deck, Oscar catches you singing the words, smiling a grin that is not quite a grin. Something foreign—something softer.

A sailor ain’t a sailor, ain’t a sailor, anymore.

It doesn’t take long for the music to grow louder, more vivid with more people jumping in. Someone pulls out a pennywhistle, another drums hands against the barrels. The melody picks up into something less slurred—notes upon notes, clear as ice.

Two girls he doesn’t know the names of—sisters, by the looks of it—sing the words as they pull each other onto matching crates, laughing and smiling.

Oscar watches from his spot as members of the crew pair off into couples, dancing along to the lively music. He rests his feet on an empty crate, looking up at the starry night sky. Constellations stare back at him—the same ones he could see back home.

The dancing is drunken and uncoordinated, a tangle of limbs more often than not. Oscar follows it with his gaze, hiding a smile behind a bottle. As he searches the crowd, though, he finds himself looking for you.

His brows pinch together when he doesn’t spot you. Not until he feels the air shift beside him—silently. Near imperceptibly. 

You sidle up beside him, hair pulled back by a worn piece of cloth tied around your head. You swing your legs, nudging him to the side and sitting next to him on the crate. 

“Didn’t expect you to join us,” you say, voice lighter than it was when he first met you. Less guarded, maybe.

“It seemed like a good night to make questionable decisions,” Oscar responds easily.

“Is it, now?” You raise a brow, the corner of your lips curving upward. “Did it reach your standards?”

“Surpassed them,” he says, fighting off a smile, “definitely.”

You hum, tilting your head towards the rest of your crew dancing to the music. He blinks, and you’re hopping off the crate, stretching your arms above your head.

“Well,” you say, a glimmer in your eye. “It’s not a celebration if we’re not dancing.” You offer your hand out to Oscar, who cocks his head slightly. “You feeling up to making more questionable choices?”

Oscar gnaws at the inside of his cheek, biting down a smile. “What are we celebrating?”

“The end of your first week at sea, of course.” And with that, Oscar takes your hand, your fingers interlacing with his. You guide him into the crowd, the upbeat tune of the fiddles leading the way. Bodies spin around the two of you, laughing and singing along.

Oscar takes one of your hands and spins you once, before you return to him with a grin. He lets go of your fingers to steady you by your waist, a smile curving onto his lips.

Moonlight paints shadows on your face, though your whole expression seems to be cast aglow. The two of you dance, narrowly avoiding each other’s feet, sharing laughs that seem to quiet into something less loud. More intimate.

Your hands brace themselves against Oscar’s shoulders, and you accidentally tip forward like you might fall. Oscar steadies you, but when he looks up, his face is a breath’s away from yours. He could count your eyelashes if committed to it. His breath catches in his throat. You search his face, and he doesn’t miss the way your eyes briefly drop to his lips. If the wind picks up then, neither you nor Oscar mention it.

The song ends, claps and cheers erupting from around the deck. But Oscar lingers a moment too long. Just a second. Maybe two. It’s noticeable nonetheless. Up until you pull away, and he follows suit.

Moonlight frames your features. The ocean air makes Oscar feel different—bolder, perhaps. And when your gaze returns to him, you’re looking at him questioningly. 

“What are you grinning about?” you ask.

“You’re blushing,” he says, failing to hide how pleased he sounds. 

“What?” you say, alarmed. You look away, clearing your throat. “You’re mistaken.”

“Uh-huh,” he hums, noncommittally. And, for once, he’s delighted to find you’re the one looking flustered for a change. Oscar ducks his head slightly, his index finger tilting your head towards him. “Don’t worry, Captain,” he says, quietly, teasingly. A secret. He leans closer to your ear, lips ghosting against the shell of your ear. “It suits you.”

You freeze on your spot for a beat. Two. You blink up at him, watching as the corner of his lips curves up, amusedly. Then, unexpectedly, you reach up for his collar, tugging him down towards you and meeting him halfway.

It takes him a moment to react—but when he does, he responds in kind, his tongue swiping against your lip. Distantly, Oscar can hear a different song picking up again. 

“I thought I wasn’t your type,” he hums against your lips.

“Arrogant,” you murmur, and Oscar has the inexplicable urge to bite down on your smile, feeling it pressing against his mouth. He tugs at your bottom lip before you pull away, featured flushed. Something flutters in his stomach. He likes the sight of it more than he’s willing to admit. “You’re lucky you’re pretty,” you say, reaching for his hand and tugging him farther away from the crowd with you.

The skies are clear, the moon’s silvery reflection casting an ethereal glow across the True Sea. The celebration—for what, no one can be sure—aboard the Driftmoor doesn’t end until the sun is rising over the horizon, painting the landscape a molten gold. In the midst of dancing and laughing, no one notices Oscar and you are gone for the better part of the night.

The music resumes, loudly, brightly. No one hears the sound of clothes falling in your cabin. Of skin on skin, of lips on lips, like it’s a competition of who can make the other moan first. Of books and trinkets falling from your table in disarray. Of breathless pleas and whispers of Oscar, Oscar, Oscar—

The Driftmoor cuts through the waves. Onwards.

The arrival to Novyi Zem is imminent. According to Amna—the ship’s navigator—they should only be three days from Eames Harbor. The approaching end of the journey is palpable on the deck of the Driftmoor, with conversations about Zemeni trinkets and spices becoming a recurring topic among crewmates. 

His last days before what might as well be his new life are heavy. A noticeable weight. Still, Oscar is adept at pushing things away, deep into the back of his mind. Your lips are a good distraction, too.

He feels like a teenager again. Sneaking around, tugging at your hand when you’re distracted, pulling you closer to him. Sealing kisses against your neck—grinning when he pulls those pretty sounds from you. You smile—sharp, dangerous—when you make him fall apart, too. Tousled hair. Flushed faces. Moments tucked into the ridges of the Driftmoor like stitches on the sail.

On the second to last day, a thick fog settles on the horizon—salty, metallic. Oscar is already on the quarterdeck, bringing his hands together to clear the view, when he feels you step beside him.

“Don’t,” you say. Cautiously, perhaps too sharply.

Oscar drops his hands, brows furrowed. Your gaze is glued to the horizon like a magnet, a compass.

“What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer—not immediately. Instead, you tilt your head up to the crow’s nest, where Arvid stands with a spyglass in hand. 

“What do you see?” you ask, and it’s only then that Oscar picks up on the ghostly silence that has settled over the ship. Floorboards creak. Gray waves brush against the hull.

Arvid turns the spyglass towards the direction you’re gesturing. The fog is too thick, and Oscar doesn’t understand why you won’t let him clear it with a flick of his wrist.

“Nothing in sight, Captain,” Arvid calls back, though it doesn’t seem to ease you in the slightest. If anything, your back looks tenser—strung with wire.

“Captain—” Oscar tries, before Arvid lets out a shrill whistle.

“Avast!” Arvid calls. “There’s a ship ahead!”

Two orange lights come into view amidst the dark gray fog like two predatory eyes. Then—too close for comfort—a ship sails through the cloud. Armored. Commanding.

Oscar recognizes the ship immediately. Fjerdans.

You whistle loudly, calling out, “Kerch rules apply! Keep to your stations and your pistols!”

Oscar watches as deckhands move around with practiced speed, though it’s impossible to miss the unease that seems to grip every boatswain and crewmen.

Dread crawls into Oscar’s chest like a spider. Before he can spiral, though, you press a pistol into his hands. He looks up, only to find your jaw tight and your eyes clouded with a glint he can’t place.

“Under no circumstances use your powers, understand?” you say, before you’re hurrying down the stairs, calling out orders as the rest of your crew prepares. Oscar doesn’t even get the chance to say that he doesn’t know how to use a gun. 

Distantly, Oscar hears something being called out in heavily-accented Zemeni, then near indiscernible Kerch. You shout something back, and by the time you reach the main deck, Chloe and Arvid are holding onto the boarding ladders as three Fjerdans stride onto the Driftmoor.

Oscar freezes on his spot. Ice cold dread seeps into his bones, threatening to splinter them in half. The three men—light-skinned, light hair, icy gazes—wear black and silver uniforms armored with metal, a club and a whip attached to their belts, a medallion hanging from each of their necks. These are not just Fjerdans—they are drüskelle. Oscar’s mouth runs dry. Grisha hunters.

“Fjerdans,” you say casually, airily. Even when the rest of your crew are locked in position. Even when your sword sits at your hip, visible for the drüskelle to see. Even when they have all but boarded your ship. “You’re a little far west. Out of your jurisdiction, some might say.”

One of the drüskelle tosses you a leather pouch, gray eyes sweeping across the vessel. He scrunches his nose in disgust, getting a lungful of that rotting fish stench. You open the bag, only to find coins inside. 

You arch a brow. “Now, where would a pair of dashing witch hunters like yourselves stumble upon this amount of kruge?” You raise your head, grinning, almost eager. And perhaps it would’ve fooled Oscar before—but he can see now how it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I thought your lot hated Kerch.”

“Your country is built on sin and depravity,” the taller one says, voice thick and accented. 

Your eyelashes cast crescent shadows on your cheeks. “Don’t forget lust and greed.”

“We look for drüsje.” The Fjerdan scans the deck, eyes flicking over Oscar. He watches as you remain impassive, unflinching. Drüsje. Witches. Grisha. 

“You waste your time, then,” you say simply. “We don’t deal with Grisha.”

The drüskelle on the left—not as tall, but bigger—narrows his eyes at you, before adding something in Fjerdan to the leader of the three. 

You tilt your head at him. “This is not a slaving ship. The only cargo we have are exports from the Merchant Council.” You blink, smiling a chilling thing. “Should I show you our papers as well?”

The silence that befalls the Driftmoor is stifling. He can’t imagine why you’re deciding to be so civilized in the face of intruders—even when he knows more drüskelle await on their ship.

The drüskelle on the left glares at you, lantern raised in hand. The orange glow casts shadows on Arvid and Chloe’s faces, who still linger close. His icy gaze scours the deck, and Oscar keeps his spine pin-straight, pistol still within reach. It’s useless in his hand—maybe as convenient as a large rock to hit someone in the back of the head with. 

Oscar blinks, and the drüskelle lunges forward towards Arvid, hands reaching out like wolf claws. Arvid—wide-eyed, startled, with no time to react—raises his hands to attack.

You raise your pistol a fraction of a second too late, and your lookout’s windpipe is trapped under the steel grip of the drüskelle, his wrists seized together.

Oscar sees the test then. A crewmate reaches for their weapon. A crewmate doesn’t raise their hands, weaponless—Grisha do.

Your pistol clicks. The drüskelle grins like a wolf baring its teeth. “Drüsje,” he says, unmoved by Arvid struggling against his grip. Witch.

“Release him. Now.” Your voice is a knife. Sharp. Cutting. Any false pretenses are long gone. “I don’t take kindly to stowaways. Much less those that threaten my crew. Now, release him.”

The drüskelle laughs, a scratching, hoarse sound. The wind shifts then, violently—and Oscar watches as the drüskelle starts coughing. Retching. His face starts to turn blue.

It’s not Oscar’s doing.

The two other drüskelle turn. Disbelieving, Oscar sees it. The metallic chord of his medal snaking around his neck, silvery—a noose. 

Your hands are outstretched before you. The drüskelle drops to his knees, eyes bulging—but his hands don’t let go.

“I said,” your voice is metal, a sword, a blade. Deadly. “Release. Him.”

All hell breaks loose. The two remaining drüskelle lunge, weapons drawn and snarls carved into their faces. Swords clash and bullets ricochet—bolas are thrown, entangling limbs of your crewmen.

Oscar doesn’t blink—he just springs into action. More drüskelle try to board the ship, hungry, smelling blood in the water. Oscar brings his hands together and casts them into wide arcs; Fjerdans fall into the water like raindrops. Still, a few more hunters make it onto the Driftmoor.

He feels fire flash near his face, nearly burning his skin off. He whips his head around, only to find Arvid’s fingertips engulfed in flames. He casts a fireball onto the opposing ship. Oscar twists his hands and pushes them out, fanning the fire. 

The flames overtake the Fjerdan vessel, eating away at wood like kindling. Oscar hears a hissing sound, too close, too quick—and by the time he turns around, he manages to catch the exact moment Arvid’s arms are entangled together by tight leather chords. Oscar shifts his stance, before he’s taken by the sudden slap of a whip across his face. He stumbles back, momentarily disoriented. By the time his vision clears, an elbow collides against his jaw, knocking his head to the side. Oscar blinks and he’s falling—so he does the best he can do, and drags the drüskelle down with him.

Oscar’s head slams against the deck with a loud thud. His vision swims, before he feels the press of leather against his throat. Oscar struggles against the Fjerdan—the irony of being a Squaller about to die from asphyxiation is not lost on him.

Oscar thrashes, freeing his hands and trying to draw from his power. He could pull the air out of the drüskelle’s lungs—he recalls George doing that once, back in Ravka. But he can’t focus, can’t reach deep enough—not with black dots shrouding his vision.

Suddenly—inexplicably—he breathes. Deeply. Fully. As his sight returns, he sees you mere paces away. Hands outstretched, features cast aglow. Beautiful. Deadly.

“You should’ve listened to me while you had the chance,” Oscar hears you say, his ears ringing. You close your hands into a fist, and he can feel the drüskelle’s uniform—the same uniform that had metal lining—shifting. Tightening.

The body of the drüskelle topples over him. Someone—he can’t be sure who, not with shapes and silhouettes still blurry around him—hauls him up, pulling his arm over their shoulder.

Grisha aren’t magic. They are extensions of the natural world—he’s been taught that since he was a child. They don’t practice sorcery, they practice Small Science. 

His vision focuses around you. Sharpens. And as Oscar’s eyes roll back and his consciousness ebbs, his last thought is that he may not be magic, but you certainly are.

Oscar wakes up feeling like someone has drilled a hole into his head. Stuffed him with cotton. And drilled again.

The world still doesn’t feel steady around him, dipping like waves. He feels seasick—again.

“Ugh,” he groans, holding up his head, like that will ease the pain.

“Welcome back, sunshine.”

He squints, wills the colors into shapes. Finally, he recognizes his surroundings as your quarters. Table. Lamp light. Shelves with books and trinkets.

Oscar wants to slump back against your pillow. Close his eyes. He wants to ask how long it’s been—how long he’s been out. If they’re in Novyi Zem yet. If everyone is okay.

Instead, like sand scratching against his throat, he says: 

“You’re a Fabrikator.” He blinks a few times as his eyes adjust to his surroundings. Then, they narrow, voice accusing, “You lied to me.”

You breathe out, like you’d been expecting it. You tilt your head at him, watching him from the corner of your room, by the window. Sunlight warms your skin. “I never said I wasn’t Grisha.”

“But you said—” His voice is hoarse, unused. A consequence of being strangled, probably. “You said you didn’t transport people like us.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t know who you were,” you retort. “You were a stranger, in Kerch, asking me if I would smuggle you out of the country.” You drop something onto your table, and Oscar realizes you’d been holding a bullet. Not a pistol—just the bullet. “How could I know that wasn’t a trap? That I wouldn’t be leading the enemy onto a ship of Grisha?”

Oscar furrows his brows at that. Pauses. “Are all your crew…”

You shrug your shoulders softly. “Not all of them. Some.” You turn your head, meeting his gaze evenly. “Most.”

Oscar nods. Or he thinks he does, at least. The world still feels unsteady around him. Quicksand—in more ways than one.

“So, Arvid is an Inferni,” Oscar says slowly. You murmur a quiet Yeah. “And you’re a Fabrikator.”

“There are others,” you start. Gently, cautiously. “Chloe is an Alkemi. Hamda and Amna are Tidemakers. It was true, though—that you’re the only Squaller aboard.”

It starts clicking—slowly, progressively—like gears sliding into place. Why the ship is so well kept. Why the handrails and floors are always polished, the sails new and the underbelly intact. Why the fading scent of rotting fish sticks to the main deck and there only—a deterrent.

“It’s gonna bruise,” you add, unprompted. A way to change the subject. You point to your own left eye. “Depending on how it heals, it’ll either look like a gnarly battle scar or like you got into a bar fight and lost.”

“Great,” Oscar says with a small groan that scratches his throat. He tilts his head to you; however, and finds the corner of his lip curving upward. “What are my chances?”

“Toss of a coin, really,” you say, a lighter lilt to your voice. You clear your throat. “You’ll be pleased to know we’re half a day away from Novyi Zem. Maybe you’ll find a decent Healer there.”

A weight settles on his gut. Odd. Out of place. This is everything he’s been waiting to hear—a new start, beyond Ravka, beyond Kerch, beyond everything and everyone. It’s what he’s been working towards for months.

The disappointment in his stomach almost feels tangible. Bitter.

“Are you staying?” he asks foolishly, hope tucked between his heart and his ribcage.

“Not for long,” you say, carefully walking towards him. He sits up, stifles a wince. “A week. Maybe less.” Your tongue swipes across your lip. “You’ll like it there.”

“Maybe,” Oscar says, slowly. “Maybe I won’t.” His head pounds, his arms ache, his body is begging for him to lay back down again. Still, he leans closer to you. “Perhaps I’ll have to find a new place.” Your eyes search his face, before landing on his lips. “Perhaps I’ll need a talented pirate to take me back around.”

This time, Oscar is the one that meets you halfway. He feels you smiling against his lips. 

“Privateer,” you correct, and Oscar swallows the word without complaint.

Life at sea. He could get used to that.

Oscar has that half-smile that he does whenever he’s amused. You picked up on it last year—back when the two of you first signed up to be RAs for the same floor. “How’s that going, by the way?” he asks, arms folded over his chest.

“Terribly,” you sigh. “An on-site treatment system for wastewater is so much more complex than Professor Vettel made it sound last semester.” You raise your head to look at Oscar, stapling one glittery exclamation point with more force than necessary. “Some days I genuinely think he hates me.”

Oscar huffs a small laugh. “He doesn’t hate you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Tell that to the two separate proposals I have to write on septic systems with leaching fields and subsurface constructed wetlands.” You stare at your board blankly. The T in MEET YOUR RA is crooked. “He wants me dead.”

“At least your bulletin board is looking good,” he offers with a half-shrug.

“I made a Pinterest board for it,” you say, muttering a curse when your stapler locks. “Are you done with yours?”

“Yep.”

“Can I guess what it looks like?” Oscar shrugs, and you smile amusedly. “Construction paper. Sharpie. Maybe one motivational poster from an office supply store.” A laugh scratches against the back of your throat. “I bet you got one with a koala.”

“No,” he responds, a beat too quickly. Oscar doesn’t look fazed—though the red tint of his ears gives him away immediately. He averts his eyes. “It was an eagle poster,” he mutters.

You snort. Last year, he asked you to write everything out in cursive for him. You suppose this could be viewed as a step in the right direction—the fact that he at least had some foresight to decorate his board on his own. Then—you remember. “Hey, aren’t we supposed to be three RAs for our floor this year?” you ask him, finally putting down your stapler. “Where’s number three?”

“He hasn’t decorated yet,” Oscar says, even though that’s not what you asked him. He pulls out his phone from his pocket, turning the screen towards you to show you his messages with a number he’s unceremoniously saved as Resident Assistant #3. “And he texted me, actually. Said there was an issue with his old building, and was called in to help.”

You roll your eyes. “A shitty excuse. And I better not be saved in your phone as Resident Assistant number two.”

Oscar ignores your last comment and pockets his phone. “I told him he could go.” He shrugs. “I mean, it was just us last year. I think we’ll be fine for the day.”

“Yeah, I guess.” You clean your hands against your jeans, accidentally leaving purple glitter on your clothes. “You should at least put up a few fun facts about you on your board.”

He raises a brow, not seeming particularly enthusiastic. “Like what?”

“I don’t know, like—you’re Australian.”

Oscar scrunches his nose. “That’s not a fun fact.”

“It can be.”

He just blinks at you, crease between his brows to show he is not following your train of thought. You don’t have one, so you don’t really care.

You roll your eyes and stand up. Most of your residents should’ve settled in by now. “Is it time for dorm checks?”

“Yep.”

“You really do have a way with words, Oscar.”

Dorm checks go as they should—uneventfully. You give your residents a rundown of the rules—no animals, no smoking, no drinking, no doing anything that could potentially constitute a fire hazard. You’re only missing the last couple of rooms when you decide to ask,

“Hey, are you going to Lando’s tonight?”

Oscar shrugs again, always too nonchalant for you to get a proper read on him. “Lando’s making me. So.”

You grin. “Oooh, he’s making you, is he?”

Oscar rolls his eyes, but before he can say anything, one of the doors you’ve yet to knock on opens and out pops a head of shaggy brown hair. Josep María—Pepe, if you’re not mistaken. He spots you two and gives you a lopsided smile. “Hey, do either of you guys have a lighter?”

Both of you blink at him. The two of you wear matching sticker name tags that read HI! I’M YOUR RA in black marker. 

“Smoking is not allowed in the building,” Oscar deadpans.

Pepe blinks once. Twice. You can hear shuffling from inside his dorm. “So… is that a no?”

Oscar narrows his eyes. “Are you smoking in there?” 

“…No?”

You shrug, reaching for the sleeve of Oscar’s shirt to pull him onto the next dorm room. “Fine by me.” 

He furrows his brows. “What? But he was definitely—” 

“Yeah, but if he admits to it, we have to write a report,” you say simply. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m not doing that day one—not when we’re already behind schedule.”

You glance back at Pepe, who’s still looking around the hall to see if he can spot anyone with a light. Freshmen.

“Hey!” He stiffens, turning towards the sound of your voice. “If you burn anything, I will make it my personal mission to make your life a living hell for the rest of the term.” You smile brightly. “Happy move-in day!”

Here’s an honest truth: neither you nor Oscar are big on frat parties. But it’s only the start of the term, and you’re feeling like you want to step out of your comfort zone. That—and Lando’s frat always orders pizza for these things. So, free food.

By the time the two of you step into the party, it’s already in full swing. Somehow, under the violet-turned-red lights and the mass of bodies dancing, Lando manages to spot you the second you two cross the threshold of the house. You distantly hear your name and Oscar’s being called out, before a pair of arms wraps around you and lifts you up into a spin.

“It’s barely ten. How are you drunk already?” you ask Lando as he finally puts you down, green eyes only slightly disoriented and curls tousled. 

“We started pregaming at, like, six or seven,” Lando says, turning to Oscar with a pout. “You said you’d be here at seven.”

Oscar shrugs. “Got held back.”

“You always say that,” Lando says, eyes narrowed. Then, as if remembering something, his gaze flicks to you. “Hey—I should warn you.” You raise a brow. “Your dick of an ex is here.”

Annoyance trickles into your skin. “Of course he is,” you say, rolling your eyes. “He spent the entire summer posting stories of him clubbing and partying. So, no surprise there.”

Oscar furrows his brow. “I thought you said you’d blocked him.”

Fuck. “Did I?” Oscar doesn’t seem to buy it, so you figure that if you’ve already been found out, then you might as well… “Where is he?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t—”

“Last I saw, he was busy sucking some poor freshman’s face,” Lando responds, not missing a beat. You wonder whether his filter is gone because he’s not sober, or whether he’s just telling you this because he hates your ex and feels like being messy. “Which is, like, sooo wrong—‘cause she was a ten, and he’s barely a five on a good day.” Lando squints at something from across the room, and you can feel Oscar’s mildly uneasy stare boring into your cheek. You make the executive decision of ignoring it. “Oi—nearly forgot, but I have some friends I want you guys to meet.”

Lando slings his arm over your shoulder, bringing both you and Oscar closer to each side of him as he leads you towards the opposite end of the room. A few guys whose faces seem somewhat familiar nod at Lando.

You think he might be talking to you as Lando clumsily maneuvers the two of you across the room. Either way, his voice gets drowned out somewhere between the music and your quiet deliberation. You decide it then—under the fluorescent lights and the smell of cheap beer, you make your decision. You’re gonna find someone who’s hot. Someone who’s available. For once, you’re gonna have fun before the academic stress of the year catches up to you.

It takes you too long to ground yourself back in reality and realize Lando is halfway through introducing you to a group of people you decidedly do not know.

“—emeber George? He’s the one that accidentally sent that email I told you about to Professor Hamilton.”

The blue-eyed man winces, turning to Lando with an odd expression. “You don’t have to introduce me like that every time, mate.”

“But it’s funny.”

George narrows his eyes. “You’ve done worse things drunk. I know that for a fact.”

“Maybe,” Lando shrugs nonchalantly. “Though nothing my thesis supervisor knows of. Can you say the same, Georgie?”

George mutters something under his breath, hiding his face behind his red solo cup. “I’m never telling you anything again.”

“You will,” Lando chirps. “I have long arms, y’know. Means people see me as trustworthy. ‘Cause I look like I give good hugs.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I read an article.”

“You mean you saw it on a Tiktok.”

“Don’t patronize me, Russell.”

“Alright, enough out of you two,” a man says, and you only then notice his presence in the circle. You don’t know how you missed him, really—not when he’s tall, has wispy brown hair and a smile already tugging at his lips. His eyes flicker to you for just a second, a breath—and maybe you’re delusional, but you’re certain his gaze sweeps across your frame, checking you out. 

“He started it,” George interrupts, scowling.

“He started it,” Lando mocks. “You should get, like, at least a tiny bit plastered, mate. I mean, live a little. Make sure Alex holds onto your phone, though. Wouldn’t want you emailing any other professors.”

“I can’t stand you.”

Lando holds his hands to his chest. “Oh god. I’m devastated. You’ve devastated me.”

The tall guy with the pretty smile rolls his eyes, nudging Lando. He tilts his head to the side. “So, are you not gonna introduce your other friends?”

Lando perks up at that. “Right—always so keen, aren’t you, Alex?”

Alex, you note mentally. His face doesn’t ring a bell—not even now with a name attached to it. Even so, he doesn’t look like a frat boy, which you suppose could be considered a point in his favor.

“—and George you already know Oscar,” Lando finishes, wrapping up introductions. You bring your can of beer to your lips as Lando clasps his hands together. “So! Now that everyone knows each other, I will be taking Oscar with me to the DJ booth. Don’t break anything while I’m gone—and if you do, just… blame it on somebody else.” With that, he promptly reaches for Oscar’s wrist and drags him along.

George, Alex and you all stare at Lando’s retreating frame. You furrow your brows. “Sorry. DJ booth?”

“It’s cardboard boxes with a tablecloth over them,” Alex deadpans, prompting an amused smile from you. 

You glance at George, then back at Alex. You tilt your head, vaguely gesturing between the two of them. “So. Did Lando just choose to befriend the two tallest guys he could find in his frat or…?”

Alex snorts, and George instantly looks borderline insulted. “We’re not frat boys,” George clarifies immediately. “Just to be clear.”

Alex gnaws at the inside of his cheek, hiding a smile. “Yeah—no, us and Lando go way back. We knew each other before uni.”

You hum appreciatively. “Not in the same major, then?”

Alex shakes his head, still smiling. “Can you guess?”

You raise a brow. “George is an English major,” you say, and Alex snorts.

“She just called you pretentious, by the way,” Alex says with a nudge.

George furrows his brows. “Wha—but I am an English major.”

Alex throws you a look that reads, can you believe this guy? It makes a smile tug at your lips. He grins. “So, what about me?” You make a face of faux concentration. “If you say Business or Econ, I’m taking it as a personal slight against me.”

You laugh, and Alex seems to perk up at that, eyes brightening. “I wanna say… Engineering?”

Alex shakes his head in a so-so motion. “Computer Science.”

“Oh, you’re one of those.”

George is the one chuckling now, nudging Alex back. “She just called you a nerd—just so you know.”

Alex shrugs, bringing his red plastic cup to his lips. “I’ll take it.”

George glances at something behind you. “Hey—it looks like they’re setting up a beer pong table,” he says.

“I am a notoriously bad shot,” you say, laying down your empty can on some cluttered table. “Let’s do it.”

“Yeah! I knew I liked you,” George says, throwing a smug look at Alex. “Can’t ditch me now, Albon”

Alex rolls his eyes, but starts walking to the peer pong table anyway. “I’m giving all my drinks to George.”

“Fair,” you say with a shrug.

“Wha—no?” George stammers. “Not fair. Not fair at all—I’m supposed to be meeting with Professor Hamilton tomorrow at eight-twenty.”

“Then it’s a good thing he already knows what you sound like when you’re drunk.”

The three of you settle around one half of the table, laughs being shared much to George’s dismay. The plastic cups are already positioned like a triangle as people start to gather around the opposite end of the table.

Then you spot him. Sidling up with the opposite team, your ex-boyfriend has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair messy like someone has been running their hands over it. Even under the shifting fluorescent lights, you’re almost certain you catch a glimpse of lipstick near his neck.

Your stomach drops. He sees you a beat later, recognition dripping with a smugness that grates at you. Lando’s right—he is a prick.

Alex gently nudges your side. “Hey,” he says, a little cautiously. His brows are furrowed, and a reckless part of you considers running your thumb over his skin to smooth it over. Maybe you’re drunker than you thought. “You good?”

Your jaw twitches, making an active effort to avoid looking back in your ex’s direction. “Great,” you say, a little too dry.

You made a promise to yourself. You were gonna find someone hot. Someone who’s actually your type and can serve as a big, neon-lit Fuck You to your ex. 

You glance at Alex just as he jumps up to celebrate scoring against the opposite team. He’s cute. Has a nice smile, a pretty face—he even has a matching humor to go alongside it. More so—he’s been glancing in your direction like you’re not picking up on it.

You miss your shot once again, throwing your head back with thinly veiled annoyance. Alex just watches you, amusement dancing in those dark brown eyes. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were a bad shot, huh?” he teases.

“Hey,” you say, no sharpness to your tone. “I warned you.”

He shakes his head, smiling. It’s the other team’s turn—and despite currently winning by a clear margin, they seem to be noticeably slower at turn-taking than your team. 

You turn to face Alex completely now, tilting your head. Out of the corner of your eye, you think you spot your ex glancing in your direction. “So, what’s your deal?” you ask, and Alex arches a brow questioningly. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Alex actually laughs before he has the chance to look surprised at your newfound boldness. “Straight to the point, huh?”

“Please,” you respond with a good-natured roll of your eyes. You blink, and your hand is nudging against his on the pingpong table. Distantly, you think the other team messes up their shot. “You’re acting like you haven’t been checking me out since Lando introduced us.” You shrug, coy. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

Alex’s tongue swipes along his bottom lip. He looks confident, but you don’t miss his sharp inhale. “I wasn’t going for subtle,” he says.

You hum. “Hey,” you say, and this time, you fully reach for his hand, interlacing your fingers with his. You tilt your head towards the kitchen area. “Wanna go with me to refill my drink?”

Alex grins. “Sure.”

The two of you are already walking away when George calls out, “You’re ditching the team now?”

Alex doesn’t even blink. “You’ll manage, George.”

“This isn’t very sportsmanlike!”

You reach the kitchen faster than you should’ve, with Alex guiding you across the crowds of people dancing and grinding on each other. The carpeted floor already feels wet with what you can only hope is spilled beer.

As soon as you reach the kitchen, the music seems to dull into the background. He turns to face you as you casually press your back against the counter. His eyes are alight with mirth when he asks, “So, what do you wanna drink? I think I saw a few Redbulls, Whiteclaws, maybe some vodka—”

You raise a brow. There’s a playfulness to his tone that tells you he’s playing dumb, acting like he doesn’t know this was an excuse—like you haven’t caught him staring at your lips for most of the night. Like he hasn’t pretended not to notice when you did the same. “You think you’re cute,” you say.

“I think you’re hot.”

You tilt your head, ignoring the way his comment makes something warm curl around your gut. Even when he’s leaning closer to you, he seems hesitant—as if making sure whether there’s an excuse to keep some distance between the two of you. 

Tonight, however, you’re feeling particularly impatient.

“Are you gonna do anything about it?”

Alex thinks he’s the one that leans in first. You’re sure it’s you. Either way, the result is the same—his lips on your lips, tongue swiping against yours. He licks into your mouth, eager. 

Still, the angle feels odd. And even with his hand finding its way on your hip, you can tell he’s craning his neck at a weird angle. 

Alex mutters something against your lips, something you don’t manage to catch, before both his hands are wrapping around your thighs and he’s pulling you up onto the counter. You make a surprised sound that he swallows with a pleased hum.

“Much better,” he says, now on eye-level with you. And there’s that smile again—self-satisfied, maybe a little cocky, but softer at the edges.

You press your lips against his with a smile. “You’re cute,” you murmur into him, and you feel the exact moment those words register in his brain. How, in a blink, he seems to melt into you.

Your arms wrap around his neck, fingers absentmindedly toying with his hair. He’s gentle, which you respond to by grazing his bottom lip with your teeth. He lets out a sound into your mouth that fuels you. His hands still rest against the side of your thighs as you bracket him between them. 

Alex pulls away for a second—just a second—but it’s enough for you to catch a glimpse of his blown-wide pupils. You blink, and his kisses are trailing down to the slope between your shoulder and neck. He gently brushes away your hair, finally settling over your pulse point. 

You inhale sharply as he nips at your neck. He laughs quietly against your skin, and you can feel his smug smile as he kisses the spot. 

“I have a meeting tomorrow morning with my building,” you say, voice coming out like a bit of a whine as your hand tugs at Alex’s hair to make him face you. His lips look kiss-swollen and bruised. “If you leave a hickey, I’m giving you a matching one, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Alex responds breathlessly, and he leans closer to chase your mouth again.

“Someone needs to turn off the sun.”

You meet Oscar in the hallway, squinty-eyed with pillow marks still indented into his skin. He looks like he got run over by a truck. You imagine you’re not that better off.

“I feel like my ears are still ringing,” you mutter, falling into easy stride with him. You wince, ear drums blasted from last night. You mentally decide that if you lose your hearing by your thirties, Lando’s gonna be footing the bill.

The meeting room 

“Yeah,” Oscar says, voice rough with sleep—or lack thereof. “Feels like I barely saw you last night, though.”

You shrug as the two of you get on the elevator. Oscar pushes the button for the residence hall’s lounge. “Yeah. I got… busy,” you say vaguely.

“Busy?” Oscar asks, raising a brow. He turns to face you, and his eyes widen as he catches a glimpse of something in the elevator mirror. “Fuck me, was he trying to eat you?”

You furrow your brows and turn to him, confused. “What?”

Oscar gestures at the mirror. “Your neck. You have this, like—” You scan your reflection, catching sight of the blaring purple mark sitting on the slope of your neck just as Oscar lands on, “You have a hickey. It’s not subtle.”

“Fucking…” you trail off, letting down your hair in an attempt to cover it. It’s not like you can run back to your dorm and get your concealer. You can’t be an RA and be late to your first floor meeting with your residents. “Is it too obvious?”

Oscar blinks. “I mean. It’s not subtle.”

“Fuck.” What are the chances that the third RA carries concealer or a foundation that’s similar to yours? You fix your hair again, untucking it from behind your ear and pulling the collar of your shirt further up. It’s a poor attempt at hiding it.

“At least tell me it wasn’t him,” Oscar says.

“It wasn’t,” you shoot back.

“Someone I know, then?” 

You sigh as the elevator doors slide open with a ding. “Lando’s friend. Alex. You know—one of the two tall guys you left me with when you ditched me for Lando?” Oscar’s brows shoot up. “What?”

“I don’t know. Guess I didn’t think Lando’s friends were… your type.” He considers it for a moment. “Though based on your previous relationships, I could see how that tracks.”

“Fuck off,” you say lightly, shoving him to the side. “He wasn’t like, a frat boy or anything.”

“Uh-huh,” Oscar says, unconvinced.

“I mean it!” you insist. “Besides, it wasn’t like it was serious. Like, yeah, he was cute. But I’m probably never gonna see him again, anyway.”

The two of you stride into the lounge side-by-side. Chairs have already been arranged into a neat circle, a plastic plate with oreos and off-brand cookies placed at a table by the corner. 

The guy arranging the last chair into place turns around. Brown eyes meet your gaze. Your blood runs cold.

He looks more put-together than both you or Oscar. His hair is still tousled, but there’s a certain charm to it. What draws your eye, however, is the matching purple mark resting on his neck.

“Um,” Alex stammers, blinking at you like he’s expecting you to vanish the next time he closes his eyes. “Are you one of my residents?”

Oscar pauses. Tilts his head. Realizes. “Isn’t that the guy you—”

“You’re the other RA,” you say dumbly. Alex’s eyes drop to the sticker name tags on both you and Oscar’s chests. The ones that read HI! I’M YOUR RA.

He swallows. “Shit.”

“Shit.”

“You mentioned,” he responds dryly.

You arch an unimpressed brow. He’s giving you attitude—you can hear it in his tone. “Because it’s the truth,” you stress. Sometimes, you miss those moments after you first met Kimi. Soft-spoken, rightfully mistrusting kid who looked at you like you were made of steel. Indestructible. Infallible. Who clung to your every word and command. Who never gave you attitude.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Dumbass. How do you say dumbass in—”

“Idiota.”

Your patience frays. “Explain to me in what world you thought it would be a good idea to get on the roof with a shotgun. Really walk me through it.”

“There was a zombie outside the fence,” Kimi says as he’s rolling a twig between his fingers now, as if you’re not standing in front of him. “I wanted to practice shooting at a distance.”

“And you had to get on the roof to do it?” End of the world, and teenagers are still the same. You sigh. “Did you at least kill it?”

He nods, and this time he looks up to you, as if subtly seeking approval. You suppose that in the little self-sufficient ranch you’ve made for yourselves, there’s no one else to give it to him. “Yeah. After, like, four shots.”

You consider it for a moment. “I should just leave you like this for wasting three extra bullets.” You sigh again, tired, even when it’s barely dawn. You’re pretty sure not even the chickens are awake yet. You extend your hand to Kimi, who has the decency to look slightly embarrassed. “Can you stand?”

He scoffs. “Yeah, I can—” you pull him up to his feet, only for his entire body to recoil, his face twisting in pain. “Shit, fuck, shit—no, no, put me down.”

You hurry to help him down, biting down your cheek to stifle the chant of fuck, fuck, fuck that threatens to spill out.

“Let me see.” You take his shoes off—great shoes, that he thankfully hasn’t outgrown yet. Then, you roll up his pants and take off the wool socks he made himself to get a view of both his ankles. You’re already not liking what you’re seeing—not when his right ankle already looks more swollen than his left one. Not a good sign. “Okay, tell me if this hurts.”

You put a little pressure around the bone, and Kimi flinches, his body instinctively trying to pull away. “Mhm, yeah,” he says, voice high-pitched and pained, “it hurts.”

You hope your face doesn’t give away just how fucked this makes you.

“Okay,” you start, slowly. Calculating. Assessing. “Best case scenario? You just sprained your ankle.”

“That’s the best case scenario?”

You swallow the truth before he can ever see it lingering at the tip of your tongue. You don’t want to tell him that it might not be sprained—that it might be broken. Because for all the commodities you’ve built and secured for yourselves, a broken ankle is not bad, it’s horrible. Barbed wire might keep zombies away, but that’s only if they’re not in hoards. Not to mention raiders—and there’s nothing more dangerous than desperate humans. You’ll be damned if anything happens to Kimi while you could’ve prevented it—but a broken ankle? Just outside your fence of barbed wire and iron-string traps, that’s a death sentence.

With slow and small steps, you help Kimi up to the second floor of the house—technically not ideal for him, but it gives Kimi a vantage point that doesn’t leave him immediately exposed to any outside threats. Once he’s on the bed, you grab a pillow and put it underneath his leg before continuing to examine it with more detail.

“It’s really starting to bruise…” you murmur, and you immediately notice the worried tinge that you accidentally let slip. You glance at Kimi, hoping he didn’t catch it. But he’s grown—much to your chagrin. He’s a smart kid, who doesn’t need you to spell out what’s happening. “We can use the cloth from one of your old t-shirts as a makeshift gauze. But you’re definitely gonna need some painkillers, otherwise it’s gonna hurt like a bitch and start swelling and get ugly.”

“I didn’t know you had a medical degree,” Kimi chirps.

“I really don’t need that tone from you right now.” You run a hand across your face, thinking. It’s unavoidable. “We knew this was gonna happen eventually.”

Accidents are bound to happen. And despite the fact that you’ve managed to fabricate a nearly self-sufficient lifestyle, it had always been an unspoken understanding between the two of you. You both knew that sooner or later you’d need resources—resources you can’t acquire from your little farm.

Appropriate medical equipment, for example.

Kimi is already shaking his head before you ever get a chance to say it. “No.”

“We don’t have a choice.”

“You’re not going to the city alone,” Kimi says with a sternness that almost surprises you. “Are you insane?”

“The city’s not that bad anymore.”

“You are not going alone,” he repeats, and only then do you notice the faint trace of panic that laces his words.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll be careful.” You reach for his hand; an attempt to be comforting. “And I’ll be back before sunset.”

Kimi stares at you, really stares at you—like he’s trying to telepathically convey how much he absolutely hates this plan. In the end, he just huffs, pretends he doesn’t care—even when you can read it in the tense set of his jaw. You hear the soft padding of his tabby cat as she strides into the room and hops onto Kimi’s bed, curling into a ball at his lap. Meche purrs the second Kimi scratches behind her ear. “Just…” He twists around and pulls out small book from his nightstand, hands it to you while avoiding your gaze. “Take this with you.”

“Kimi—”

“Please?”

Brown eyes peer at you pleadingly. You swallow, ignoring that heavy feeling that settles like stones on your chest. Instead, you turn your attention back to the book he’s handed you. You blink at the title. “Kimi’s Expert Guide to Surviving the Apocalypse?”

“It’s a survival guide!” he says, a little more enthusiastically than you would’ve expected. It startles his cat.

“Yeah, I gathered that.”

“It was either that or Home is Where The Hatchet Is.”

You laugh, and you relish how that seems to bring a smile to his lips. “It’s got a nice ring to it.” You put it down, fingers brushing away a few stray curls of his. “It’s a one day trip, Kimi,” you say, gently. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

His stare hardens. “You’re done for.”

“What?”

“Page number two. Number two.”

You open the book on the second page.

Pro-tip #2: Everyone’s seen horror movies. Don’t be an idiot. Everything that can go wrong will go wrong.

You raise an unimpressed brow. “Are you serious?”

He doesn’t falter. “Deadly.”

“I’ll be fine.” You wave him off, tucking his book into your jacket pocket. “Just don’t get too bored without me here.”

Kimi turns his attention back to Meche, more nervous than he lets on. “I’ll try,” he says dryly, and the cat meows in response.

The trek to the city isn’t long. It is, however, very annoying to make—even more so when you’ve got no company. Back during the first years, going to the city was as good as signing a death sentence. There were still too many survivors inside the buildings and houses, which in turn led to infections spreading—which then led to hordes and hordes of zombies wandering aimlessly from block to block. Definitely not ideal. But based on what you’ve been hearing on your only functional radio and those few trips you’ve done with Kimi, the city isn’t nearly as infested as it once was.

You’ll count your blessings where you find them.

Still, the road is long and uneventful, so you take it as a chance to browse through Kimi’s secret project. His penmanship could do some work—though you suppose you should just be thankful he knows how to write. He was young when the apocalypse started—too young. 

You avoid the thought by stopping on a random page. Pro-tip #12: Only travel during daylight hours and, if you plan on staying, always secure a place before sundown.

Sensible. Useful, even, if you had woken up from a comma and missed the past few years. Still, you don’t let it deter you from reading on.

Pro-tip #48: Listen to the radio, but never respond. Chances are other survivors will be either looters, scavengers or raiders. Don’t take the chance.

Pro-tip #87: Music is good for morale, but even better at attracting zombies. Make sure to use it responsibly and safely.

Pro-tip #31: Under no circumstance investigate weird lights or sounds. We’ve all seen horror movies. (Refer to: #2)

Pro-tip #9: Speed and stealth will be your two main advantages. Use them. Quick and quiet wins the race.

The trek goes by quicker than you originally expected. You tuck away Kimi’s book, making sure the corners don’t fold inside your jacket pocket. As expected, the city is desolate. Ivy tangles around shop windows and broken down cement blocks. Cars that have been long-forgotten line the sides of the road—a red Honda Civic, a white Toyota Camry, a Ram Pickup that would be useful, if you had any access to gasoline. There’s a billboard hanging from the roof of one of the shops—a faded and yellowed ad for some soda you can’t even remember the taste of. You continue your walk, steady and familiar. You step back onto the sidewalk, where bright-bordering-neon green moss stares back at you from the cracks on the ground. A dumb, childish voice inside your head tells you that it’s unfair, that how can moss thrive while Kimi’s in bed with a broken ankle? You step on it out of spite.

Entering the pharmacy isn’t hard—not when all that remains of the window is the aged frame. You avoid the shards of glass on the ground, quietly entering the store. Most of the shelves are near-empty, ransacked during the first weeks. You suppose you should be grateful there’s anything at all.

By the back shelves—the ones that seem to be better stocked—you spot a pair of crutches. You lay down your gun and take one, inspecting it in your hands. It could be useful—though you doubt it’ll be easy to take them back on foot. Still, you make mental notes of the overall shape and weight distribution, intending to try and make one for Kimi that’s similar to the real deal. You go to put it back, before deciding to slide it underneath the shelves. Who knows? Maybe you’ll come back for them another day. Finders keepers and all that.

Off by the side, you spot a gray fracture boot that’s a size too big, but after realizing that it fits inside your pack, you take it. There’s other miscellaneous items you take as a precaution—more gauze, athletic tape, and a tucked away tube of cream that claims to reduce swelling. Painkillers are next, and though they are expired by months, you figure they’ll still be good for something. You suppose you should be thankful there were any at all.

This should be good, right? If anything, this trip has turned out better than you could’ve ever anticipated. You’re zipping up your pack when you hear a can being kicked. You duck down, hearing an undead groan from somewhere nearby. Close. Too close. 

It takes you a second to realize your gun is still on the floor and beyond your reach. It takes you another second to register that there’s more than one pair of footsteps.

The groan behind you makes you spin around—too little, too late. The scent of rotten flesh makes you recoil while decaying, graying fingers reach out for you. You scramble back, stupid, stupid, stupid. Surely leaving your weapon out of reach is chapter number one on Kimi’s book.

Your back hits the shelf and bottles with pills come tumbling down. The zombie in front of you unhinges its jaw, yellowed teeth sharp and inhuman. It groans again, hands reaching for your ankle and pulling you towards it. You twist and kick to no avail, desperately searching around you for something you can use to fight back. Its jaw widens to a degree that no human ever could, bringing your ankle up to its teeth to get a taste of your flesh. No. No, no, no. 

As a last ditch effort, you reach for the crutch you had tucked underneath the shelves, yanking it out and hitting the zombie squarely in the face with it. The zombie stumbles back with a screech, though the hand around your leg seems to tighten. 

“Let go!” you hiss, flailing like a fish above water. “Let go!” 

The zombie grabs the crutch from your hands and pulls it with a force that is uncharacteristic of any other undead corpses you’ve encountered in the past years. It chills you to the bone.

It feels pathetic to die like this. Unearned. The frustration of it is easily overlooked for the ice-cold fear that settles over you. The zombie tilts its head with a creaking sound, eye sockets empty and hollow, and realization slams into your ribcage with a disorienting force. It’s against tender flesh, vulnerable, that you realize—Kimi will be on his own. Waiting for someone that will never come home. The zombie stands over you now; you can see its bones from where the flesh has rotted away. Years surviving zombies and the question still stands—are you still you, once you become one of them? Do you still have memories, or ghosts of your past life? It leans closer to you, and you still fight, you still kick and swing your arms for an opening that never comes. Once you’re hollow flesh, a carcass of whom you were—will you still remember a boy with curly hair and a bright laugh? Or will that be gone too?

You hear a gunshot, miraculous, and the undead now-definitely-dead body topples over you ungracefully. You feel something sting against your shoulder, and you recoil in disgust. You roll over, pushing the zombie’s body away from yours.

You look up now, heart still racing in your ears and struggling to make sense of what happened, exactly. You turn, only to spot two men standing on the opposite side of the hallway—or, more accurately, one man and one boy.

The man is the first to step forward, fire axe in hand. He has dark hair, tousled, face dirty with grime. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, with an accent you don’t care to place. He lowers the gray scarf covering the bottom-half of his face. 

“Yeah,” you say, breathlessly, still reeling from the fact that they just saved your life. You swallow. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Let me help.” The man offers you a hand, and you reach for it without thinking twice. The boy stands behind, still keeping his distance. He’s the one with the gun in hand—the one who shot the zombie. The boy doesn’t spare you a glance, not for a second—instead, his eyes follow the older man with sharp attention. 

His hands feel rough under yours, calloused with what can only be years of having a vise-like grip on his axe. It feels grounding, a reminder—that for all their kindness, the world isn’t what it used to be. That it will never go back to what it once was.

You pick up your pack in an attempt to be nonchalant—as if Kimi’s health and recovery doesn’t downright depend on its contents. 

“What’s your name?” the man asks.

“Chloe.” The lie is an instinctive response. No room for hesitation. Chloe was a girl you met a few weeks into the apocalypse. She was nice enough—had a good head over her shoulders. You’re not sure whether she’s still alive. Either way—she probably won’t mind you temporarily stealing her name.

“Horrible things,” the boy behind him says, gaze still firmly set on the man. It feels neglectful, in a way. Irresponsible. Especially when you’re a stranger to them, someone who could be a potential danger. “I thought the others had already gotten rid of all of them.”

You furrow your brows. “The others?”

“Our camp,” the man closest to you supplies. “We’re stationed a few streets down.” He lets go of your hand, and there’s a glint in his dark eyes that unsettles you. Something you can’t place. And maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t properly interacted with a human being other than Kimi in over a year—either way, you’re not taking chances. “You don’t look familiar. Are you from the camps too?”

You turn your head just a second, only to scan the ground for your gun. “Yeah. Yeah, just up north,” you lie, finally spotting the barrel of your weapon next to one of the metal racks.

The man hums, and you’re already backtracking to reach for it. “Yeah, thanks for saving me, but I really should—”

“Camps up north, right?” he repeats, and there it is again—that unsettling, unnamable thing that makes you pick up your weapon with a quicker pace. “You know, it’s funny,” you hear a click, “Because last we checked, this city ran out of survivors a long time ago.”

The cold metal of your gun doesn’t make you feel any better. Not when odds are stacked against you. “There are no camps,” you say. Which would make them—

Scavengers.

Shit, Kimi was right.

“Stand up,” the kid with the gun says, and even you’re not stupid enough to try and make a break for it. “And don’t make any sudden moves.”

The man narrows his eyes, searching you with a scrutiny that you should’ve had the second they showed up. Living on the farm has made you complacent. It’s dulled your instincts—a blade that barely cuts anymore. “Where are you really from?”

“Nowhere,” you respond a second too quickly. Then, to amend, you add, “I’m just passing through.”

“She doesn’t look like a nomad,” the boy offers, the bottom half of his face still covered with a dark brown scarf. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You look smart,” the man says, head tilted. There’s a look in his eyes—a tenderness, maybe, that has since grown teeth and claws. “Smart people don’t travel alone.”

You shrug, trying to play off the rising panic you feel in your chest. It’s two against one—and it’s only then that you realize the strategy behind this whole encounter. The one closest to you has an axe, while the one that stands further behind has a gun. It doesn’t matter which one you go for—the other will get you in a blink. 

“You talk a lot for someone traveling with a kid.”

He raises his gun, and you briefly wonder whether using the scarf is an attempt to hide his boyish features. They’re both tall enough to be intimidating as is. “Watch it,” he hisses.

“Hit a nerve there,” you say, and the boy narrows his eyes at you.

“Ollie,” the man says, with a tone that feels all-too familiar. Stern. Protective. He turns his attention back to you. “How many people do you live with?” 

You shrug, your hands still raised for them to see. “Like I said, it’s just me.”

He tilts his head. “Then who’s the medical equipment for?”

Shit. Think fast, think—

“Me.”

“You?”

Ollie shakes his head, barrel of the gun still very much aimed at you. “She’s lying, Esteban.”

“I’m not,” you insist, mind already turning for ways to get yourself out of this. “Just because the world ended doesn’t mean I no longer get my period.” Esteban looks at you skeptically. “What? You want me to show you?” You reach inside your pack. It’s a bluff—not a very good one.

“Fine,” Esteban says, a little too quickly. Embarrassedly. “Fine.” 

It occurs to you that they’re two men on their own—men that probably haven’t heard about periods since the apocalypse started. “Suit yourself.”

“What are you thinking?” Ollie asks, taking a step closer now.

“I’m thinking if she is not from the city, she is probably stationed somewhere in the area.” Esteban does a once-over of you, eyes lingering on your face and clothes, before dropping to your hands. “Somewhere safer than here.”

“I’m really not,” you try, but catching your reflection on one of the metal racks, you see it. For all the messiness that came from struggling against a zombie, you’re still cleaner than either of them are. Your clothes are in better condition. Your cheeks look rounder, fuller—like you haven’t been starving as of late. He must’ve clocked it the second he saw you.

“The way I see it, you’ve got two choices, Chloe,” Esteban starts. “Either you lead us to your little safe haven, or Ollie shoots you and we take your things.” He shrugs. “Your call.”

Not much of a choice there. Next time, you’ll be sure to pay more attention to Kimi’s book. Really take it to heart. As if hearing your thoughts, Ollie’s eyes trail down towards the outline of the book inside your pocket.

“What’s—”

“Back up,” you say, voice sharper than before. Ollie raises his brows, a brief suspicion taking over his expression before Esteban places a hand on his shoulder. 

“Se concentrer,” Esteban says in a steadying tone. Ollie nods once. The older man turns his attention back to you. “I don’t suppose I have to explain to you that if you try anything, we shoot. You make a move too suddenly, we shoot. You lead us anywhere else that isn’t where you came from and—”

“Let me guess: you shoot?”

Esteban tilts his head, and there’s a smugness there that grates at you. He reaches into his pocket for a scrap of cloth that uses to tie your wrists together. “Look at you, already getting a hang of things.” He pulls up his scarf back over the bottom half of his face, and gestures towards the broken-down entrance of the store. “Allons-y.”

Glass crunches underneath your boot, hands tied in front of you as you lead the way, Ollie and Esteban just a few paces behind. The way you see it, your options are very limited. You have the medical equipment Kimi needs—though you should’ve known it was all too good to be true. You could guide them away from the house, but who knows how long you’d be gone? How would you get back? Kimi wouldn’t wait long before going to look for you—you can’t have that. Your best bet is leading them, then using your shotgun that’s back at the house to shoot them down.

Behind you, falling in steady stride, you hear Ollie whisper, “Hey, Esteban?” A vague hum of acknowledgement follows. You turn your head slightly. “What’s a period?”

Esteban’s back stiffens. “I am not answering that.”

The rest of the walk back is quiet. You don’t make an effort to talk to either of them, while they seem to be carefully attentive of your every move. You don’t say anything after crossing the river—only once you can see the wire fence Kimi and you worked on three years ago.

“This is the place,” you say, gesturing with your tied hands. “I need my keys, though.”

Esteban nods once, as if to say, slowly. You carefully reach for your backpocket, taking out a small keychain and unlocking the metal door. Ollie steps in first, leaving Esteban half a step behind you. 

“Whoa,” Ollie says, and you see him lower the barrel of his gun. As soon as he steps into the garden, his eyes widen with amazement. He blinks, lowering his scarf—which reveals those boyish features you were expecting. You shouldn’t be surprised that he’s just a kid. You shouldn’t. “Did you build this?”

You shrug. “Eh. In part.” You can still feel Esteban lingering behind you, keeping his wary gaze on you like a leech.

“This place is cool,” Ollie tells Esteban, and the lightness of his voice sounds disturbingly unfamiliar—like the boy in front of you isn’t the same one from the city.

“There’s a few chickens back in the pen,” you mention offhandedly, casually gesturing with your tied-up hands.

“You have chickens?” Ollie rushes towards the area you pointed at, making Esteban briefly turn his gaze away from you to call him back. Finally—your opening. This time, you don’t hesitate. The second Esteban is distracted, you knock your head back and into his nose with all the force you can muster.

Pro-tip #67: Your best bet will always be to avoid hand-to-hand combat, but on some occasions you won’t be given the liberty to choose. When that’s the case, always go for the nose.

You don’t register Esteban’s shout. You barely feel his blood dripping onto your neck before you’re bolting towards the entrance to the house. You slam the door open, hurrying upstairs before either of them can blink.

“Hey! Stop!”

You hear footsteps behind you as you come barreling into Kimi’s room.

He jumps, his eyes wide as he stares at your disheveled frame. Meche hisses at you from his lap—and really? That cat is always playing favorites.

“What’s—”

“Where’s the shotgun?” you huff out, hand gripping the door. Kimi doesn’t manage to answer before you spot it by his bedside. Atta boy. You lunge for it as steps come rushing just outside the door. Your body slams against the wooden floor, movements rash and imprecise as you aim at the door, ready to shoot.

The first one out the door is the older one, Esteban—who’s holding a bulkier shotgun at you. There’s blood smeared across his jaw and upper lip, eyes narrowed with intent to kill. You’d never admit it out loud—but his survival instincts seem to be much sharper than yours. He doesn’t even spare a moment to glance around the room, no. His dark eyes are dead-set on you. He doesn’t lower his gun. Neither do you. 

Then, Ollie comes barreling in, looking just as disheveled as Esteban with the axe now in his hand. Ollie, however, does take in the room with a quick scan. His brown eyes land on Kimi, and you immediately shift your aim towards him.

“Drop it!” Esteban shouts, shotgun cocking.

“Step away from him,” you bark, jaw clenched and aim unflinching.

But neither of the kids seem to be paying either of you any mind. Kimi straightens on his bed, earning a meow from Meche. “Ollie?”

“Kimi,” Ollie says, stunted, face caught somewhere between confusion and relief.

Kimi blinks once. Twice. Then, he turns his head towards you with an expression that says you’re embarrassing me. “Could you, like, not aim your gun at him?” he asks. “…Please?”

Well, dinner is incredibly awkward. Not that Kimi nor Ollie seem to notice. In fact, they both seem to have completely forgotten they are not the only ones at the table. Kimi beams and explains how the two of you have gotten the house running, while both Ollie and Esteban shovel spoonfuls of their plates into their mouths. You simply opt to stare, distrusting.

Kimi still has food in his mouth when he tilts his head at Esteban. “Hey, what happened to your nose?”

You snort, earning a not so discreet glare from the man sitting across from you. Kimi raises a curious brow, to which you respond with a small shrug. “Yeah, what happened to your nose?”

Dinner seems to wrap up quickly after that. The sun is starting to set, rays of molten gold seeping into the living room through the window. 

“Can I show Ollie around?” Kimi asks, hopeful. It startles you, seeing a flash of the boy he was when you first met him. 

“There’s a fracture boot inside my pack and a bottle of painkillers,” you say, pointing with your spoon. “You can go, but only for as long as you take two of them and Ollie helps you put on the boot.”

Kimi nods eagerly. “We can do that,” he exclaims, and Ollie stands to help him up, pulling Kimi’s arm over his shoulder. The two of them stumble out of the room, not wanting to waste a second of daylight.

“They clearly like each other,” Esteban finally says, voice gravelly.

“Yeah,” you say, feeling as the gentleness starts to seep out of your tone. You narrow your eyes at him. “You threatened to kill me.”

He shrugs, his plate scraped clean. “We saved you before that.”

You consider it for a moment. Mull it over. “Ollie is Kimi’s friend,” you state with an air of finality. He looks out of place—there’s still blood and dirt on his face. His clothes are worn, sporting tears and holes you could probably fix. You sigh. “You can stay. Temporarily. As long as you can show me that you can pull your weight.”

Esteban snorts into his glass. You raise a brow, unamused. He puts the glass down, as if sobering up. He exhales, extending his hand to you. “Truce?”

You glance down at his hand, before shaking it. “Truce.” You stand up, taking your plate and Kimi’s with you. “You should shower,” you say. “You stink.”

Esteban blinks, brows twitching. “Shower?”

“Yeah,” you say. “The hot water is limited though, so don’t abuse it.”

“Hot water?” Esteban repeats, and it takes you staring at him to snap him out of it. He nods, too eager, and clears his throat. “I mean—understood.”

“Good.” You pause. “And Ollie is your responsibility.”

Esteban chuckles, unfazed. “Always has been.”

You linger for a moment—just a moment. You take in his current state, the hollowness of his cheeks, his worn clothes, the fact that both he and Ollie are very clearly malnourished—and you briefly wonder how close you and Kimi were to that before you managed to secure this place. A place that had picture albums belonging to the previous owners—people that are probably long dead by now.

You blink, and the mental image is afternoon fog, weaving through the trees and the river. You swallow, and without sparing another glance at Esteban, you start climbing the stairs.

“Shower’s mine first, though!”

The bathroom door clicks shut behind you. You lock it, cautiously, silently. The mirror has a crack that spreads into spiderwebs of multiple reflections of you. They all stare back at you, grime and dirt still clinging to your skin. 

You stare back at your reflection, and you can feel your heart beating uneasily. Waiting. Your chest constricts.

Your muscles feel stiff as you pull down the collar of your shirt. Your chest rises unevenly—and the six reflections of you on the cracked mirror seem to hold their breaths.

You knew it would be there—you knew it the moment it happened. 

It’s not deep, you try to reason. It’s surface level. Salvagable.

The bite mark is centered on your shoulder—ugly, festering. You can make out the imprint of teeth on your skin. Panic rises inside your stomach, pushing down against your ribs. Surface level or otherwise, you know what a bite from a zombie means. 

Death. 

Inescapable. Unavoidable. Terrifying.

You still have time. A week, maybe two—maybe less. Your breathing feels constricted, like there’s pressure against your chest. The room spins around you. You blink, and your reflection is the zombie from the city. Unhinged jaw. Hollow eyes. Yellowed teeth. It’s you.

A knock on the door makes you jump. Kimi calls out your name. You run a hand across your face, pulse unsteady. “Yeah?”

“Do we have extra towels?” Kimi asks, voice muffled.

“Yeah—in, in my closet.”

“Va bene,” Kimi says, and you hear him limping away. 

A week. Maybe two. Not enough time to get everything in order—not nearly enough to make sure Kimi is set with everything he needs.

You let go of the collar of your shirt, hiding the bite. It pulses on your flesh, slowly but steadily rotting your skin from within.

Pro-tip #1: Zombie bites are a death sentence. Never, under any circumstances, let yourself be bitten. 

Working with Gabriel is different. Not good, not bad—different.

It’s taken some getting used to—not that he’s hard to work with. You’re still undergoing the process of getting to know him, though you suspect he’s been trying to make your job easier. It’s a blessing, honestly. Especially when you’ve heard from some of the photographers from the other teams that there are drivers—both from Formula 1 and otherwise— that almost seem to strive to make their jobs harder.

You’re still not sure whether Gabriel is a good person or if he’s just as unsure as you are on a new job. If anything, the two of you share that—starting from zero in F1. Maybe he wants someone who’s in a similar situation as him. Or maybe he’s just notices his legs are significantly longer than yours, and decides to walk slower for your sake.

Still. For all his politeness and awkward smiles, it’s hard to separate Gabi—this Gabi—from the image you had of him last year. The competition. The enemy. The boy who ripped Isack’s dream straight out of his hands.

You’re not sure that’s a fair assessment anymore, though.

Gabriel is looking up at the screens as one of the engineers points at one section. He nods, and you can see him making mental notes for the next laps. Quietly, you bring up your camera to your face, snapping a picture of Gabriel and his engineer. It’s sweet—a little more unfocused than you would’ve liked. When you bring your camera back up to try and take another one, you find that Gabriel is not where he was before.

You furrow your brows. How did you lose sight of him already? He’s in a neon green suit, he can’t—

“Can I see?”

You jump, hands gripping your camera tightly. “Fuck!” you say, a little too loudly. Do you get fined too, if you cuss? You hope not. Gabriel stands just behind you, peering over your shoulder. “You startled me.”

Gabriel shrugs his shoulders, though you can see a small, amused smile playing on his lips. “Sorry,” he says in a voice that suggests he’s everything but. He gestures at the camera. “Can I?”

“It’s not my best work,” you say immediately, tilting the camera towards him so he can see it.

“I like it,” Gabriel says simply, meeting your gaze with a small smile and an only slightly-awkward thumbs up. “I look… official. Can you send it to me later?”

You nod, smiling despite yourself. You feel like you’re in second grade again, and the teacher has just given you a gold star. When Gabi is called back, he hums a quick goodbye before moving back into the garage. You hold your camera with a little more fondness.

Then, a loud, reverberating metal clang echoes behind you. You flinch, if only for the startling closeness of the loud sound. You turn around.

He’s holding his forehead against his palm, wincing. The metal pillar in front of him still vibrates a little from the impact. He mutters a curse in French, pink growing from his neck and spreading onto the tips of his ears.

Isack meets your gaze. Your heart jumps inside your chest, hands tightening around your camera. Among the nervousness and eagerness to do well in your first official day, you’d completely missed the fact that the RB garage was sharing a wall with Sauber.

“Hi,” Isack says, just a few steps shy of you. His hair’s grown out. It’s the first thing you notice, even though, with Isack, it’s not saying a lot. There’s a faint red imprint of the wall on his forehead, an embarrassed blush on his cheeks.

“Hi,” you repeat dumbly. Foolishly, you’d thought you’d have more time before seeing him again. That as Gabriel’s personal photographer, you wouldn’t be around other drivers that much. You still haven’t even caught a glance of Lewis Hamilton.

And yet.

Isack’s eyes turn downwards, taking in your black and green shirt. Blinding, you’re sure. Certainly less subtle than the RedBull merch he’s given you in the past. You watch Isack’s gaze flick somewhere behind you, swallowing as he returns to you. “You’re with Gabriel,” he says. It’s not a question.

“I’m with Sauber,” you correct, ignoring the sudden unsteadiness you feel inside your chest. A drumbeat in your ears. “I got a job with their social media team.”

“Ah.” But he doesn’t look convinced. You’ve always been good at reading him—at least, you used to think you were. But after last year, you’re not so sure anymore. Still, you can’t force yourself to overlook the signs. His fingers twitching at his side. His throat bobbing. The attempt he makes to keep his lips set into a line. He’s nervous. Unsure. Like he doesn’t quite trust himself around you. Then, like he’d been holding his breath, he says, “You look good—great. You look great.”

You straighten. Right. After months of bordering on texting him, of waking up with red-rimmed eyes, of watching romcoms and crying at the TV that he’s lying, he’s a liar, don’t fall for it, Sydney.

You suppose that, technically speaking, you seem to have it together now. But it’s unfair—so, so unfair, how he can just show up and make you feel everything you’ve been pushing down for months.

“I know,” you say, even when it’s a lie, even when you don’t believe it. You glance behind you, and spot Gabriel already putting his helmet on. “Sorry—I have to go.”

“Yeah,” Isack says, and his voice sounds strained. “Yes, um—” he clears his throat, even when you’re already turning away from him, he hastily adds, “it’s good to see you!”

Something tightens around your stomach. Warm. Uninvited. “Yeah,” you say, quietly—maybe too quiet for him to hear, “you too.”

MARCH, 2025 : MELBOURNE.

liked by gabrielbortoleto, emmafelbermayr and 51,981 others

yn.png race day at melbourne + first official race in sauber 💚

👤 tagged: gabrielbortoleto, stakef1team

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gabrielbortoleto Big day for both of us today 🫡 ♥️ liked by author

user1 oh someone cooked here

user2 THE GREEN AAAAH I’VE BEEN BLINDED

stakef1team It’s too iconic 💚

user2 girl- it wasn’t a compliment 😭 it’s seared into my retinas

user3 OMG??? I GAVE GABI THAT KOALA PLUSHIE

yn.png he was so happy!!! he made me look after it for most of his media duties <3 he also might have named it

user4 “might have” ?

yn.png he won’t tell me the name :( i’ll get it out of him though dw

user5 we are being FED

user6 bora borboleto!! 🇧🇷

user7 why is no one talking about that second picture????? hello 😵‍💫

user8 no exactly cause is this man single

user9 i mean…….. you can’t convince me someone that ISN’T in love with him can take a picture like that

user8 WAIT that’d be so cute 😭 and it’s the first race in f1 for both of them as well……. that’s just a romcom waiting to happen

MARCH, 2025 : SHANGHAI.

You don’t know why you’re nervous. Standing backstage, moments before Gabi is supposed to go on stage alongside Nico. You can hear the excited cheers from the crowd, and something in your gut flutters a little. They’re not here for you. You wipe your sweaty palm on your jeans.

Media day in Shanghai for you means having three memory cards in your bag and your camera ready to take as many pictures of Gabriel as you can manage, before you eventually get back to your hotel room, open your laptop, and start sorting through them. You’re not exactly a believer of quantity over quality, but if your job demands it then so be it. You’ll choose your favorite ones to post on your Instagram account, anyway.

They’re supposed to go on stage in less than ten minutes, and yet, Gabriel and Nico are nowhere to be seen. You wipe your palms against your shirt again, anxious. Was it your responsibility to bring Gabriel here? Surely not—surely that falls beyond the scope of your job. Still, you can feel as you slowly start to gaslight yourself into thinking you were told and you just forgot.

Before your panic can start jumping away like a jackrabbit, you hear talking and footsteps from the metal stairs behind you. You turn around, hopeful—

Surprised brown eyes meet yours.

“Hi,” Isack says, voice soft. His press officer gives some indications to one of the technicians backstage, before leaving you and Isack temporarily alone.

Your shoulders drop. “I thought you were Gabi.”

“Ah,” Isack says, and your disappointment sours into regret.

I didn’t mean it like that, you very nearly say. You swallow back the words, ignoring the way they lodge into the back of your throat.

Isack scratches his neck, smile faltering just enough for you to notice. “Sorry to disappoint.” He shrugs his shoulders in an attempt to be nonchalant. “He’ll be here. Gabriel, I mean. He’s responsible like that.”

You turn away from Isack, glancing once again at the stairs for any sign of his black and bright green team kit. You bite your thumb anxiously, foot drumming against the floor of the stage. You can’t fail at your job on the second race of the season. Do people get fired over this? How do you explain to your boss that you lost your driver?

“Hey,” Isack says, quietly, gently. His hand reaches out for yours instinctively, his thumb caressing the back of your palm in a soothing motion. You resent that it works, that it grounds you just a bit. When you look up, Isack meets your gaze a beat later.

The realization in his eyes is near instant.

Isack pulls his hand away hastily, as if touching your skin has burned him. He inhales sharply. “Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t—” The words die in his throat. He looks away from you as his hand drops against his side.

“It’s fine,” you say, for his sake. Maybe for yours, too. He gnaws at the inside of his cheek, and you can’t remember the last time it was like this between you two. Like stepping around broken glass.

A beat passes. “This is your first time on this side of the stage, isn’t it?” he asks tentatively.

“Yeah,” you sigh, anxiousness wearing you down. You make a sound at the back of your throat that borders on a scoff and a laugh. “I guess I’m more used to being down there with the crowd.”

“You were always easy to spot, you know,” Isack responds absentmindedly. He’s already gazing at the gathering crowd, though he doesn’t seem to be looking at anything specific.

You ignore the way your heart skips a beat. Ignore it, suppress it, dismiss it—whatever it takes not to acknowledge the easy warmth that blooms in your chest now that you’re standing next to him. “Was I?”

Isack turns back to you, but his eyes drop to the embroidered strap around your neck, eventually finding the camera by your hip. His brows furrow. “You still have it,” he says, like a revelation.

A blush tints your cheeks. It’s so dumb. Stupid, really, how exposed you feel when he points it out. Your camera is your job—it’s an extension of you, like an arm or a leg.

“Of course I do,” you say, and there’s no sharp edge to your words. Maybe an undeserved softness. It’s your fault for being sentimental. If anything, you should’ve long upgraded to a better model, one with a better lens, with more light settings and a better zoom. But you couldn’t—not when it was a gift from him. Not when you know he spent restless nights scouring the internet, asking around the F2 paddock for suggestions for a professional camera he could get his girlfriend.

It was out of his budget. You know it was, because it was before he had major sponsors like he does now. You know, because unlike most drivers you’ve met, Isack doesn’t come from money. Every penny that went into your birthday gift had been hard-earned by him—and it landed him eating chicken and rice for three weeks. You’d reprimanded him, saying that you could still return it—only for him to lean closer to you and press a kiss onto your temple, whispering against your skin, “Why would I do that? C’était fait pour toi, chérie.”

You’d kept it, because Isack had insisted, and because, in all honesty, you didn’t want to let go of it.

A part of you still doesn’t.

Isack looks like he wants to say something, before he swallows it back. He looks conflicted, apologetic, and when he glances down at your palm again, you get the feeling he wants to intertwine your fingers with his.

The sound of steps coming up the stairs makes the two of you take a step back from one another. Warmth shoots up your spine. You hadn’t even realized how close you’d been standing.

Gabriel comes up the stairs with Nico and Liam in tow, curls poking from underneath his Sauber cap. “Hey—thought I had lost you.”

You try to smile—you do. Gabriel’s attention shifts over to Isack, who’s jaw looks tenser than it did a moment ago. Something akin to recognition flickers in Gabriel’s gaze.

He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:14 PM ] : Hi

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:14 PM ] : What are you doing right now?

you [ 10:14 PM ] : just got back to my room!! so i’m choosing n editing a few pics for sauber

you [ 10:14 PM ] : dw i’m making sure you look handsome in all of them

you [ 10:15 PM ] : unless you choose to wrong me in the future. in which case i have plenty of unflattering material

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:15 PM ] : Good to know

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:15 PM ] : Hey, can I ask you a personal question?

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:15 PM ] : You can say no

you [ 10:15 PM ] : yeah ofc!!!! shoot

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:15 PM ] : You used to date him, no?

you [ 10:16 PM ] : pardon

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:16 PM ] : Hadjar

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:16 PM ] : I kept thinking your face looked familiar when we first met.

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:16 PM ] : I figured I must’ve seen you around in F2 or F3. But you were his girlfriend yes?

you [ 10:17 PM ] : yeah

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:17 PM ] : That makes sense

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:17 PM ] : I’ve noticed him staring at me a lot. Especially today at the fan forum

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:17 PM ] : And it couldn’t be because of the races, since our car is a million dollar piece of shit

you [ 10:17 PM ] : GABI

you [ 10:17 PM ] : YOU CANT SAY THAT

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:17 PM ] : What

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:17 PM ] : This is all confidential right

you [ 10:18 PM ] : 😭 what would you do if i said no

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:18 PM ] : It’s not like I’m lying,,, everyone knows it’s a shitbox

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:18 PM ] : Is it too invasive if I ask why you two broke up?

you [ 10:18 PM ] : we just had different priorities i guess

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:18 PM ] : Ah

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:21 PM ] : We’re friends, right?

you [ 10:23 PM ] : mmmm no

you [ 10:23 PM ] : you haven’t told me your embarrassing middle name yet

gabriel bortoleto (work) [ 10:24 PM ] : It’s Lourenzo.

you [ 10:24 PM ] : boooo 👎👎 that’s not embarrassing at all

you [ 10:24 PM ] : sounds really regal though

you [ 10:24 PM ] : prince lourenzo

you [ 10:24 PM ] : eh

you [ 10:24 PM ] : i think i like people calling you bubbles better

bubbles ☘️ [ 10:25 PM ] : only max calls me that

you [ 10:25 PM ] : mhmm sure 😁

you [ 10:25 PM ] : also yeah we’re friends gabi <3

bubbles ☘️ [ 10:25 PM ] : Okay

bubbles ☘️ [ 10:25 PM ] : Then as your friend I would like to say that you should probably tell Isack that we’re not

bubbles ☘️ [ 10:25 PM ] : Together or anything

bubbles ☘️ [ 10:25 PM ] : Because I keep getting a chilly feeling and then turning around and just. Catch him staring at me.

you [ 10:25 PM ] : have you considered maybe this has nothing to do with me

you [ 10:26 PM ] : i mean maybe he has a crush on you

you [ 10:26 PM ] : have you considered that

bubbles ☘️ [ 10:26 PM ] : What

liked by gabrielbortoleto, pepemartiofficial and 91 others

yourusername got to visit an actual f1 factory? in switzerland? shoutout gabi for convincing the big boss to let me tag along <3

👤 tagged: gabrielbortoleto

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friend1 pls tell me you bought the cow

yourusername i bought the cow

friend2 WAITT your new friend has cheekbones for DAYS

gabrielbortoleto Last time I do that cause I didn’t know you would snore the whole flight

yourusername I DID NOT??????

yourusername pepemartiofficial you like my posts but don’t comment anymore? woowww

pepemartiofficial what are you on about i hadn’t even seen your post

pepemartiofficial oh i mean. yeah idk

APRIL, 2025 : SUZUKA.

liked by isackhadjar, yn.png and 180,921 others

visacashapprb had… joints? HADJOINTS!

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user8 MY GOAT

redbullfrance Solide 🙌

user9 protect him from the redbull seat at all costs

user10 HELLO that last slide…….. not complaining

formula2 YESS ISACK! BIEN JOUÉ

user11 is isack single asking for a friend

This isn’t stalking. You’re not—you’re not. Not really. You’re just… seizing up the competition.

You’re sitting inside the Sauber motorhome, waiting for the post race interviews to be done. It’s not as crowded as you expected—and, at least, you have Emma to keep you company. In the short time you’ve known her, you’ve decided you like her—even going as far as to offer taking a few pictures for her for the next time F1 and F1A races overlap.

She’s texting someone on her phone while you hide yours behind your open laptop. It feels… wrong, like a betrayal both to Sauber and to yourself. You can’t help yourself either way.

You scroll down VCARB’s recent Instagram feed, stumbling upon a post celebrating Isack’s first F1 points.

Is this pathetic? You feel a little pathetic. What good is having him blocked if you’re still searching for breadcrumbs?

Your thumb slides on the screen, showing a picture of Isack along with the rest of the team. Then, one of him with his hair mussed and his race suit still on. Then—

You smack your phone facedown against the table, making Emma flinch across from you.

She blinks. “…Are you okay?”

Your cheeks burn. Isack’s shirtless torso. On social media. On a team account. Something you wholeheartedly refuse to name flutters around your gut. Why are you so affected by this? You’ve seen him shirtless—fuck, you’ve seen him naked before.

It just took you by surprise, you reason.

“Yeah,” you say, voice strangled, “fine.”

you [ 6:14 PM ] : do you think it’s unprofessional that i still have him blocked

pepe 👎 [ 6:16 PM ] : i think it’s unprofessional that you’re having this conversation with me

you [ 6:16 PM ] : can you just answer the question

pepe 👎 [ 6:16 PM ] : no

you [ 6:16 PM ] : no you don’t think it’s unprofessional or no you’re not going to answer

pepe 👎 [ 6:17 PM ] : the second one

you [ 6:17 PM ] : why

pepe 👎 [ 6:18 PM ] : because i’m seeing isack tonight and i have a terrible poker face

pepe 👎 [ 6:18 PM ] : and when he winds up asking about you i don’t wanna tell him everything and risk you paying someone to put me in the wall

you [ 6:18 PM ] : josep maría martí.

pepe 👎 [ 6:19 PM ] : your intimidation tactics don’t work on me

you [ 6:19 PM ] : did you know my paddock pass works for f2 races as well

you [ 6:19 PM ] : and i’ve been becoming good friends with joshua dürksen. he’s starting p7 tomorrow

you [ 6:20 PM ] : what position are you starting again? p6?

pepe 👎 [ 6:20 PM ] : getting a job in f1 has made you demented

you [ 6:20 PM ] : is it unprofessional YES OR NO

pepe 👎 [ 6:20 PM ] : ?????? HOW WOULD I KNOW

pepe 👎 [ 6:20 PM ] : would he want you to unblock him? probably

pepe 👎 [ 6:21 PM ] : does he use my phone to see what you’ve been posting on instagram? on occasion

pepe 👎 [ 6:21 PM ] : has he checked your linkedin multiple times because it’s the only social media you haven’t blocked him on? YEAH

you [ 6:22 PM ] : he what

Seen 6:22 PM

you [ 6:24 PM ] : PEPE

pepe 👎 [ 6:24 PM ] : I’VE SAID TOO MUCH ALREADY

isack 🥷🏽 [ 6:31 PM ] : Hey

isack 🥷🏽 [ 6:31 PM ] : Has she said anything to you?

pepe 👎 [ 6:32 PM ] : FUCKING LEAVE ME OUT OF THIS

isack 🥷🏽 [ 6:33 PM ] : ????

APRIL, 2025 : BAHRAIN.

liked by pepemartiofficial, redbulljuniorteam and 99,871 others

yn.png we interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to say PEPE WON THE SPRINT RACE I KNOW HIM HE WON I WAS THERE

👤 tagged: pepemartiofficial

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pepemartiofficial i do not know this woman

yn.png i can’t even be bothered by this YOU WONN

chloechambersracing what. a. race. 👏

redbulljuniorteam We’ve definitely missed being photographed by yn.png 🏆

user14 should’ve hired her while you still could cheap ass

user15 GET HIM AN F1 SEAT NOWW

user16 why do y/n’s redbull pics hit so different from the sauber ones though

user17 win so good it actually made pepe and y/n forget they can’t stand each other

user18 did you even watch the race 😭 she was up there hugging him and crying and smiling “they can’t stand each other” be so fr

♥️ isackhadjar has liked your post

The scent of champagne and celebration is thick in the air. Despite the sun having long sunk over the horizon, the night air still feels warm, electric.

You’re waiting in the garage, checking the pictures from your camera with giddy excitement. It feels like centuries since the last time you were at an F2 race celebrating. You imagine Pepe will want to take you guys out, maybe somewhere to eat, maybe to a club. It hurts a little, knowing you won’t be able to go—knowing that you’re already behind on work you need to get done before tomorrow morning.

You feel him before you ever see him. Like magnets, you turn around and you find him. You always seem to.

Maybe there’s something in your face that gives you away, because Isack is quick to say: “It’s okay, you don’t have to go.” He’s wearing his RB team kit, and it’s still odd, not seeing him in RedBull gear. With how the team is looking, you suppose it’s for the better—not that you’re in any position to say anything. “I wanted to talk to you, actually.”

Your throat tightens. There’s a glint in his eye you can’t seem to place. Still, you try for a smile you hope looks relaxed, nonchalant. “Shoot.”

Isack swallows, and only then you realize he’s nervous. “I realized I never apologized,” he starts, slowly, like he doesn’t want to scare you off. There’s still celebrations going down all around you. It’s a stark contrast to Isack’s quiet, tentative tone. “I’ve been meaning to—for, for a while, I mean. To apologize.”

“Isack,” you start, though you’re not sure what you intend to say.

“You were right,” he says, more confidently this time. “You deserved better—you still do. It was a shitty thing to do, and it was disrespectful to you.” Your mouth closes, and Isack takes it as a chance to continue. “I, ah. I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. That it was never my intention to make you hurt. I was in over my head, and when I should’ve been turning to you, I turned to wrong influences in the team and shut you out.” He gnaws at the inside of his cheek, and you catch him toying with a string bracelet around his wrist you gave him back when he was in F4. “I’m sorry.”

This is it—what you’ve been wanting to hear since last year. But there’s distance between you, and you’re painfully aware of it. Isack doesn’t attempt to close it, so neither do you. You lick your lips. “It’s in the past, Isack,” you say, even when you hear your heart beating in your ears. “It’s fine.”

“The past,” he repeats. He tries to smile, but it feels strained. He drops his hands. “Right.”

You open your mouth to say something, but you’re interrupted by a round of claps and whistles going around. Before you even get the chance to turn, you feel Pepe wrap his arms around both you and Isack as he brings the three of you into a sideways hug.

“What a day, huh?” he grins, skin still sticky with champagne. There’s excitement vibrating off his skin, and you’ll be damned if you’re the one to try and dampen that.

“What a day,” you repeat, smiling.

Pepe pulls away from the two of you, clasping his hands together with a giddy smile. “Okay, so. The guys from the team said there’s a bar nearby that’s really good for celebrating. So, I was thinking we could go after you guys finish with your quali?”

“I’m gonna have to sit this one out,” you say, regretfully. You can feel Isack’s eyes on the side of your face. When you briefly meet his gaze, there’s an unreadable expression on his face. “I still have a lot of work to do, and I don’t fancy being fired before the break.”

“Killjoy.” He rolls his eyes, though he doesn’t seem to take it personally. Instead, Pepe turns to Isack with a mischievous glint and a grin. “But, that means you can’t ditch me now.”

Isack raises a brow. “Really? Why not?”

He shrugs lightly. “Because then you’d be leaving me on my own. Are you really gonna leave me lonely on the day I won?”

Isack rolls his eyes, though there’s a hint of a smile curling his lips. “You are unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told, yeah.”

[ INCOMING VOICE MESSAGE FROM: isack 🥷🏽 2:31 ]

hi. um. you unblocked me. that—ha, that wasn’t what i wanted to say. i… pepe missed you, at the celebration. everyone did. the guys from campos kept, um. they kept asking why i wasn’t with you. i didn’t—i mean—putain, that’s not what i wanted to… i guess i’ve just been thinking about you. a lot. earlier—earlier you said it was in the past. and—and that’s fine? i mean, i should have apologized to you in person so fucking long ago. and i didn’t, because i was a coward. like, a big, stupid, coward who didn’t want to look you in the eye. who had to ask you for a break over text—and fuck, what was i thinking? maybe you were right—maybe i was concussed. i mean, just, who does that? ah—anyway, i know you’ve moved on, that you have your life together now. but—but you said it was in the past, and i should be fine with that, cause you’re fine with that but—it’s not in the past for me, okay? et je suis un idiot—je sais. i was an idiot last year, and i’m still an idiot now. and look, i know i’m not supposed to know—but pepe mentioned that i made you cry. more than once. and i hate—i hate that. i hate it when you cry, and—and knowing i was responsible for that? ça me brise le cœur, chérie. but that’s fair, because i broke your heart first, even when you didn’t deserve it, when you weren’t at fault, when it was me— je n’aime pas ça. i don’t want to sound like, like i’m trying to be a martyr, or anything. i know i’m not, that i am not being fair. i know that i should have said this months, months ago, that it’s too little too late. but i miss you. so, so much, chérie. and i keep seeing you around the paddock with your camera and that embroidered camera strap you bought in algiers, and i keep forgetting that i ruined it. that i ruined us. and when i get out of the car, i keep—i keep looking for you. c’est pathétique. god. sorry. you, um—you don’t owe me an answer, or anything. you don’t… you don’t owe me anything. i’ll just… putain, je ne devrais pas envoyer ça. comment… comment puis-je supprimer ça—

isack 🥷🏽 [ 2:45 AM ] : Dont listne to thabt

you [ 2:47 AM ] : are you drunk??

you [ 2:47 AM ] : isack you’re racing TODAY

you [ 2:47 AM ] : i can hear music in the background where are you???

isack 🥷🏽 [ 2:48 AM ] : Are you mad atme

you [ 2:48 AM ] : your location. share it with me now

you [ 2:49 AM ] : NOW.

isack 🥷🏽 [ 2:49 AM ] : I dont like it whne you yell :(

isack 🥷🏽 [ 2:50 AM ] : 📍Iguana Lounge, Bahrain

you [ 2:50 AM ] : ask for water at the bar

you [ 2:50 AM ] : and don’t move. i mean it

you [ 2:52 AM ] : you’re dead to me

pepe 👎 [ 2:55 AM ] : whatddid i do

you [ 2:55 AM ] : oh my god. you’re useless

By the time you arrive at the bar, the streets are empty with the dull beat of club music. Isack and Pepe sit beside each other on the curb, with the latter leaning his head against Isack’s shoulder.

You get out of the car, and Isack helps you get Pepe onto the backseat. Once you put on his seatbelt, you go back to the driver’s seat, while Isack sits next to you.

The drive to their hotel is quiet. Pepe snores softly in the backseat. Your knuckles are tight around the steering wheel, and you’re unwilling to even glance at either of them. You threw on the first thing you had in hand—an old sweater of yours to cover the pajamas you’re wearing underneath.

You stop at a red light. Then, quietly—

“Are you mad at me?”

You look over at Isack. He’s toying with his string bracelet, looking unbearably small as he stares at you, brown eyes wide and worried. He drops his hand from his bracelet, turning instead to fiddle with the bottle cap from the water you gave him.

“Of course I’m mad at you, Isack.” You watch his face sink, and you force yourself to look ahead. “How—How could you be so irresponsible? You’re supposed to be in the car in a matter of hours, and you’re gonna wake up hungover. Do you know how reckless that is?” The light turns green. “What were you thinking?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then, barely above a murmur: “I was thinking about you.”

Your throat feels like sandpaper. “You can’t—you can’t say that. Not like this. Not when you’re drunk. Like—fuck, Isack,” your voice breaks, “you can be so mean sometimes.”

You breathe in slowly, attempting to blink back the tears that are threatening to spill.

“Please don’t cry,” Isack says, and you can see him shifting on his seat out of the corner of your eye. You park on the sidewalk of the hotel, and when you turn to face him, you find he’s leaning closer to you. His brows are drawn together, and even when he looks miserable, your heart is begging you to give in. His throat bobs, and Isack reaches up with his thumb, wiping away a tear from your cheek. “You know I hate seeing you cry.”

“Then why do you do this?” you ask. You’re afraid if you open your mouth again, you’re gonna start crying and be unable to stop.

His eyes look glassy now. “I didn’t mean to,” he says, apologetic, sincere. His thumb still rests against your cheek. “I had a plan—I did. I was gonna ask you today, after the race. I was gonna ask you to talk, just the two of us.” He searches your face, and he tries to smile, even when it makes tears gather at his eyeline. “I found this cafe that has those strawberry desserts that you like. But—” his voice dies in his throat, and you remember what he said in his voice message. You said it was in the past.

“Isack—”

“Je suis désolé,” he says, and it sounds like the words are stolen from beneath his ribs. Something guttural. “For everything.”

You shouldn’t—you shouldn’t. But he’s there, cast in moonlight like a dream. Everything you’ve been missing. His warmth, his laugh, his presence—missing, like a phantom limb.

You capture his lips with yours, closing the gap between you two in a breath. Isack tenses in surprise for just a split second before he’s melting into you, kissing you back like he’s afraid to let go. Like you’re everything he’s been missing. His hand is still on your cheek, bringing you closer to him. He kisses you softly, gently, with a care that makes you want to cry again. For a moment, it feels like breathing easier again—like coming home.

You’re the first to pull away, even when Isack tries to chase you. He opens his eyes, uncertain. You lean your forehead against his, taking a moment to relish this. Him.

It feels impossible, going back to not having him anymore.

“I miss you,” he says. A murmured confession.

You don’t think you could lie even if you wanted to. “I miss you too.” And he’s looking at you the way he always has—like you’re early spring, like you’re the moon itself, like you’re everything he’s been waiting for his entire life.

You hear rustling in the backseat. You pull back, glancing at Pepe through the rearview mirror.

Pepe groans quietly, voice hoarse and disoriented. “Are we there already?”

“Yeah, champ,” you say, and you can’t find it in yourself to be mad right now.

Isack unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out of the car to help maneuver Pepe out as well. He slings Pepe’s arm around his shoulder, helping him stand.

Your window is lowered when you meet Isack’s gaze. His lips press together, like there’s more he wants to say. Instead, he simply opts for: “Tomorrow. Can we talk tomorrow?”

You nod. “Tomorrow.”

pepe 👎 [ 8:56 AM ] : i feel like death

you [ 8:57 AM ] : good morning princess 😍

you [ 8:57 AM ] : serves you right for pulling that last night

pepe 👎 [ 8:58 AM ] : i can feel you laughing at my misery stop it

pepe 👎 [ 8:58 AM ] : ohhhh fuck me i’m never drinking again

you [ 8:59 AM ] : screenshotting that for future reference btw

pepe 👎 [ 9:00 AM ] : 🖕

pepe 👎 [ 9:00 AM ] : real talk though and maybe this is an awkward question but

pepe 👎 [ 9:00 AM ] : have you heard from isack?

pepe 👎 [ 9:01 AM ] : i went to his room and he wasn’t there? and when i call it just sends me to voicemail

pepe 👎 [ 9:03 AM ] : hello?

Sent 9:03 AM

The knock on your door makes your heart skip a beat. You don’t miss a second, dropping your phone onto the hotel bed and hurrying towards the door. You don’t waste time looking through the peephole.

When the door opens, you’re met with Isack and a bouquet of pink lilies clutched between his hands. His hair looks disheveled, and to your relief, he doesn’t look nearly as hungover as you expected him to be.

“I will spend every single day trying to earn your forgiveness back,” Isack says, “if you give me the chance.”

There’s no hiding the smile that lights up your phase. He’s ready to catch you in his arms when you throw yourself at him, bringing his lips to yours. His hands settle around your waist, familiar, at home.

He smiles against your lips.

liked by isackhadjar, pepemartiofficial, and 92 others

yourusername forgot to mention 💌

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friend1 wait no i shit talked him SO MUCH what do you mean you’re back together

gabrielbortoleto Finally

friend2 MY PARENTS ARE BACK TOGETHER

pepemartiofficial you get drunk ONE TIME and SUDDENLY you miss the entire plot

pepemartiofficial after keeping up with you two since SEPTEMBER

pepemartiofficial isackhadjar yourusername you two owe me reparations

isackhadjar You said to keep you out of it 🤷🏽‍♂️

pepemartiofficial i hate you

a/n: crazy how writing this turned me into a pepe martí fan. like during the 2024 f2 season i was so blinded by franco and gabi that i COMPLETELY overlooked isack and pepe and now i have regrets.

also! thank you thank you for all the love i got on part 1 of this!! it definitely helped getting this out quicker than i expected <3 ily all so much 💘

friend1 gorgeous gorgeous!! is that a new camera 👀 quality looks much better

yn.png ……..maybeee

yn.png you wanna guess who gave it to me for my birthday…..

isackhadjar :)

pepemartiofficial why do your pictures look so blurry

yn.png i was going for a something okay god forbid people take risks 🙄

isackhadjar Where is the one of us together :(

yn.png it’s my wallpaper ❣️

pepemartiofficial you two sicken me.

MARCH, 2024 : MELBOURNE.

liked by camposracing, pepemartiofficial and 1,379 others

yn.png watched my boyfriend get waterboarded today BUT ON A PODIUM BABY

👤 tagged: isackhadjar, camposracing

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isackhadjar I think i still have champagne up my nose ♥️ liked by author

isackhadjar You’re really making that new lens work 🥷🏽

yn.png i wanna kiss your face

redbulljuniorteam From a DNF to P1? Talk about a redemption arc 👏

pepemartiofficial why is this sepia

yn.png why is being my hater your part time job

pepemartiofficial because spraying champagne up your boyfriend’s nose doesn’t pay the bills 😔 racing is expensive

yn.png isackhadjar get your side piece out of my comment section

isackhadjar replied to your close friends story:

isackhadjar: WHY did you let me leave the hotel with shortsleeves

yourusername: ??? cause you look beautiful in them and you’re always running hot

isackhadjar: I didn’t even realize you bit my arm at the gym until my trainer pointed it out

isackhadjar: mon coeur I was warming up with a BITE MARK on my bicep FOR EVERYONE TO SEE

isackhadjar: I couldn’t focus on anything Warren was saying after that

yourusername: not my fault your arms are so bitable

isackhadjar: Maybe next time I should be the one biting you for a change

yourusername: i’d be into that

isackhadjar: What

yourusername: what

APRIL, 2024 : IMOLA.

liked by isackhadjar, pepemartiofficial and 81 others

yourusername a well-rounded weekend with my favorite boy and his side-chick. next time i will be insisting we get to do the tourist route, though >:(

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isackhadjar ♥️

friend1 a post that isn’t on your alt account??? someone call the president 😨

friend2 ……do i have to remind you that your family follows you on this acc and will read that caption

pepemartiofficial JAJAJAJA

friend3 why did your mum just text me asking if you’re in a throuple

liked by redbulljuniorteam, isackhadjar and 6,871

yn.png 9 points leading the championship i know that’s right 🏆

👤 tagged: isackhadjar, camposracing

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user1 wait why do these look better than the pictures posted by red bull 😭

user2 championship battle in f1 is so boring rn i’ve actually turned to watching f2

user3 is this an isack fanpage

camposracing VAMOS! 💪

user4 okay gunning for that social media job at redbull i see you 👀

user5 idk if this is an unpopular opinion but there’s no way isack wins unless he locks in. too many mistakes

pepemartiofficial these look……. marginally better

yn.png i thought i blocked you

pepemartiofficial you’re just jealous he was looking at me in that first picture 😍

pepemarti_unofficial ??? okay RUDE unblock me

user6 why is pepe commenting on a post by isack’s girlfriend but not isack……? 🤨

JULY, 2024 : SILVERSTONE.

you [ 3:18 PM ] : oh my god!!!!! oh my god ???

you [ 3:18 PM ] : i just saw the quali you were amazing isack 🤍 first pole position!!!!

you [ 3:19 PM ] : wish i could be there to celebrate with you <3

Sent 3:18 PM

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:47 PM ] : Merci chérie 😊

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:48 PM ] : I missed you too. But it gave me the chance to focus all my energy on the race

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:50 PM ] : Bortoleto is still not making any mistakes though. Kinda wish his car would also stall every once in a while 🙃

you [ 9:51 PM ] : bortoleto doesn’t have anything on you <3 you’re still leading the championship

you [ 9:51 PM ] : also wait pause. did you just call me distracting?

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:52 PM ] : Absolument.

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:52 PM ] : How am I supposed stand next to you at the garage and pretend like I don’t wanna kiss you every time you look at me

you [ 9:53 PM ] : JAIL JAIL JAIL you can’t SAY THAT when we’re like two timezones away

you [ 9:53 PM ] : now i wanna kiss you :(

isack 🥷🏽 [ 10:03 PM ] : Sorry, the team is calling me. Still have to get a few things sorted out before the race.

isack 🥷🏽 [ 10:04 PM ] : Can I call you tomorrow?

you [ 10:04 PM ] : yeah!!! sleep well x

you [ 9:06 AM ] : good morning!! i forgot to mention it last night but we haven’t talked about our plans for the upcoming break?

isack 🥷🏽 [ 11:29 AM ] : I still have to work a few things with the team now that we’re leading the championship.

you [ 11:31 AM ] : ahh okay! lmk when you have it figured out so we can start looking at plane tickets x

JULY — AUGUST 2024 : SUMMER BREAK.

liked by pepemartiofficial, isackhadjar and 2,301 others

y/n.png girls trip🍷(on film)

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friend1 wait these look so cute

friend2 voulez-vous coucher avec moi 💘

y/n.png i told you that doesn’t mean what you think 😭

user1 cute! but i thought this was an f2 page…….

user2 are we finally getting a break from f2 pics?

pepemartiofficial “on film” and its just a filter you downloaded

y/n.png your parents don’t love you

pepemartiofficial WOWWWW

user3 where’s isack? 😕

you [ 4:56 PM ] : hey, haven’t heard from you in a while. how’s everything at the factory?

you [ 5:31 PM ] : are we okay?

isack 🥷🏽 [ 5:39 PM ] : Yeah. Why wouldn’t we be?

Read 5:39 PM

SEPTEMBER, 2024 : MONZA.

isack 🥷🏽 [ 8:58 PM ] : Did you watch the race?

you [ 8:59 PM ] : yeah. wish i could’ve been there :(

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:00 PM ] : What for? It was a disaster.

you [ 9:00 PM ] : i know it’s not what you want to hear but it’s one race. there will be others to make up for it.

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:00 PM ] : Except maybe there won’t be. Bortoleto is first now.

you [ 9:01 PM ] : i saw

you [ 9:01 PM ] : do you wanna facetime?

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:11 PM ] : I need a break.

you [ 9:12 PM ] : that’s okay, we can talk tomorrow if you want

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:12 PM ] : No I mean I need a break

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:12 PM ] : From us

Seen 9:12 PM

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:15 PM ] : Mon coeur I can see you read it

you [ 9:16 PM ] : i know.

you [ 9:16 PM ] : i’m giving you the chance to take it back and course correct

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:16 PM ] : That’s not how this works

you [ 9:16 PM ] : exactly. that’s not how this works. why would you think it’d be okay to break up with me over text??

you [ 9:16 PM ] : i mean this so genuinely but are you concussed

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:17 PM ] : I just need to have all my attention on the championship right now. I’m not in the right headspace to be in a relationship

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:17 PM ] : My trainer already told me I can’t afford any distraction if I want to make it to F1

you [ 9:17 PM ] : distraction?

you [ 9:18 PM ] : you’ve already called me that before

you [ 9:19 PM ] : isack how long have you been planning on breaking up with me?

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:19 PM ] : It’s not a break up, it would just be a break.

you [ 9:20 PM ] : until when? until you’re number one again? until the end of the season?

you [ 9:20 PM ] : what happens after that?

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:20 PM ] : I’m sorry

you [ 9:20 PM ] : clearly not if you’re breaking up with me like this. you could’ve at least had the decency to do it to my face

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:21 PM ] : Chérie it’s not a break up

you [ 9:22 PM ] : no, it is now. fuck you.

you have blocked this number

OCTOBER, 2024 : BAKU.

user1 replied to your story:

user1: no f2 pics this week? :(

user2 replied to your story:

user2: why didn’t you post any isack pictures? is it because he didn’t get any points 🫤

user3 replied to your story:

user3: lmao girl since when are you a pepe marti fan ☠️

pepemartiofficial replied to your story:

pepemartiofficial: ???? are you being held at knife point please don’t do this

yourusername: don’t do what

pepemartiofficial: don’t put me in the middle of this???? i already have to deal with him as is

pepemartiofficial: he’s gonna put me in the wall when he sees this delete it delete it delete it

yourusername: he won’t see it. i blocked him

pepemartiofficial: well that explains the sulking

yourusername: he’s the one that didn’t want distractions. i just made it easier for him

pepemartiofficial: does this mean you won’t be coming around for the last races?

Read 8:01 PM

DECEMBER, 2024 : YAS MARINA.

You’ve never been good at healing quickly. At outgrowing things, at leaving them in the past. Not that any of your friends could blame you—a three year relationship is not something you can just forget overnight. You did the right thing, the first step towards healing: blocking him in every platform you could think of. Instagram, Twitter, Whatsapp, TikTok—even Facebook. It was easy, quick, as long as you didn’t allow yourself to think twice about it.

The pictures weren’t as easy. You couldn’t find it in yourself to erase them. They’re three years worth of your life—three years worth of you quietly and steadily learning about framing, about lighting, about when to snap a picture and when to wait. Eventually, you convinced yourself it would be unfair to you if you deleted them. They’re your professional portfolio—even that one photo Isack took of the two of you when you fell asleep on his shoulder. Or the one you took with your camera in front of his bathroom mirror—where Isack stands behind you, head tucked against your neck, murmuring something you’ve long since forgotten.

It still makes your throat tighten, the thought of him. You always knew motorsport was his first love, that it was his goal. It had been long before you met him, when he was still round-cheeked, had a high-pitched voice and a heavy accent. Driving had existed in his life years before you. But it stung, knowing that you would always fall second to it. That the chance at a title was worth more than your love.

You feel pin pricks at the back of your eyes, making you blink them away. You’ve always been too good at pouring salt on the wound.

Today, though—today you made a promise to yourself. It’s been months. You’ve already broken your heart enough times with every item of his that seems to spawn in your apartment.

You place them all inside the cardboard box your microwave came in, folding them with far too much care. Shirts. Hoodies. A Redbull windbreaker with his name printed at the back. An MC Alger jersey he forgot when he came over to watch a game—the same one he saw you wearing a night he stayed over, whispering into your ear how it suited you much more than it did him. You stuff them all into the box and stare at it.

Broken pieces of your heart threaten to climb up your throat. Your eyes sting again.

You never return it to him. He never asks for any of it back, either.

By the time you’re done, you find out. Trending on Twitter, or posted by the Formula 2 Instagram account. The results of his last race of the season—the one that ends his championship run before the first lap. You scroll down the comments, searching between the congratulations for Gabriel Bortoleto on his title win. Technical issue. Isack’s car never started, leaving him at the starting line while Bortoleto’s papaya car took off along with his chances for a title.

You sit in your bedroom, empty, alone. He must be destroyed. And for all your anger, all your resentment, your frustration and your tears, he was your friend, before he ever was your boyfriend. You don’t want him to suffer, you never have.

You consider texting him, telling him you’re sorry. Telling him he deserved better.

You don’t.

Instead, you close the box with tape, shove it into the back of your closet. Onto better things.

FEBRUARY, 2025 : BAHRAIN

liked by gabrielbortoleto, stakef1team and 98,371 others

y/n.png to new beginnings 📸

👤 tagged: gabrielbortoleto

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a/n: do yourself a favor and listen to the songs that inspired this fic but ESPECIALLY si no vas a volver by aitana cause what a banger that is. let me know if you enjoyed! this took so long and it’s only part 1

also! huge HUGE shoutout to birdy @cinnamorussell for letting me borrow their gorgeous texting layout 💘 couldn’t have stayed under the image limit without you <3

You’re passing by one car you don’t immediately recognize, despite the familiarity that ripples from it. There’s no driver inside—a bold decision, leaving a car like this unattended. The paint job looks recent, the modifications you manage to catch sight of seem clumsy and risky. Certainly not done by a professional hand.

As you duck down to peer through the window of the car, you spot a golden charm of the Sol de Mayo hanging from the rearview mirror. Realization comes to you like a lightning strike.

“Come to see me win?” you hear him drawl. You raise your head, and spot Franco standing on the opposite side of the car, arms folded and resting over the roof. He looks just like he did last time. Unruly curls. Tilted head. Smug grin.

“Not unless your name is suddenly Liam.”

“I can change it, if that’s what you want,” he responds easily, relaxedly. He spreads his arms over the car, looking remarkably like a cat stretching under the sun. His eyes open slowly, like he’s just been woken up by someone. “Or maybe you have a thing for blondes. My hair gets lighter in the summer, sabés.”

You scoff, paired with an amused roll of your eyes. “You just never stop, do you?”

“When it comes to you?” He cocks his head to the side, that mischievous glint dancing in his gaze. “Never.”

“You got a new paint job,” you point out, rounding towards the hood of his car. It’s propped up, revealing the absolute mess of wires and metal that Franco has underneath. You’re almost sure you see rubber bands holding together the radiator coolant. “Any reason why?”

“Blue was getting old,” he shrugs. “New year, new me and all that.” You hum in response, your eyes still glued to the engine of his car. “Speaking of new, I think you should find yourself a new driver. I happen to be in need of—”

“Your car’s gonna stall.”

Franco’s sentence dies in his throat, brows furrowed. “What?”

“It’s gonna stall when you try to start,” you repeat. “Your air filter’s shit. You need to get that cleaned—or burn that one and buy a new one. If you don’t fix that, then it’s gonna restrict airflow to the engine. You need oxygen to burn fuel.” You turn back to him, and repeat once again: “It’s gonna stall.”

“La concha de tu madre,” he curses, gaze snapping back to the hood of his car. And really—it’s a miracle he even gets his car to go in the first place. “How do I fix it?”

“Soap and water,” you answer. “Then a towel. Wait until it dries completely to put it back in.”

He blinks at you like you’ve just responded in French. “I don’t have any of those things here.”

You smack his shoulder with a smile. “I charge separately for live-saving advice, by the way.”

“Uh-huh,” Franco says, but he’s barely paying attention now. He squints at the starting area, mumbling a string of curses in Spanish you couldn’t even attempt to understand.

A few cars down, you spot Liam. Finally. “Best of luck, then.”

“I’ll be crossing the finish line before him,” Franco says, making you pause. He smiles cheekily, green eyes troublesome. It’s hard to tell that his car is a wreck waiting to happen. “Will you be there?”

“You’re not making it there before him.”

He doesn’t look discouraged. If anything, he loves to prove you wrong. Or thinks he can, anyway. “How much do you wanna bet on it?”

You consider it. You can hear your name being called. Last check-ups and adjustments before the race. “Same as last time?”

He grins, already victorious. “Works for me.”

Franco’s car ends up stalling at the start. Just a beat, three seconds, maybe four—but it’s more than enough to give Liam the lead. Franco makes it work, somehow, and the engine roars to life as he leaves a cloud of dirt and smoke behind. Ollie holds his phone out to you, displaying the livestream with the curves and turns of the race.

The race doesn’t last long—just one lap, limited chances to overtake and reach the finish line first. There are too many brushes that are inches away from walls. You notice Franco’s car seems to have a rear suspension issue. His back wheels lock up often, costing him precious seconds.

At the last corner, Liam is still ahead when Franco’s car oversteers. You hold your breath. No, not oversteering—

You hear the screech of tires and engines. Closer. Not coming from the screen anymore.

—drifting.

Franco’s car slides sideways through the last corner, giving him the final edge that pushes him to win by a second. The crowd erupts into cheers and screams, followed by the imminent exchange of money from bets lost and won. Franco slides out of his car, hair tousled and messy. He grins like the world has opened up to him.

You don’t move from your spot—you don’t have to. He finds you anyway. Over the crowds, the people cheering for him, he finds you with that cocky smirk of a bet won. You roll your eyes, but nod at him. And even in the distance, you can see his grin widen.

“Tough race,” you tell Liam, letting him close the hood of the car as you write down a few things you want to handle in your shop.

“Yeah,” he says, dryly. You don’t blame him. Losing stings—when it comes to Franco, you would know. “I’ll drop by tomorrow at ten, is that good?”

“Yeah, that works.”

Liam nods and hands you your cut. It’s light—lighter than usual. The price of losing stings, though not nearly as much as the hit your pride’s about to take. You wave goodbye, though your thoughts are elsewhere. You’ve already spotted Franco, leaning against his car and typing something on his phone—waiting for you.

He’s going to gloat. The idea almost makes you groan out loud. And there’s still the matter of the bet the two of you need to settle.

You’re already reaching for the door in the passenger seat when you ask, “Ready to go?”

Franco looks up from his phone, face bathed in the orange glow of the surrounding streetlights. It sharpens his features, casts shadows down the side of his face. You don’t let your eyes linger, not when it’ll end up getting to his head.

To your surprise, he doesn’t gloat—though you suspect it might be because he’s already pleased with winning your bet.

He pockets his phone and unlocks the doors of the car. “Always,” he says, and you pretend you don’t notice the smile on his lips.

Franco’s flat isn’t the best. It’s in a busy part of the city, the sound of cars and music never ceasing once throughout the night. You would know.

There’s a draft coming in from somewhere. His window isn’t properly sealed in the frame. Goosebumps blossom along your back, though you suspect that might not be from the cold at all.

Franco sits with his legs spread apart while you straddle him. His hands rest on your hips, pulling you closer to him. He kisses softer today, maybe less needier than last time, less urgent. Like he wants to take his time.

Something flutters in your stomach, and you push the thought away by pressing harder against Franco’s lips. He chuckles against your mouth, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt. It’s gonna wind up on his floor eventually—both of you know that. Maybe you’ll use it as an excuse to steal another one of his shirts.

You press another kiss to the corner of his mouth, before trailing down to his jaw, and lower to his neck. You lick, suck and kiss, earning a groan from him.

“Fuck, I can feel you smiling, you know,” Franco says, and you relish on how out of breath he sounds. You grind down on him, if only to hear him do it again. His hand finds its way under your shirt, where his fingers splay against your warm skin.

“When are you gonna come work with me?” he asks. You feel him inhale sharply under you, suppressing a shudder. “You know I can make it worth your time.”

Your fingers reach up for his hair. “You always say that,” you whisper against his neck.

“And you always come back.” You tilt his face to you with your hands, bringing his lips back on yours. He hums, eager. Any idea he had of going slow today is long-discarded by the time you swipe your tongue against his bottom lip. Still, you can feel his hands tensing around you.

He surprises you again by pulling away. “C’mon,” he says, and it almost sounds like a whine. It makes you smirk as you return to kissing his neck. “Everybody knows that Lawson’s car is held together by you, duct tape and a dream.”

“That’s big talk from someone who’s car barely managed to start today.”

“I was giving him a head start. Being sportsmanlike y todo eso.” Franco shifts under you, forcing you to meet his gaze again. His chest rises and falls unevenly, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy seeing the effect you have on him. Cheeks flushed, lips pink and swollen. “He doesn’t appreciate you like I do.”

You imagine you also look a mess—you can feel your shirt askew, your bra strap slipping down your shoulder, your hair mussed. Still, you tilt your head with an unreadable look. “Now, how would you know that?”

Franco pauses at that, brows pinching together in brief confusion. He pouts, though you don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. Then, like a switch, a chuckle escapes him. “Are you trying to make me jealous?” he asks, still a little breathless as his hands now trail down to your thighs. “That’s cute,” he murmurs, leaning closer to you as he presses his nose against the underside of your jaw, lips barely brushing on your neck. You shiver. “You don’t have to try, preciosa.”

“Yeah?” you ask. “Why’s that?”

Franco kisses a line down your jaw, before finally finding your spot—the same spot he always insists on leaving you with purple hickeys. He stops, though, green eyes flickering back to yours. “‘Cause as long as he has you, I’m always jealous.”

Isack rests his hands on the cue stick as he takes another drink from his beer bottle. You’ve thought it since you first laid eyes on him—he’s hot. The right combination between handsome and cute, with a bright smile and big brown eyes that are progressively becoming your weakness.

You miss your shot and you let out a small huff. Isack chuckles, putting down his bottle at the edge of the pool table. He quirks a brow. “Need some help?”

You bite down a laugh. He might be attractive, but he’s not exactly subtle. You consider letting him make a move without calling him out on it. But, then again… where’s the fun in that? You turn to him, blinking at him innocently. “Are you gonna put your hands around my waist to help me out?”

That gets a laugh out of him. “I happen to be a very good shot,” he justifies, tilting his head at you with a small smile. He shrugs his shoulders. “I could teach you.”

Even when you’re lifetimes away from your life in college, it seems things don’t really change. If anything, things stay predictable. You suppose there’s a silver lining, though. Especially when he happens to be your type.

“Yeah, I bet.” You nod your head, and he takes it as a sign to give you a hand. One of his palms carefully settles around your waist, body pressing against your back as the two of you lean over the pool table. His fingers curl over yours, the heat of his palm almost startling as he fixes your grip around the cue stick. You can feel Isack’s breath against your cheek, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your spine.

You meet his brown gaze over your shoulder, only to find that he’s already looking at you. The corner of your lip curves upward. “What did you say your major was?”

“Physics,” he murmurs, looking at you with a glint you can’t quite decipher.

“Is it useful for playing pool?”

“Very.”

You turn back to the table, following Isack’s directions as he lines up the cue stick under your free hand. He pulls it back, guiding your hand along with his. He smells like cologne, with undertones of coal and whiskey. The billiard balls clatter against one another. The red one and the yellow one go straight into the pockets at the corners. Isack pulls away as you turn around, though his hand still lingers by your waist. A steadying weight. You grin, only to find he’s already smiling.

“See?” he asks, his voice warm and encouraging. His lopsided smile pushes you to be bolder. “I told you.”

“You did,” you hum, leaning against the pool table and bringing him closer to you by the sleeve of his shirt. “Look at me—already improving in just one game with your help.” You raise a brow, lips curving up teasingly. “Maybe I should keep you around more often.”

He leans closer to you, tilting his head. “Maybe you should.” His eyes flick down to your lips. He’s quick about it, as if you’re not going to catch him doing it—but you do.

You turn to look at the rest of the bar. Crowded—probably at its peak capacity for the night. You press yourself closer to Isack, glossy lips nearly brushing against the shell of his ear. “There’s a guy by the bar that’s been glaring at you.”

His thumb caresses exposed skin by your waist casually. “Is there?” he asks, but you can feel him turning his gaze in that direction. True enough, there’s a guy with blue eyes and a buzzcut by the bar. Next to him, a girl with long brown hair sits impatiently, pushing the ice around her drink with her straw.

You pull back, Isack’s brown gaze flicking back to you near instantly. “He probably wants to use the pool table.”

Isack scoffs. “Well, he can. No one is stopping him.”

“We did kind of monopolize it.” You tug at his free hand, interlacing your fingers with his. “Maybe we should leave it to him,” you suggest.

Isack raises a brow, though his expression is knowing. “And what would we do then?”

You shrug casually. “I have a few ideas.”

The alleyway next to the bar is cold and damp and dark—not that either of you two are complaining.

Isack presses you against the brick wall of the bar, your hands reaching up to tug at his hair. He kisses your mouth with more intensity than you expected, tugging at your lips and combining spit. You pull his bottom lip with your teeth, earning a groan from him that only makes you more eager.

Isack’s hands are once again around the back of your waist, but you can feel him growing more confident. Soon enough, he’s trailing lower, kneading your flesh and smiling against your lips when you let out a sound.

It’s tongue against tongue, teeth on teeth. He’s a filthy kisser—with the innocent face he has, you would’ve never expected him to be this messy. Maybe you’re enjoying it more than you should.

Isack brings you closer to him, and you feel something hard press against your leg. You pull away from him for just a fraction of a moment. “Excited already?” you ask, voice breathy.

He hums something you don’t catch, his mouth moving to your jaw and then down to your neck. “You have no idea,” he says.

One of his hands leaves you for just a second. It’s easier to focus now that you’re not actively kissing him. Easier to keep your goals in sight.

It’s a blink. A blink in an already dim-lit alley. A split-second, and cold metal is pressed against your skin. The scent of gunpowder is evident now.

Isack presses his gun against your stomach the same exact second you tilt his head up with the barrel of your glock.

The night pauses, freezing in time. You hear no cars in the distance, no stray dogs howling, no empty bottles rattling against the pavement.

Neither of you pulls the trigger. Neither of you moves.

“You know, I almost didn’t catch it,” you start, slowly. You search his face, something akin to amusement sparking in yours. “Those pretty eyes of yours must work wonders for you in this line of work.”

Isack narrows his gaze, his chest rising with measured breaths. “You’re one of Wolff’s.”

“And you’re new. Very new. Which means you’re one of Horner’s.” You press the barrel of your gun deeper into his chin, tilting up his head. He responds by digging his weapon deeper into your stomach. It does nothing to unsettle you. If anything, it makes that golden adrenaline drip into your system. “Tell me,” you continue, “how many hitmen has Horner had to replace this year? Four? Five?” You tilt your head knowingly, smugly. “What does that make you? Lucky number six?”

“Watch it.” His eyes are half-lidded as he meets your gaze. His jaw tenses for just a moment. “What was the plan?”

“I imagine the same as yours.” You shrug. “Lure you out, shoot you, leave you for the rats or the cops to find.” A smile curls onto your lips. “Sends a good message, doesn’t it?”

“As good as any,” Isack says. Then, looking at you in the dark, that glint in his eye shifts. He surprises you when a chuckle bubbles out of his lips. “I thought you looked familiar—when they gave me your photo. Should’ve known.”

“Your boss has a thing for sending his people in blind,” you say simply, casually, as if that sentence doesn’t have a bodycount. “It’s too bad. If we weren’t in the same line of work, I would’ve probably taken you home.”

Isack arches a brow, leaning closer to you despite the gun in his face. “Is that a threat or a compliment?”

“You still have my lip gloss on your mouth, so why don’t you tell me?” Isack scoffs a chuckle. His lips look bruised, and a part of you wants to finish what you started. You click your tongue. “Wolff is paying good money for your head as a message to your boss. Pretty eyes or otherwise, a girl’s gotta eat.”

Isack doesn’t seem intimidated, his gaze calculating. “You shoot and I shoot. No one wins then.”

“Maybe,” you say, letting him press you back against the wall, waiting. “It’s still fun, though,” you grin.

“You’re insane.”

Your grin widens—a cheshire smile. “Don’t act like it doesn’t turn you on.”

Isack blinks, and you use the brick walk behind you to push you forward, redirecting the line of Isack’s gun and twisting it in his grip. Your weapon clatters to the floor the second you manage to disarm Isack, before he sweeps your leg and throws you down onto the pavement. Cement scratches your exposed arms, back against the ground as you aim Isack’s gun up at him and kick yours in the opposite direction, far out of his reach.

Isack raises his hands in surrender. You arch a brow, smiling. “Don’t take this personally.” You pull the trigger, only for the gun to lock. You furrow your brows, and Isack opens his palm, revealing the magazine he somehow managed to pull out during the scuffle. “Huh.”

“Not bad for a rookie?” Isack asks. Fuck, is it bad that you find him more attractive now?

You’re trying to draw a different course of action inside your head when you hear it. Footsteps that sound too measured, too cautious to belong to a drunk person.

“Which way?” you hear a man with an Australian accent ask.

“We shouldn’t have waited. Briatore’s not going to be happy,” a female voice says. Fuck. This night was supposed to be clean—when did it get so complicated?

You turn to Isack, you seems to have the same realization. Even if he is as green to the scene as you think, he has to know the name of Flavio Briatore. Unlike either of your employers, Briatore’s not one for hiring hitmen for quick and clean jobs.

You glance back at the darker, damper half of the alley. Isack meets your gaze at the same time. Even without saying it out loud, you’ve both taken note of the rusted old stairs that are just a few feet away. Fire escape.

You jump onto your feet as Isack rushes towards the stairs, an unspoken competition of who can get away first. He runs up while you reach for the metal, hoist yourself up and climb on the outside until you can swing yourself inside. The two of you meet at the second floor, survival instinct kicking in over the unclaimed bounty that stands in front of you. Money, after all, is better spent when you’re alive.

You barely have time to spare a glance down. You didn’t recognize them earlier—but now, with guns in their hands, their faces click into place. Doohan and Pulling. Maybe you’ve wronged Briatore far too many times—in this line of work, you take it as a compliment.

Doohan climbs up the fire escape, while Pulling stays on the ground floor. The sky is cloudy, the moon is gone, the rusted metal stands in a twisted manner that gives no openings—making the shot would be impossible for anyone else.

You hear the gunshot a moment too late. The bullet ricochets against the metal with a loud clanging sound just as you’re pulled to the side by a hand around your wrist. The bullet bites the wall where your head had just been a split second ago. Isack blinks back at you, his hand still wrapped around yours—before the sound of Doohan’s footsteps sends both of you hurrying up. You hop on the handrail, jumping up onto the roof. Isack climbs up, following just a second behind.

The two of you crouch down, evening your breaths as quietly as possible. You reach down for your leg. Footsteps stop just a floor or two below. You didn’t miss the open window on your way up—you imagine he thought you’d gone inside that apartment as soon as he lost sight of you. It’s not like there’s any light to help him, either.

Once Doohan and Pulling are no longer an immediate threat, the two of you stand up, backing away from the fire escape. You’re not quite in the clear yet, though.

“That was close,” Isack says, quietly, cautiously.

“Yeah,” you say, his back facing you. Rookie mistake. The click of a gun being loaded is near deafening. Isack stiffens. “Too close.”

He turns around, slowly, only to see you standing with a smaller pistol in your hand. He raises a brow. “You have a second gun?”

“Now I definitely know you’re new,” you say, voice light and casual for someone holding a gun. There’s a certain sharpness curling around your smile. “Next time, make sure you carry a backup.”

He tilts his head. “Next time?”

“You saved me from a bullet to the head,” you say, placing your gun back in the holster strapped around your ankle. “Consider this a thank you.” Isack doesn’t move as you backtrack, heading towards the rooftop exit. You can feel his eyes keenly following your every movement. You’re not worried—if anything, you almost manage to look relaxed when you side glance at him. “And word of advice? Find a different employer. The last five didn’t get as lucky as you.”

Isack scoffs, though it has an amused ring to it. He doesn’t give it away in any sense, but you know. He’s not gonna heed your advice. You wouldn’t.

The beckoning innocence is in his eyes once again. It’s a front, a lie, but it draws you in nonetheless. Maybe you’ve grown soft. “So, is this the end of our date?” Isack asks.

“Seems like it.” You grin—sharp, dangerous. “But looking forward to the next one.”