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Like it’s 12:00 and you’re still not home working a shift at the last drop and she just goes through the motions of making you dinner and helping in any way she can to make the end of your night go a little easier even if she is falling asleep while doing so.
———
You get home to the smell of pasta. It’s well past midnight by now and Vi should be asleep. You round the corner take off your shoes, and trudge your way over to the dining room dropping your keys and bag at your designated seat.
You look up and see Vi clad in a wife pleaser and boy-shorts leaning with her back to you against the counter. As you make your way around the counter to say hi, you see shes fallen asleep standing up.
“Hey hun. You didn’t need to wait up for me” you said softly while bringing an arm around her shoulders for a hug.
She startled awake but settled when she realized it was just you, home (finally) from your shift.
“Long night?” She asked as she turned to settle into the space under your ear, wrapping her arms around and into your shirt, wanting to feel your warmth.
“Yeah couple of people came in 8 minutes after we closed and stayed for about an hour. They were kinda strange.”
Vi hummed and turned her head to kiss your pulse point “well you’re home now. I reheated some pasta for you if you’d like.”
“Thanks hun I appreciate it. If you’re sleepy you can go to bed. I’m going to be up for a bit longer, my heads still loud from work.”
“I’ll stay up with you”- “Vi, when I came in you were asleep standing up.”
“Fine” she said with a sleepy pout. She kissed you one last time before getting her arms out of your shirt and making her way to your shared room.
———
You’ve put your dishes in the dishwasher and headed for your room to shower and get ready for bed and notice Vi had put out your favorite pajamas out for you on your side of the bed.
You look over and the sleeping lump that is Vi and smile with a warm tingling feeling in your chest and then to take a shower to wash away the day. You get out, do your skincare and apply moisturizer.
As you climb into bed Vi pulls you close and nuzzles into your chest holding you tight with her ear to your chest and the both of you settle in for sleep
“You didn’t have to stay up for me.” You murmured into the dark.
“Yes I did. You take care of everyone else, let someone take care of you.” Vi whispered back.
With that you both drifted off to sleep knowing the other is loved and appreciated.
♯ i’m sorry, the number you’re trying to reach is not available . . . bitchy roommates who collectively don’t even make half a braincell and are secretly in love with each other. ¹ ⁸ ⁺
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summary: you met ellie at a late-night dive bar. and somehow, she ended up in your bed by dawn.
word count: 5.5k
THE BAR smelled like beer and cheap cologne, the air heavy with something thick—heat, maybe, or desperation. Ellie was already regretting the second shot of whatever Jesse had shoved into her hand, tongue still numb from it, when they pushed through the doors.
It wasn’t even a cool bar. Not really. One of those try-hard places with neon signs and floor lights, but Jesse had said it was the spot, and Dina had rolled her eyes, and Ellie—Ellie just followed. And she was mid-eye roll, already writing off the crowd, the noise, the way everything felt like it wanted to press in, when she saw you.
Dead center of the room. Laughing. Spinning. Glitter catching on your cheeks like you'd kissed a star goodbye and kept the residue. Your hair was damp with sweat, your chest rising and falling like you hadn’t stopped moving all night. And everyone was watching you—sure, they were. But no one looked at you the way Ellie did in that second.
Like you were a fucking mirage.
It hit her like a bruise. Like a punch to the ribs, slow and blooming. Her hand tightened around the rim of her glass and she almost forgot how to swallow.
You didn’t see her yet. Of course you didn’t. You were too busy dancing like the music was yours, like the whole place was just background noise to the world happening inside your head. Your laugh cracked open the bass, clear as a bell. Your smile lit up the goddamn shadows. And she wasn’t usually like this.
She wasn’t the poetic one. She didn’t fall headfirst. But she could already feel the words clattering around in her mouth. Want. Need. Stay.
“You good?” Dina asked, bumping her shoulder. Ellie didn’t even blink.
“Yeah,” she said, voice rough. “Yeah. I just…”
She trailed off because she didn’t know how to finish that sentence. ‘I just saw God and she's dripping glitter. I just saw the reason I came here and didn’t know it. I just saw you.’
Jesse followed her line of sight and let out a low whistle. “Damn,” he muttered. “She looks like a born again wild card.”
Ellie didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her jaw was locked, her heartbeat somewhere in her throat. There were people between you—bodies, sweat, the beat of a remix that barely held together—but Ellie could see you like there was no one else. Could feel you.
You tilted your head back, laughed again, and Ellie felt her knees go soft.
And for the first time in a long time, maybe since the world started ending and starting over and ending again, she wanted something with teeth. Something that didn’t make sense, something stupid. She wanted to walk straight into the storm you were and never come out.
And she didn’t even know your fucking name.
“Ellie,” Dina said again, her voice softer this time.
But Ellie didn’t move. She just stared. Until you turned like you’d felt her looking. Just like that. One spin, hips still swaying, and suddenly your eyes locked on hers through the haze of bodies and bass. You didn’t look surprised. You looked like you’d been waiting.
And Ellie? Ellie froze.
Your smile widened, and her stomach dropped through the floor. Jesse caught it instantly, let out a low “Oh, shit,” beside her, and Ellie didn’t even flicker in his direction.
You didn’t hesitate. No dramatic pause, no slow approach. You walked straight toward her, sweat and glitter still clinging to your neck like jewelry. The people around you seemed to part without even realizing, like the crowd made room for you out of instinct. Or reverence.
You didn’t say hi. You just reached for her hand—warm fingers wrapping around hers, calloused from guitar strings, and yanked.
You stopped and turned around to face her fully. Up close, you were ridiculous. Sparkles dusted your collarbones like stardust. There was a smear of highlighter across your cheekbone, and Ellie had the sudden, awful urge to trace it with her thumb.
Your breath smelled like mint and alcohol, and she didn't mind. She didn’t care if you were drinking something too sweet or if your lip gloss got stuck to her mouth. She’d taste every version of you just to say she had.
You leaned in just enough for her to hear you over the beat.
“That’s okay,” you said, all casual mischief and magnetism. “No one will be watching anyway.”
And then you grinned. Like this was a joke you’d already told yourself and the punchline was Ellie’s heartbeat skipping a step. But everyone would be watching, because you were there.
Jesse’s voice was fading behind her, something about good luck or don’t die or maybe remember to breathe, but none of it registered. Your hand tugged her forward again, and she let you.
She let you drag her into the chaos. The floor swallowed you both whole; the throbbing lights, music that hit in the chest more than the ears, strangers pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. But somehow, inside all that noise, it felt quiet.
It was just her. And you.
You didn’t make her dance. Not really. You just danced around her. Your hips swayed, your arms draped over her shoulders once, teasing and light, and your eyes stayed locked to hers like you were trying to pull something out. Ellie’s hands hovered awkwardly at her sides until you grabbed one and placed it gently—gently, like it mattered—at your waist.
“See?” you whispered. “You’re already doing it.”
Ellie shook her head, cheeks burning, but you laughed again, and she swore it rewired something in her. God, that laugh.
She forgot the music. Forgot the lights. She forgot the fact that she’d come here tonight just to get a little drunk and hide in a booth with her friends. You were here now. You were everything now.
You leaned closer again, your mouth brushing the shell of her ear. “You look like you’re thinking way too hard.”
“I’m not,” she lied, because she was thinking so much. About you. About how you felt in her hands, how you moved like you belonged to the rhythm, and she was just lucky enough to be orbiting in your pull.
“You’re cute when you lie,” you said, pulling back. “Kind of obvious. It’s adorable.”
Ellie tried to laugh, but it came out like a breath.
Then—after another beat of dancing, of you spinning and pulling her close again—your mouth dipped low near hers, and you said, “You’re not from around here.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a knowing. You were full of those truths, wrapped in teasing.
“No,” Ellie admitted. “First time at this place.”
You smiled like you’d known that the second you saw her. “Figures. You walked in like you didn’t want to belong to any of it.”
“Yeah?” Ellie tilted her head, biting her lower lip with nervousness. She should’ve said something cool. She didn’t. Instead, “what’s your name?”
You looked at her, eyes glinting, and said, “Does it matter?”
“I kinda think it does.”
You thought about that. Really thought about it. Then leaned in and whispered your name like it was a secret you were letting her borrow, just for tonight. It rang in her chest like a melody. Like something she already knew.
“Ellie,” she said back. “That’s mine.”
You repeated it, now closer to her lips. And she could've sworn her knees buckled. Ellie’s hands didn’t float at her sides now; they rested on your hips like they belonged there. The crowd didn’t feel as loud anymore. Like you were both underwater and only each other’s faces were in focus.
And then you got close again. Really close. Close enough for your lips to graze her ear.
“I want to tell you something,” you said.
Ellie swallowed. “Yeah?”
You pulled back and looked her dead in the eye. Serious, for the first time. A flicker of something behind your smile. Something just shy of sad.
“I think you’re gonna fuck me up,” you said.
Ellie blinked. She didn’t know what to say. You didn’t wait for her to figure it out.
You were still dancing. Still shining, and your mouth keep whispering wild things to her. Things like stay a little longer. And who has she to decline such an offer?
Time felt drunker than she was. The lights pulsed softer now, more like a heartbeat than a strobe, and Ellie’s feet barely remembered what not dancing felt like. Her mouth was dry, her fingers still ghosting your skin like they hadn’t realized the song was over.
You were leaning against the bar now, one arm slung lazily across the counter, your glitter mostly smudged and sweat dampening the curls at the back of your neck. You looked at her like she was the most interesting thing in the room—even now, even after hours of everything.
Ellie didn’t know what to do with that.
You ordered two drinks with a grin and the kind of charm that made the bartender smile too long. You turned back to her, eyes heavy, pupils wide, cheeks pink with warmth or alcohol or both. She’d lost track of how many drinks she’d had, only knew her body felt light, and her brain felt loud. And you were everywhere.
Before she could say something stupid—probably about how your nose scrunched when you laughed or how you hadn't let go of her hand all night—she heard Jesse’s voice from behind.
“There you are,” he said, low and amused. Dina stood beside him, coat over her arm, tired but watching Ellie with that look that meant we’re gonna talk about this later.
“We’re heading out,” Jesse added. “Want a ride?”
Ellie blinked. She looked at you. You were looking at her, waiting.
She shook her head. “Nah. I’m good.”
Dina raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” Ellie said. Her voice was steady, but her chest wasn’t. “I want to—uh. I’m staying.”
Jesse smirked, and Dina tugged his sleeve. “Text us if you need anything,” she said, voice softer now. And then they were gone, the door swinging shut behind them.
You slid her drink toward her. “Friends leaving?”
“Yeah,” Ellie said, fingers curling around the glass. “I’m staying, though.”
The bar noise kept spilling around you both for a while, until you leaned in close again, that breathy little edge to your voice that made every word sound secret.
“Wanna get out of here?”
Ellie nodded before her brain even caught up.
You took her hand again—fingers laced this time—and pulled her through the crowd like you were leading her to something holy.
YOU LIVED just past the 7-Eleven.
Ellie didn’t know that until the two of you were stumbling down the sidewalk, half-dizzy from the bar’s warmth and the weight of everything unsaid. You’d peeled her out of the last chorus, fingers laced with hers, saying something like ‘Come on. It’s not far.’
She hadn’t even asked where.
The street was quiet, dipped in shadows and old porch lights. Somewhere behind you, the world was still spinning its noise, but here—it was just the smell of pavement and wet leaves, your voice like sugar melting in her ear.
“So,” you said, swinging your arm lazily in hers, “what’s your damage, Ellie?”
She laughed despite herself. “Jesus.”
“You’ve got baggage,” you added, like it was charming. “So do I. Don’t worry. I won’t unpack mine if you don’t.”
She almost said something like I don’t want to fuck this up but swallowed it. Instead, she squeezed your hand a little tighter. You tugged her to a stop at the crosswalk. The red light lit up both your faces, washing you in color. Cars passed slowly. You looked like a movie scene she’d never admit she’d dreamed of.
Ellie didn’t mean to say it. Not all of it. But your hand was warm, and your thumb was brushing back and forth against her skin, and your hair was a mess, and she was just drunk enough to be honest.
“I don’t do this,” she said. You looked at her. “I don’t let people in,” she added, voice lower. “Not fast. Not like this.” You didn’t say anything, not right away. So she kept going. “I feel like I’ve known you longer than tonight. And that’s stupid. And I’m probably reading this wrong. But I don’t want it to be nothing. Does that sound stupid?”
You tilted your head. A car whooshed by. The red light held. And you didn’t answer, you just smiled. But there was something underneath it. A sadness she couldn’t name. The light turned green. You crossed the street in silence, hand still wrapped in hers, and didn’t let go even once.
Your apartment was a few floors up, door painted a chipped blue, a wind chime hanging that didn’t match anything else. Inside, it smelled like sage and vanilla and something soft. You dropped your bag. Toed off your shoes. And fell onto the couch like you’d done it a thousand times before.
Ellie stayed standing.
“You want another drink?” you asked, already reaching for a bottle on the counter.
“Sure,” she said, but she didn’t care about the drink.
You poured two, and handed her one. She took a sip. Winced. “Jesus, what is this?”
“Courage,” you grinned.
You sat next to her again, this time with your legs crossed under you, arm along the back of the couch, eyes watching her like she was a stranger you wanted to learn. Your warm skin was touching hers, and she suddenly felt dizzy.
“You always spill your guts at traffic lights?” you asked.
Ellie rolled her eyes. “Only for you.”
Now, the bottle was almost gone. It sat on the table, the last inch settling thick and dark in the bottom. The glasses had stopped being topped off—just sipped slower, stretched thinner, like time itself had started running out with it.
You were curled into Ellie on the couch, legs draped over hers. The mood had dipped quieter for a while, but something in the silence had started to change.
She could feel it in your laugh. Looser. Drunker. In the way you played with your own ring, twisting it around and around your finger while you talked about nothing. In the way, your leg shifted just a little—closer. Seeking friction. A touch. An answer.
Ellie caught your eyes for too long on her mouth.
So, she did something about it.
Her hand, slow and warm, slid along your thigh, her fingertips just barely pressing into your skin through the soft fabric of your jeans. Her pinky lingered, teasing the edge of the rip near your knee. She didn’t look at you right away, just smiled to herself.
A shit-eating grin.
You glanced down at her hand, then back at her face. “Oh?” you said, a single eyebrow raised.
Ellie met your eyes, still grinning, still slow and unreadable. “What?”
“That’s a bold move,” you said, breathier now. Your lips curved into a grin of your own, like a dare. “You trying to be slick?”
“Is it working?”
You snorted and leaned forward until your faces were close again. “You’re lucky I’m tipsy,” you murmured.
“I’m lucky either way.”
Your mouth twitched. Then your hand was on her neck. Just like that. Your own fingers grabbing her short auburn locks like they were your own anchor, and pulling her in like it had been inevitable. And maybe it had. Your lips met in the middle—open and warm and shameless. It was messier. No hesitation.
Ellie kissed you like she’d wanted to since the moment she saw you spin in the middle of that dance floor. Like she’d waited long enough.
You straddled her on the couch, knees pressing into cushions, one hand braced against her chest, the other tangled in her hair. She groaned when you bit her bottom lip, and you grinned against her mouth, drunk on it. Drunk on her.
The couch groaned with every shift.
Ellie’s hands slid under your shirt, warm palms against warmer skin. You laughed into her neck, breath hiccupping.
“I thought you didn’t do this kind of thing,” you whispered, voice broken with breath.
“I don’t,” Ellie said, mouth chasing your jaw. “But I do you, baby.”
“Fuck,” you muttered, laughing again. But your nails dug into her shoulder like maybe she just knocked the air out of you a little.
When you pulled back, your pupils were blown wide, lips swollen, glitter smudged across your cheekbone like war paint. You were art, and Ellie was too far gone to pretend she wasn’t starving for it.
“Bed?” you asked, voice rasped and daring. She nodded without thinking.
Your room was smaller than Ellie expected. The walls were covered in posters, torn magazine clippings, books stacked in a corner with no shelf. The sheets were half-made. The window was cracked open to the humid night, letting in a soft breeze that raised goosebumps across your arms.
You climbed onto the bed first and flopped back, limbs sprawled, breathless from laughing at something dumb Ellie said on the way down the hall. You looked up at her, all soft and dangerous, and held your hand out.
She took it.
When she leaned over you, her hair fell forward. Your fingers caught a strand and tucked it behind her ear, eyes never leaving hers.
“You’re trouble,” you whispered.
“I know,” she said. “So are you.”
Then it got quiet again. Like, even the air knew something was about to crack wide open. Her lips met yours again, and it was different now. Slower. Hungrier.
She kissed down your neck, pausing at the collar of your shirt. You nodded, and she tugged it off, tossed it somewhere behind her without looking. Her mouth followed the trail of exposed skin like it was instinct.
You arched under her, breath catching, chest pressed to hers. Her hands knew exactly where to rest. Your hips rose, legs wrapping around her waist. The contact was almost unbearable now.
“You good?” she asked, forehead resting against yours.
You nodded, panting slightly. “Just kiss me.”
So she did. She kissed you until you weren’t laughing anymore, just moaning softly, whispering her name between gasps and half-laughed curses. Your hands were under her shirt now, lifting it slowly, nails dragging across her ribs. She hissed at the contact, and you smiled, smug.
“Sensitive?”
“Shut up,” she muttered into your neck, biting just enough to make you squirm. Enough to leave a mark.
Clothes fell away, piece by piece. The bed creaked under you. The sheets tangled. You kissed until you were both raw from it, until everything sticky and loud turned tender again—hands on hips, fingers in hair, the space between your bodies so thin it felt holy.
You whispered things. Some of them true. Some of them you’d pretend you didn’t remember in the morning. Ellie held you through all of it. Pressed kisses to your shoulder, your cheek, your sternum. Told you between sighs that you were beautiful when you called her a liar. Called you dangerous when you grinned into her mouth.
The glitter was gone by the end of it. Just sweat now, and heat. The kind of closeness that didn’t have a name but didn’t need one either.
And somewhere between a kiss and a laugh, you fell asleep with your face tucked into her neck, and Ellie stayed awake a little longer—just long enough to memorize the rhythm of your breath.
ELLIE woke up smiling.
Not the usual twitch of her mouth when a dream made her laugh. No. This smile was full. Real. A slow, stretching kind of smile that bloomed across her face like sunlight through a cracked window.
She blinked into the soft haze of your room. Bare legs tangled in thin sheets, the scent of your skin still clinging to her. Her arm reached across the bed instinctively, fingers grazing a pillow still warm on one side.
But you weren’t there.
She sat up slowly, her body sore in the best kind of way. The room was quiet, the morning light dull and golden, drifting through your thin curtains.
Then she saw you.
You were across the room, near the window, half-lit by the sun. Wearing nothing but an oversized hoodie. It swallowed you whole, the hem brushing your thighs, sleeves too long for your hands. Your makeup was smudged, the glitter from the night before a faint shimmer across your cheekbone, lips still faintly stained wine-red. Your hair was a disaster.
And you still looked like Aphrodite, dragged through war and woke up winning.
You turned when you felt her eyes on you. Your smile was quiet. Gentle. But distant in a way that made Ellie’s stomach twist.
“Hey,” you said softly.
“Hey,” she murmured back, rubbing a hand over her face. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten.”
“Mm,” she stretched, muscles aching. “You always look like this in the morning?”
You smiled, a little sad this time. “No. Just when I’m trying to figure out how to say goodbye.”
Ellie blinked. “…What?”
You stepped toward the bed, bare feet soundless on the floor. Sat on the edge beside her. Close enough that your thigh brushed hers, but your body didn’t lean in. Your hands stayed in your lap.
“I don’t want to be confusing,” you said quietly. “Last night was real. Every second of it.”
Ellie watched you carefully, that smile fading from her lips. “Okay…”
“But this is where it ends, babe.”
She froze. You didn’t say it with cruelty. There wasn’t anything sharp in your voice. No mockery. No regret. You said it like it was just the truth. Like it had always been the plan, even if she didn’t know it.
“I don’t do the morning after,” you continued, eyes still on your fingers. You winced, still not looking at her. “I should’ve warned you.”
She didn’t know what to say. A dozen things rushed to her tongue—half of them defensive, the other half just hurt. But none of them left her mouth.
“Was it something I did?” she asked finally, voice hoarse.
You looked at her, eyes softening. “No. You were… honestly, you were better than I ever expected”
Ellie shifted on the bed, blanket falling to her waist. Her hand reached for your thigh, but she stopped just before touching you. Let it hover in the space between.
“So that’s it?” she asked. “We don’t get to see what happens next?”
You hesitated. “I don’t think you do wanna know what happens next.”
There was silence for a long beat. Then Ellie leaned back, dragging a hand through her hair, trying to mask the ache blooming in her chest.
“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath.
You stood slowly, tugging the hem of the hoodie lower. You turned your back to her, busying yourself by folding a blanket that didn’t need folding.
“You can stay a few more minutes if you want. There’s water in the kitchen. Toothbrush in the drawer.”
“Wow,” Ellie said, dry. “This the deluxe split package?”
You glanced at her over your shoulder. “Ellie.” Her name sounded like a sigh. Like maybe, you wished you were someone else too. “I don’t want to hurt you,” you said.
“Well, you’re doing a fucking stellar job anyway.”
You nodded. Took that. Accepted it. Ellie stood up, slowly, grounding herself. She pulled on her jeans, her sports bra, her shirt, all in silence. You stayed near the window, arms crossed, eyes not on her anymore.
You still looked like a dream. Even sad. Even untouchable. And that was the worst part.
By the time she made it to the door, Ellie paused, her hand on the knob. She turned to you one last time. Then she stepped out into the hallway. The door shut behind her.
And just like that, you were gone.
IT HAD been months.
The bar hadn’t seen your laugh since that night. No glitter, no flash of thigh catching the strobe lights. Dina stopped mentioning your name after the third day. Jesse had told Ellie to move on. And eventually… she tried.
But your absence lingered in her like an unfinished chapter. Until the day Ellie took the long way home.
The engine of her bike purred through a side street, the air dry and the sun dying orange behind the horizon. She was late, hungry, pissed about her dead phone battery. She almost didn’t notice the car on the shoulder.
She slowed instinctively.
And then she saw you.
Bent slightly over the engine, hair tied up, grease on your cheek and frustration painted all over your face. Your car door was open. Music played softly from inside—Fleetwood Mac, of all things—and you were muttering to yourself like you were about to commit arson.
Ellie’s heart nearly stopped.
You turned, and your eyes met hers like the universe had planned it. She could barely get off the bike. Her legs moved before her brain caught up. You blinked, startled. And then your face did something strange—this flicker of recognition, disbelief, and then—God, something like guilt.
“Ellie,” you said softly. “Holy shit.”
She stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets. “What happened?”
“Car’s dead,” you muttered. “Won’t start. I’ve been here for over an hour.”
Your smile was cautious. Tired. Silence stretched, awkward at first, but not cold.
“I can give you a ride,” Ellie offered, regretting it instantly.
You hesitated, eyes flicking to her bike, and nodded. Ellie handed you her helmet and tried not to smile like an idiot when your fingers brushed. Dina would’ve slapped her silly, but right now, she didn’t mind. She chose to be selfish, even for a couple of minutes, if it meant she could have you.
The ride was quiet. No words between you, just the wind, her heartbeat pounding, and the pressure of your arms around her waist. You didn’t let go quickly when the engine cut off. Not even when she reached back to shut it off. Your chin lingered on her shoulder for half a second longer than it needed to. She noticed.
Her place was quiet. Dina was staying with Jesse in Jackson for the week. A blessing Ellie didn’t deserve, honestly. Inside, you stood in the entryway, glancing around like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to step deeper.
“You want a drink?” Ellie asked, already walking toward the kitchen.
“Sure,” you said. “Surprise me.”
She cracked open two beers and tossed you one. You leaned against the counter, sipped, then looked down at the bottle like it held answers. “I was kind of a bitch that night, huh?”
Ellie raised an eyebrow, taking a long sip. “Mean as fuck.”
You laughed, and Ellie couldn’t help but smile.
“God,” you muttered, brushing hair behind your ear. “I thought about apologizing like... five hundred times.”
“You should’ve,” she said easily. “I looked hot as hell, heartbroken.”
“Jesus,” you muttered, laughing again. “You’re still such a smug little shit.”
“And you’re still unreal,” she said, stepping closer.
You didn’t move back.
“I hadn’t stopped thinking about you,” you whispered, suddenly serious. “The way you tasted. The way you looked at me.”
Ellie’s fingers brushed the hem of your top. “Still looking.”
You inhaled, as your lips crashed against hers—hungry, messy, no time for permission.
Ellie dropped the beer bottle onto the counter without looking and pulled you in hard, teeth dragging on your bottom lip as you gasped into her mouth. Your hands found her jaw, her shoulders, then her waist, like you were starving for a map and she was the terrain.
You stumbled backward, slamming into the couch, never breaking the kiss. Ellie’s hand was already under your top, fingers grazing your bare waist, pulling you onto her lap. You moaned against her mouth, grinding down hard, and she hissed between her teeth.
“I swear to God,” she muttered against your throat, lips brushing your skin, “if you disappear again, I’m suing you.”
You bit your lip, breathless, already half-undone. “No chance,” you panted. “Not letting you go twice.”
That wrecked her.
Ellie shoved the coffee table aside with one foot, her other hand gripping the back of your neck as she kissed you harder. You were already rocking against her thigh, sweat sticking your clothes to your skin, and every touch between you was fast, greedy, heated like the heater behind the couch that buzzed faintly against the cold walls.
“You’re so fucking hot,” she whispered, lips at your ear. “You always were. Thought about this every fucking night.”
You whimpered—actually whimpered—and Ellie nearly lost it.
Her hand was between your legs before you realized what was happening, teasing you through your jeans, making you squirm. You yanked at her shirt, her hair, anything to get more skin.
“Say it again,” she whispered, tongue against your jaw. “Tell me you missed me.”
“I fucking missed you,” you breathed, hips rolling helplessly. “Missed your mouth—missed your hands—missed you.”
“Yeah?” she grinned, cocky and wrecked. “Still taste like heaven?” You nodded frantically. “Prove it,” she said, dragging your hand to her chest.
And then it was just mouths and breath and sweat and denim and sighs and heat, heat, heat—until neither of you could speak. Until your fingers were tangled in her hair and her hands were under your clothes and the only sounds were the heater clicking, the couch creaking, and the gasps you made in her ear.
You stayed there for what felt like hours. Limbs tangled. Hearts pounding. No wine this time. No morning after to fear. Just you and her and a chance neither of you expected—but weren’t about to waste again.
THE COUCH cushion was warm under her back, your body draped half across her chest. Your breath was soft now—finally—even if your heart still beat against her ribs like it didn’t know the night was over yet.
The room smelled like sweat and skin and something sweeter. Maybe you. Maybe just relief.
Ellie stared up at the ceiling, one hand resting on your bare back, slowly tracing invisible lines. She felt like she’d run a marathon without moving. Her legs were jelly. Her mouth was wrecked. Her hoodie was probably lost under the coffee table, and your jeans were hanging off the side of the couch like they’d been in a fight and lost.
You were quiet. Still. And she was scared to break it. Then you spoke—barely above a whisper. “I thought about that night way more than I should’ve.”
Ellie’s fingers paused on your spine. She turned her head slightly, looking down at you.
Your face was buried in the curve of her neck, lips ghosting her skin.
“I felt so much that night, I panicked,” you continued. “Like, I walked out before it could ruin me.”
Ellie didn’t say anything yet. Just waited. Let you spill it.
You pulled back slowly, sitting up on your elbow, the blanket clinging to your bare skin. “I didn’t think you’d look at me the same if you knew how messy I really was,” you said, voice trembling slightly. “If you knew how easy it is for me to fall apart.”
Ellie sat up, hand sliding up your arm, fingers curling at your shoulder.
Your throat bobbed. You looked away. “I’m still scared,” you said. “Like… this could be nothing. Or it could be everything. And I don’t trust myself to know the difference.”
Ellie leaned in, forehead brushing yours.
“It doesn’t have to be, either,” she murmured. “It can just be right now.”
You let out a shaky breath, and that’s when Ellie saw it—your eyes glimmering, raw and red-rimmed, not from sex or sweat or makeup, but from vulnerability. From trust.
“I haven’t let someone stay in years,” you admitted, voice small. “And I usually leave before they wake up.”
Ellie pressed a kiss to the side of your jaw.
“Stay this time,” she whispered. “Let me make you breakfast like a loser tomorrow.”
You laughed into her collarbone. “Like pancakes?”
“Like whatever the hell is in the fridge that isn’t expired.”
Another breath. This one easier. Deeper. Your body softened against hers again, forehead resting on her shoulder now. She curled her arm around your back, thumb grazing slow, sleepy circles.
The heater buzzed softly. And then your voice came again, almost a murmur. “I’m not going anywhere. Not this time.”
Ellie closed her eyes. Let the words settle into her chest like warmth, like truth.
You weren’t glittering under club lights anymore. You weren’t laughing in the center of a crowd. You were naked, quiet, curled into her side, and letting her hold the parts of you that no one else got to touch.
And somehow, this was even more intoxicating than the first night. Then your lips found hers, slower this time. Lazy. Soft. Her hand slid under your thigh again, more tender now, more reverent than teasing.
You sighed into her mouth like you could stay like this forever.
synopsis: tensions rise in the aftermath of the kiss and you and ellie are stuck in a never-ending game of tag. the only question is, who'll lose first?
content: MDNI 18+ content, eventual smut, fluff, angst, swearing (lots of it), enemies to lovers, yearning, jealousy, slow burn, use of y/n, usage of alcohol, violence (note: this will be updated as i go)
word count: 4.1k
series masterlist | previous chapter
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CHAPTER 4: "𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙧 𝙞𝙩"
THE KISS STAYED HIDDEN — but only just.
No one had seen it happen, not with certainty. Not with clarity. But that didn’t matter. The press didn’t need facts when they could smell blood in the water. One blurry photo, a frame frozen mid-motion, and suddenly the entire paddock reeked of gasoline and suspicion. A thousand matchsticks were struck in headlines across Europe before Ellie could even catch her breath.
“Red-Hot Tension Between Rivals Boils Over in Bahrain.”“Williams and L/N Caught in Intimate Moment at Nightclub.”“Ellie Williams Seen Up Close With Longtime Enemy – Is It More Than Hatred?”
The stories were all heat and hypothesis, smoke without fire — except Ellie knew the truth. There had been fire. It had licked down her spine the moment your mouth met hers, unplanned, electric, terrifying. It had crackled in her chest when you didn’t pull away. When she didn’t either.
Now it was all ash and aftermath.
She couldn’t walk ten steps in the paddock without feeling eyes on her. Curious. Greedy. Waiting for something to snap. A reporter lingered too long outside her garage. Someone from social media had clipped every single moment from that night you had appeared in the same frame. They even slowed it down like they were analysing satellite footage for signs of life on Mars.
Ellie tried to bury it under interviews and race prep, tried to drown it in telemetry data and sponsor meetings, but the silence was everywhere. Deafening. Hollow. You didn’t speak to her — not once. And that quiet was the worst part. It wasn’t peace. It was punishment.
You walked past her in the Jeddah paddock four days later — eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, chin up, jaw set — and it hit her like a side-impact crash: you weren’t just avoiding her.
You were erasing her.
She’d memorized your fury. Your glares, your insults, the whip of sarcasm in every interaction. You had been the friction in her gears, the heat in her tires, the shadow trailing her every lap.
Now, nothing.
Not a glance. Not a word. Not even contempt.
It was like you’d taken all of that molten, impossible energy between you and locked it behind concrete. Like you were trying to pretend she was just another driver. Just another body in a racing suit.
But Ellie knew better. She felt it still — buzzing in her teeth, humming behind her ribcage.
She saw it in how you gripped your steering wheel tighter on practice laps. How your voice cracked ever so slightly in interviews when her name was mentioned. How you turned away too quickly when the photographers shouted for a photo of the two of you at the next driver briefing.
It was still there. The storm. You were just bottling it now.
And it was making her insane.
She sat in the back of the Ferrari motorhome with a towel around her neck and her face in her hands, the air conditioning too cold and her thoughts too loud.
“I kissed her,” she whispered. “God. I kissed her.”
“You both kissed each other,” Dina corrected from the sofa. She hadn’t left Ellie’s side much since Bahrain. She hadn’t said I told you so, though her silence screamed it.
Ellie tilted her head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling, blinking hard.
“Do you think she regrets it?”
Dina didn’t answer right away. “Do you?”
“I regret everything after,” Ellie said. “I regret that she looked at me like she didn’t know who I was. I regret that she’s walking around acting like it didn’t happen.”
“And if she wasn’t?”
Ellie bit the inside of her cheek, not offering a response.
The next day, Dina approached her again.
“You should talk to her,” Dina had said one morning in the garage, while Ellie pretended to check tire temperatures just to avoid looking up.
“I don’t have anything to say,” Ellie muttered, voice like rust scraping metal.
“That’s not true.”
“Then I don’t have anything I want to hear.”
Dina let her have the lie. For now.
It wasn’t just guilt or confusion that kept her up at night. It was the way the kiss had felt — real, and raw, and undeserved. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t theatrical. It wasn’t the sort of thing that could be dismissed with a snide comment and a headline correction.
It was the kind of thing that split a person open.
She hadn’t touched her phone in hours, maybe days. Her agent had messaged her four times with some polite variation of “What the hell happened in Bahrain?” but she couldn’t answer that question. Not when she didn’t even know where to start.
It was a kiss.
It was a mistake.
It was a relief.
It was everything she wasn’t supposed to want.
The press could speculate all they liked. None of their questions could compete with the ones she was asking herself.
What did it mean that her stomach turned to static every time she remembered the shape of your mouth? What did it mean that she had looked for you in every room since? That her first instinct after every lap was to glance at the telemetry board for your name, your time, your gap to her?
What did it mean that she wanted to see you again — not to fight, not to scream, but to feel that wildfire again?
She was spiralling.
And you were nowhere.
───────────────────────────────
You’ve been running ever since that night.
Not physically. You’re still clocking every session, every simulator hour, every debrief. You’re showing up like a ghost in a race suit — hollow in the chest, steel in the eyes, saying all the right things and dodging every question like it’s a chicane built from landmines.
But emotionally?
You’ve been sprinting. Away from that kiss. Away from her.
Ellie Williams is a glitch in your system. A hurricane caught in a loop. Every time you close your eyes, you're back on that dance floor — her breath sharp against your lips, her hands still caught in the fabric of your dress, the taste of adrenaline and whiskey and something unspoken. Something dangerous.
You told yourself you’d forget.
But your body remembers.
And worse, so does everyone else.
The tabloids haven’t shut up in days. Your PR team is scrambling like the paddock’s on fire. “We need to refocus the narrative.” “No comment isn’t cutting it.” “Do you two even like each other?”
You almost laugh at that. Almost.
Like was never the problem.
You haven't spoken to Ellie since the kiss. Not once. Not a word. Not a glare, not a look, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. You’ve carved a wall between you tall enough to scrape the clouds. Because if you say anything, if you give even an inch—you're terrified the whole thing will flood back in. You’re terrified of what you’ll say.
Because you still don’t know what that kiss meant.
Not for her. Not for you.
But you know how it made you feel.
And that’s the part you can't forgive.
You’re in the Mercedes engineering room, sitting through footage review with your jaw clenched so tight you can taste blood at the back of your throat. The Bahrain GP is already a week behind you, but they’re still dissecting it like you lost by a minute instead of milliseconds.
Your lap times. Your tire degradation. Your braking point in sector three.
You nod, you murmur, you fake attention — but your mind is far, far away. Not on the lap. Not on the car.
It’s on her.
You see Ellie behind your eyes like an afterimage burned into your corneas. The way her suit was tailored for her. The way her freckles looked underneath the strobe lights, like paint splatters from the gods themselves. The way her green eyes burned across the club. The way she looked at you right before the kiss — not with hate. With confusion. With something else. Something that didn’t belong in a rivalry but had been there all the same.
It’s maddening.
You should be furious.
You are furious.
But underneath that rage, tucked deep beneath the competitive edge and media pressure, there’s a heat you can’t extinguish. You remember how she tasted. How she didn’t pull away. How she leaned in, even after. How she left without a word.
You remember, and it makes you want to scream.
You’re jolted out of your spiral when Abby bumps your arm with a quiet, “You alright?”
You blink. “Yeah. Fine.”
But she sees through you. Of course she does.
Abby leans back in her chair, arms folded. “You’ve been staring at the same telemetry line for five minutes.”
You force a smile. “Just running it back in my head.”
“Uh huh,” she deadpans. “The race, or the moment your mouth met Ellie’s?”
You whip your head toward her. “Abby.”
She holds up her hands. “Hey, I didn’t say I judged you. I’m just saying… maybe next time we don’t kiss our mortal enemies at a club filled with journalists.”
You groan and let your head fall into your hands. “It wasn’t planned.”
“Yeah, that’s kinda obvious,” Abby mutters. “It looked like the start of a bar fight. That turned into a makeout.”
You rub your face like that’ll erase the memory.
But it doesn’t.
Nothing does.
The city of Jeddah stretches out like a fever dream — mirrored skyscrapers, marble mosques, golden haze. But under all that shimmer is heat. Not the kind the sun brings, but the kind that simmers under skin and behind ribs. The kind that crawls into your bloodstream and stays there, no matter how much you try to sweat it out.
And she's here again.
Ellie Williams.
The red of her Ferrari uniform slices through your peripheral like a wound reopening.
You haven’t seen her properly since Monaco. Not outside of headlines and strategically cropped photos, not outside of that cursed footage they keep replaying on gossip channels—the kiss slowed down like a crash, freeze-framed at the moment before your mouths met like it was some kind of breaking point.
Because it was.
And now she’s standing in front of you.
Looking like the war you’ve tried to forget.
The moment your eyes meet, it's like the floodgates open — and everything you've been pressing down surges straight up your throat.
"You've been dodging me," she says.
You hate how even her voice feels like contact — brisk, cutting, heat-laced.
You respond, flat. “Been busy.”
“Bullshit,” she says, and her freckles look darker under the artificial lights. “You’ve been hiding.”
You cross your arms over your chest, grounding yourself. "And what, you're here to call me out?"
“No,” Ellie says, stepping closer. “I’m here because I need to know what the hell that kiss was.”
Your heart stutters in your chest. But your tone doesn’t betray it. “A mistake.”
She doesn’t flinch.
Instead, she tilts her head, green eyes narrowing. “Then why do you look like you're still thinking about it every time someone says my name?”
You exhale like it’s the only thing keeping you from combusting. “You think this is easy for me?”
“I don’t know what I think,” she mutters. “That’s the problem.”
You should walk away.
Instead, you take a step closer.
Now you’re so close you can see the way her lashes tremble with the weight of her own breathing. So close you can smell the leftover hint of fuel, sweat, and her — whatever the hell her scent is made of, it’s stuck in your memory like a curse.
“You kissed me back,” you say.
Ellie doesn’t deny it.
But she does look away. “It didn’t mean anything.”
That hurts more than you expect.
It slices through your chest like shattered carbon fiber.
“Right,” you say bitterly. “Just heat of the moment. Just adrenaline. Just... the enemy.”
“Exactly,” she says. But it comes out thin. Fragile.
“Then say it like you mean it.”
“I—” she stops.
The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s weighted. A storm cloud held together by sheer stubbornness.
And then, quietly — almost too quietly to catch — she whispers, “It wasn’t supposed to happen.”
You don’t know what comes over you. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the proximity. Maybe it’s the ghost of her mouth still imprinted on yours.
But your hand twitches at your side.
And so does hers.
It’s like some invisible thread pulls the space taut between your bodies. Your shoulders are almost touching now. Your breaths sync up. Your eyes won’t look anywhere but at each other.
“Tell me to leave,” you murmur.
Ellie’s lips part.
She doesn’t say it.
Instead, she steps forward — and now you’re not even a breath apart. Your noses nearly brush. Your lips hover dangerously close. The tension is so thick you could cut it with a winglet.
And god, you want to close the distance.
Just one second. One decision. One tilt forward.
But Ellie whispers, barely audible, “If I kiss you again, I don’t think I’ll be able to hate you after.”
You freeze.
So does she.
You stare at each other — two drivers stuck on the same curve, locked in the same skid, helpless against gravity.
And then a camera flash cuts through the paddock behind you like a lightning bolt.
You both jolt back.
The moment shatters.
Ellie is breathing hard. So are you.
No words pass between you.
She turns on her heel and walks away.
And you're left standing in the paddock, heart pounding in your throat, lips aching from a kiss that almost was — and a truth neither of you is ready to say out loud.
───────────────────────────────
QUALIFYING DAY
The Ferrari hums around her like a second skin.
Strapped in, Ellie’s pulse syncs to the engine. The steering wheel glows with neon language — modes, sectors, deltas — but her eyes are locked on the track. Her mind, however, keeps trying to veer. Keeps replaying last night in high-definition: the almost-kiss. The look in your eyes. The breath you didn’t take.
She shakes it off as her engineer crackles in her ear. "Box out, traffic clear."
She peels out of the garage.
The world narrows. Every thought except speed slips away.
Turn 1 comes at her like a thrown knife — she catches it with smooth precision. The tires bite, and she dances through the corners, inching along the painted edges like a tightrope walker at knife-point. Turn 4, Turn 5 — fast, blind, cruel. But Ellie drives like she’s trying to outrun herself.
This car is her confessional booth.
And she bleeds speed.
Sector 2 opens with a sweeping burst of acceleration. She threads through the high-speed chicane like a needle through silk, heart hammering as the barriers flirt inches from her tires. There’s no margin. One wrong breath and she’s into the wall.
But that’s how she likes it.
Danger has always made her feel alive. And lately, you’ve started to feel dangerously similar.
She nails the apex of Turn 22 with millimeter precision, practically kissing the curb. Her delta flashes green.
Purple sector.
By the time she crosses the line, she's shaking. Not with fear, but with the violence of control.
P1 — for now.
She exhales, but it feels like fire.
You sit in the car like it’s a cockpit made for war.
Your helmet seals you off from the world, but Ellie’s ghost is still in here. Her words, her breath, that almost. You chew it down. Spit it out. Bury it beneath strategy and revs.
The out lap is quiet.
Not in sound — your engineer talks you through tire temps, track evolution—but in the space inside your head, it’s all coiled silence. You sit at the mouth of the circuit like a predator watching its prey blink into motion.
Then—
“Okay. Gap’s good. Whenever you’re ready.”
You launch.
And the car sings.
You tear down the straight like a bullet chasing its shadow. Turn 1 comes fast — faster than instinct — and you trail-brake into it like you’re carving your name into the tarmac. The rear end twitches, but you tame it with a breath and a flick.
The corners come faster now. You surf the edge of grip through the chicanes, balancing delicately between speed and catastrophe. It’s like threading a razor wire—one miscalculation and you're red flags and splintered carbon.
But you don’t falter.
You’re not driving for a lap time.
You’re driving to beat her.
The car hugs Turn 13 like it’s afraid to let go. Your delta blinks green—then purple. You’ve taken Sector 1.
You’re flying.
Down the long, sweeping back straight, the engine roars so loudly it drowns out thought. You see Ellie’s car parked P1 on the screen in your mind. And something primal rises in your chest.
You slam into Turn 22, pushing the car to the edge of its sanity.
Tyres shriek. The rear skates. But you catch it. Force it to obey.
And when you rocket out of the final corner, the track disappears behind you like a bad dream.
Across the line.
P1.
You exhale, and it feels like ripping open.
You roll back into the pit lane with your knuckles white on the wheel. Ellie’s Ferrari is already parked across from you.
You don’t look over.
But you know she’s looking.
Somewhere beneath the helmets and data sheets and pitboards, a storm brews. The numbers on the screens flicker — but they don’t tell the whole story. They never do.
Because what the telemetry doesn’t capture is how your pulse tripped when you saw her name just below yours.
Or how hers spiked when she watched your sector time turn purple.
───────────────────────────────
The morning sun had barely cracked over the desert horizon when Ellie Williams stirred awake. The air was dry, thin, and brittle as old parchment, but her lungs drank it in greedily. Today was the race — the Jeddah Grand Prix — the crucible where skill met fire, and rivals either forged into legends or shattered like glass under pressure.
Her mind was a storm of nerves and adrenaline, a whirlwind of fragmented thoughts tangled like the barbed wire of her rivalry with you. Pole had slipped through her fingers by a fraction yesterday, and the sting was still fresh, a raw ache behind her ribs. But she pushed the bitter taste aside, focusing instead on the singular, unyielding truth: she would not be second today. Not to you.
The team bus hummed like a hive of restless bees as it rolled toward the circuit, the world beyond a blur of sand and steel. Around her, mechanics buzzed with practiced precision, their voices a low murmur beneath the roar of engines waking from slumber. The paddock smelled of gasoline, sweat, and the sharp tang of anticipation — a perfume Ellie had come to associate with triumph and torment alike.
Ellie’s gaze drifted to her reflection in the window glass, catching her sharp green eyes rimmed with exhaustion and fire. Freckles danced across her cheeks like scattered constellations, a reminder of the girl from the quiet town who had clawed her way into the storm of F1. Yet today, beneath the polished suit and helmet, she was something else: a warrior with everything to prove.
The formation lap was a muted symphony of controlled chaos. She could hear the muted crackle of the radio, the whispered prayers of engineers, and the muted thud of her own heartbeat hammering against the cage of her ribcage. The car responded beneath her like a wild stallion, every twitch of the wheel a conversation, every push of the throttle a command.
But it was your presence — just ahead on the grid — that twisted the knife in her chest. You, poised and composed, a silver bullet glinting beneath the unforgiving desert sun. Your calm was a taunt. Your victory from yesterday, a smoldering challenge. Ellie’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles white beneath her gloves. This wasn’t just a race. It was a war fought in silence and sparks, inches and whispered hatred.
The five red lights blinked in her helmet visor like the countdown to battle.
Five…
Four…
Three…
Two…
One.
And then the world exploded.
The car launched forward, a flash of red streaking against the track, the tires shrieking in protest as she clawed for every millisecond. Her eyes burned, not just from the glare of the sun but from the furnace of determination that had roared to life inside her. Every curve, every apex was a strike thrown in a fight that only the two of them understood.
Ellie’s mind was a whirlwind of sensation — the brutal poetry of the race. The sharp scent of burnt rubber mingled with the cool rush of desert air whipping past. The Ferrari roared beneath her, a living thing snarling to the rhythm of her heartbeat. The track was a serpent twisting beneath the tires, each bend a challenge, each straight a fleeting breath.
Your presence hovered like a shadow at her rear-view mirror, a constant reminder that this was more than just a contest of speed. It was a test of wills, a battlefield where emotions ran as hot as the engines. Every time Ellie dared to push forward, you were there — a wall of silver and silence — blocking, daring, tempting her to break.
Lap after lap, they danced the razor’s edge between victory and ruin. Your eyes, clear and unreadable behind your visor, caught hers through the glare, a silent conversation packed with everything they refused to say aloud. Hate. Respect. Desire. The unspoken gravity between you was heavier than any trophy.
As the laps wore on, Ellie’s fury burned brighter. The sting of almost winning yesterday fermented into a reckless fire. She attacked the track with renewed ferocity, her moves sharper, more desperate. At the back straight, she unleashed the full fury of her Ferrari, the engine’s growl rising to a howl. She closed the gap, inching closer to the silver phantom ahead.
Then, at Turn 13 — the twisting, treacherous corner where seconds were won or lost—Ellie saw her chance. You left the door ajar, a blink, a hesitation. It was all she needed.
Her dive was bold, reckless, like a flame licking at oxygen. Tires rubbed, hearts thundered. She felt the thrill of being ahead, the rush of victory coursing through her veins like wildfire. But beneath it all, the conflicted ache remained. For all the hate she felt, part of her was inexplicably drawn to you. That magnetic pull, sharp and dangerous, left her breathless.
Crossing the finish line first was sweet, but it was more than that. It was a statement. A promise that this war was far from over.
The roar of the crowd was a distant thunder in Ellie’s ears, muffled by the cacophony of her own racing heartbeat. The engines had cooled, the dust settled on the track, but the fire inside her still burned fierce and untamed.
Crossing the finish line first should have brought triumph, relief, maybe even joy — but instead, it left her hollow and raw. Because in that fleeting moment of victory, all she could see was you. The way your eyes had flared with a storm of emotion — frustration, something darker, something fierce — when she’d sliced past you.
Now, in the chaotic ballet of parc fermé, photographers swarmed like vultures, their flashes igniting the tense air. The crowd’s cheers mingled with whispered speculation and the hum of voices hungry for drama.
Ellie’s gaze locked with yours across the paddock, a crackling current of unspoken words and grudges stretching taut between you like a wire ready to snap. No one dared to bridge the gap — not yet — but everyone knew the collision was inevitable.
Her chest tightened. She wanted to say so many things. About how much she hated losing. About how much she hated you. About how much she hated feeling so tangled up in all of it.
But first came the podium.
The ceremony was a glittering haze — champagne spraying like fireworks, the anthem swelling, the applause crashing around her like waves. Yet Ellie felt alone amid the crowd, a flame flickering in a storm.
When the cameras turned, her smile was sharp and controlled, but her eyes searched desperately for you, hungry for the battle to continue.
And then, like a thunderclap slicing the silence, you appeared at her side — calm, poised, unyielding.
The press swarmed instantly, the air thick with the scent of tension and expectation. Questions shot through the air like bullets.
"In your opinion, how did the race go today?"
"What are you going to do to secure P1 in Melbourne next week?"
"What approaches can we expect from Mercedes in Melbourne?"
"Is there anything going on between you and Ellie Williams?"
synopsis: ellie and you spiral into a silent battle of stares and steps — neither willing to back down, both burning beneath the surface.
content: MDNI 18+ content, eventual smut, fluff, angst, swearing (lots of it), enemies to lovers, yearning, jealousy, slow burn, use of y/n, usage of alcohol, violence (note: this will be updated as i go)
word count: 4.7k
series masterlist | previous chapter
───────────────────────────────
CHAPTER 2: "𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜"
THE HEADLINES CAME FAST.
By the time Ellie reached the Ferrari motorhome, her name was already flashing across a dozen phone screens, every major outlet seizing the moment like vultures with fresh meat.
“Ellie Williams Confronts Mercedes Driver Post-Race in Fiery Clash”
“Williams vs. L/N: F1’s Most Explosive Rivalry Reignites in Bahrain”
“‘You Left It Open’ — The Moment That Lit a Match Between Ferrari and Mercedes”
Someone had clipped the video within minutes—thirty seconds of fury looped endlessly on Twitter, TikTok, anywhere a comment could be made and re-made until the truth was buried under hot takes and slow-motion frame-by-frames.
Ellie didn’t check her phone.
She sat on the worn leather bench in the back of the motorhome, still in her race suit, helmet on the floor by her boots. Her hair clung to her temples in damp strands, and the adrenaline had curdled into a kind of afterburn behind her eyes. A throb in her skull. A weight in her throat.
The air was cold inside. Sterile. Too clean compared to the storm still pulsing beneath her skin.
She hadn't even changed yet.
Hadn’t spoken to Joel.
Hadn’t done the media roundtables. PR would yell at her for it later.
She didn’t care.
Outside, the paddock noise roared on—victory interviews, champagne being uncorked, the gleam of a season newly underway. Inside, the silence was so loud it felt like it might split her ribs open.
Then the door opened.
Softly. Without knock or warning.
Only one person entered rooms like that.
Dina.
She closed the door behind her and didn’t speak at first. Just leaned back against it, arms folded across her chest, her expression somewhere between worry and sarcasm.
Ellie didn’t look up.
“I know that look,” Dina said finally, voice low. “That’s your ‘punch me or leave me alone’ face.”
Ellie let out a breath, long and tight. “Take your chances.”
“Already am,” Dina replied, stepping farther into the room and grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. She tossed it underhand toward Ellie, who caught it without grace.
“You’re trending,” Dina added. “Number one in, like, five countries.”
“Great,” Ellie muttered, unscrewing the cap.
“Sky Sports is calling it the most dramatic start to a season since 2018.”
Ellie rolled her eyes.
“Netflix is already asking for exclusive rights to your breakdown.”
That made Ellie huff a dry, humorless laugh.
Dina sat beside her, not too close, not too far. The way only a teammate who knew you before the fame would do. She didn’t press. Just let the silence breathe between them.
“I lost control,” Ellie said finally. “Out there. And after.”
Dina didn’t respond right away. “You didn’t spin. You didn’t crash. You finished third.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.”
Ellie gritted her teeth. “I handed it to her. Like a gift-wrapped win. I left it open. I never leave it open.”
She rubbed the back of her neck, fingers shaking more than she wanted them to. “She looked at me like it wasn’t even personal. Like I was just... one more thing to get past.”
Dina tilted her head, considering that. “You sure that’s how she looked at you?”
Ellie’s silence was answer enough.
Dina leaned back, her voice softer now. “You ever think the reason they get under your skin is because it is personal? For both of you?”
Ellie’s jaw tensed. “Don’t.”
“I’m just saying—”
“No, you’re not. You’re implying.”
Dina sighed. “Fine. I’m implying. But Ellie, I’ve known you for years. And I’ve only ever seen you this angry when you care.”
That word sat too heavy in the air.
Care.
Ellie didn’t care. Not about you. Not like that.
You were a problem to solve. A wall to break through. A reminder of every time she hadn’t been enough.
Nothing more.
Nothing close to more.
She shook her head, suddenly exhausted. “It doesn’t matter.”
Dina didn’t argue. She just looked at her for a long moment, eyes clear and steady. “We’ve got Jeddah in two weeks,” she said quietly. “You gonna be ready for her?”
Ellie didn’t hesitate.
“Always.”
───────────────────────────────
The debrief room always smells the same: too clean, too cold — like a hospital that only treats machines. You’ve sat through dozens of these — hundreds, maybe — and yet this one feels like a post-mortem more than a meeting. The aftermath of a murder you committed with a flick of the wheel.
The Bahrain Grand Prix plays out on the screen in front of you, slowed down, chopped apart, made clinical. The moment you overtook Ellie — Turn 8, a brutal corner with no forgiveness — is paused on the projector, a still image that looks like victory. But all you feel is heat behind your ribs.
Mark, your race engineer, is speaking. His voice is the dull edge of a screwdriver. Not sharp enough to wound, but persistent, twisting.
"We lost time here," he says, circling the screen. "Rear tire degradation started earlier than expected. Compound didn't hold up well in the heat. And your exit was—"
“I know,” you interrupt, too sharp, too fast.
Mark pauses. There’s no judgment on his face, just the faint crease of someone used to tiptoeing around post-race tempers. He nods and moves on. The room around you — engineers, data analysts, even Abby — quietly absorbs the tension, choosing not to poke at it.
You shift in your seat, arms crossed, jaw tight. The chair beneath you creaks, a traitor in an otherwise silent standoff. On the screen, your car dances in grainy footage, precise and fluid. But you know what it cost to look like that. Every downshift, every throttle, was a scream in your bones.
They don’t know what it felt like in the cockpit. The chaos. The sweat. The way your heart leapt the second you saw red in front of you.
Ellie.
She’d been in your eye line the entire race, just out of reach in front of you like a shadow that breathed.
Clean.
Hard.
Merciless.
The telemetry says it was the right move. But your chest says something else entirely.
You’re only half-listening now. Mark talks about tire wear patterns. About pit windows you could’ve exploited. Abby adds a few thoughts on fuel burn and safety car timing. You nod when required. But your mind’s already left the room.
Ellie’s voice echoes in the back of your skull like a ghost.
“You've been waiting for that since Silverstone, haven't you?"
The line sits crooked in your chest, stuck between your ribs. It shouldn’t have meant anything. You told yourself it didn’t. But the look in her eyes when she said it — God, the look — wasn’t one you’d ever seen on a podium. It was raw. Wounded. Defiant.
You should be thinking about tire degradation. You should be watching the footage again. You should be strategizing for Jeddah. But instead, you’re thinking about the freckles on her nose and the way her fingers trembled when she held that champagne bottle.
You're thinking about how she didn't spray you back.
You're thinking about how she turned away.
The meeting ends, and Mark tells you to get some rest. You nod, already halfway out the door before the words leave his mouth.
Your driver room is a world apart from the noise — cooler, quieter. A hollow kind of sanctuary. You peel off your gloves and sit at the edge of the cot, elbows on knees, head low. The silence here is too loud.
Your phone pings with notifications — press requests, media write-ups, F1 app alerts. You swipe through them, each headline more grating than the last.
“Ellie Williams snubbed in Bahrain podium drama.”
“Mercedes driver stirs tension with Ferrari rival.”
“Rivals or something more? The tension heats up.”
You toss the phone onto the cushion beside you. It lands face down, mercifully muted.
The door creaks open behind you. You don’t look up, but you know the footsteps — calm, deliberate, heavy with quiet purpose. Abby.
She doesn’t knock. She never has to. She steps inside like she owns the silence, and for a second, the air changes. Less static. Less sharp. Just… quieter.
You keep staring at the floor, arms folded over your chest. You hear her lean against the doorframe.
“You’re brooding,” she says flatly. “That’s new.”
You huff a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Comes with the job, doesn’t it?”
“Not like this.”
There’s the scrape of a chair across the floor, the rustle of her suit as she sits opposite you. She waits. Abby doesn’t do small talk, and she doesn’t waste time with things you already know.
So when she speaks again, her voice is low, solid. “You want to tell me what the hell that was out there?”
You don’t answer right away. You watch the reflection of the overhead lights flicker on the phone’s blank screen. “It was a clean overtake.”
“I’m not talking about the overtake,” she says, and you know she means the moment on the podium. The look Ellie gave you. The look you gave back.
You sit up slowly, elbows on your knees, rubbing your hands together. “She’s pissed.”
“No kidding.” Abby leans forward. “And you? You looked… affected.”
You scoff. “That’s one word for it.”
Abby studies you with those sharp, soldier eyes. The kind that miss nothing. “This isn’t just rivalry anymore, is it?”
You don’t answer. Maybe you can’t.
Because it never was.
Because Ellie Williams is the thorn in your side, the fire in your bloodstream, the rival you can’t outrun — because some part of you doesn’t want to.
“I’m fine,” you lie.
“Bullshit,” she says without missing a beat. “You’re thinking about her even now.”
You run a hand through your hair. “It doesn’t matter.”
“She matters. To you.”
You look up, and for a moment, the words teeter at the edge of your tongue. But you bite them back. You don’t say how her voice won’t leave your head. You don’t say how her anger felt more intimate than any trophy ever has. You don’t say her name.
Abby doesn’t push. She stands, brushing off invisible dust from her sleeves.
“Well, we're gonna head back to the hotel soon,” she says. “Have to get cleaned up for the 'first race after party' and all that bullshit. She's gonna be there, too.”
She heads for the door, then pauses, glancing over her shoulder.
“Don’t let her get in your head.”
Too late, you think. She’s already there.
The door closes behind her with a soft click, and once again, you’re alone.
Only now, you feel it more.
───────────────────────────────
The after party is held at some elite night club. Which one? Ellie didn't care enough to ask.
The flashbulbs start before the door even opens. A twitch of movement behind the blacked-out windows, and the paparazzi light up like a thunderstorm cracking over asphalt. Ellie doesn’t flinch. She never does. She waits for the driver to open her door, then steps out of the car like she’s walking into war.
No fireproof suit this time. No helmet to tuck behind. Hell, no dress shirt either. Just a black designer tux, custom-made, only the bottom three buttons done like a whispered dare, her auburn hair curling in deliberate chaos across her freckled shoulders. She walks slowly, deliberately, every click of her heels against the pavement another bullet fired into the chaos.
They scream her name — “Ellie! Over here!” — as if they deserve her attention, as if their lenses haven’t already swallowed more of her life than she ever offered. She doesn’t look at any of them. Her lips stay frozen in a smirk too sharp to be friendly, green eyes shaded by eyeliner and fury.
Her skin still smells faintly of fuel and heat, like the ghost of the race clings to her no matter how much cologne she drowns herself in.
Inside, the music hits like pressure in the chest — deep, pulsing bass that wraps itself around your ribs and squeezes. Lights slice through smoke like blades through fog, and everything inside is glossy and drenched in sin. VIPs lean into velvet booths, drinks sweating in their hands. The bar glows like a city skyline. There are no cameras in here, just teeth and eyes and too much skin.
The Formula One Group booked out half the club, and their presence radiates from the walls — red roses in the centerpiece bowls, branded whiskey tumblers, velvet ropes marked with the logo. She’s greeted with handshakes, hugs, and too many “you looked stunning out there”s from strangers who mean her car, not her. Dina's not here yet. Neither is Joel. She didn’t expect them to come.
The room is hot, and she hasn’t even touched a drink yet.
Ellie slides into a booth toward the back, the shadows deep enough to swallow her whole. She orders something sharp and amber from a passing server and downs it like a shot of courage. It tastes like revenge. Or maybe regret.
There’s a buzz in her veins, louder than the bass. Her mind keeps replaying the moment on the podium — not the loss, but the look. Your look. The way you stood a little too tall, like victory didn’t fit right on your shoulders. The way your eyes found her and didn’t look away.
It should’ve made her furious. It does. But it also makes her skin prickle in a way she can’t drown in alcohol or applause.
Her second drink is in her hand when the room changes.
She doesn’t see you yet—just the reaction.
A ripple of attention moves across the crowd like a shiver through silk. Heads turn. Someone spills a drink. The music doesn't stop, but the air tightens, like it knows something's about to ignite.
Then she sees you.
And you’re not in a race suit. You’re in silver — of course it’s silver — tailored so perfectly it hurts to look at. Hair done, expression carved from ice, eyes hunting the room like you’re already bored with it. The spotlight, unwanted but inevitable, clings to you like smoke.
Ellie doesn’t breathe.
Her grip tightens around her glass.
You don’t see her yet.
God, she wishes that meant something.
Because something in her chest feels like it’s cracking sideways. And it has nothing to do with losing second place.
It has everything to do with you looking like everything she hates — dressed in silver like some kind of cruel joke. Like you're trying to mock her.
She finishes her drink and orders another.
She will not leave first.
Ellie stays in the shadows.
Not because she’s hiding — but because she wants to watch you burn.
You move through the crowd like a slow fuse. Every conversation dims when you pass, like people know better than to reach out. Like they can feel the voltage humming under your skin. You’re all clean lines and sharp corners, cut from something colder than human. Your mouth doesn’t smile, but your eyes flick with calculation — taking in the room, taking in the faces.
She knows the look.
It’s the same one you wore in your car before Turn 8.
You haven’t seen her yet. Or maybe you have, and you’re just better at pretending.
Ellie leans back in the booth, half-shrouded in a velvet curtain of shadow. Her third drink sits untouched. Her fingers play with the edge of the glass, nails tapping soft, rhythmic irritation into the crystal.
She watches you talk to a Red Bull strategist.
You nod once, offer a quip that makes the woman laugh.
Ellie hates the sound of it.
She hates how good you look in this light. How different. How dangerous. The kind of dangerous that’s quiet. Controlled. A loaded weapon on safety, but still aimed at her ribs.
Her eyes follow you like a curse.
You drift toward the bar. Her breath catches, betrays her — just slightly. The distance between you shrinks to a few meters. For a heartbeat, she thinks you’ll turn. That you’ll see her. That something will crack between you. The silence. The space. The heat.
But you don’t.
You order your drink — whiskey, neat, because of course — and then your gaze flicks past her like she’s no more than another body in the fog. Another rival in red.
Ellie clenches her jaw so tightly her molars ache.
She doesn’t know what she expected.
No. That’s a lie.
She wanted your eyes to linger. Just for a second. Long enough to prove that Bahrain wasn’t just about pole positions and overtakes. That the podium wasn’t the end of something — it was the start.
Instead, you walk away.
Like she’s not still echoing in your bloodstream.
The booth feels smaller now. Warmer. Like the walls are pressing in. The drink is still untouched.
“Fuck this,” she mutters under her breath.
She rises, velvet suit catching the light, and moves deeper into the club — not toward you. Never toward you. That would be a surrender. But she keeps you in her periphery, like a sniper might watch a target she’s not ready to take the shot on. No, she goes to the bar instead and orders another drink like it'll help muffle her anger.
Across the room, you laugh at something Abby says. It’s not a full laugh. Not the kind that reaches your eyes. Ellie knows that too. She hates that she knows that.
The music changes — something slower, sultrier. The lights dim further. Bodies press close on the dance floor, and the air grows thick with perfume, alcohol, and a kind of expectation that buzzes between bodies like static.
Abby asks, "Hey, could you get me another drink? I'll pay you back, I swear."
You move toward the bar.
Ellie stays frozen, back facing you like a wall of ice.
And then — you stop.
You see her. She knows it.
Because even without a glance, your spine straightens.
And for a moment, your composure cracks. You look taken aback, eyes widening for a split second.
Then it's gone.
Like it never happened.
But the stiffness in your shoulders tells Ellie otherwise.
You step up to the bar knowing Ellie's there, her drink nearly gone, her patience even more so. She doesn’t leave. Neither do you.
It’s a collision without impact — shoulder to shoulder, your body brushing hers like a match grazing against the side of its box.
She doesn’t move.
Neither do you.
The bartender looks between the two of you, visibly flinching under the pressure. Ellie keeps her eyes forward, lashes low, voice tight.
“Guess you’re not satisfied with just taking the podium. You want my whiskey too?”
You chuckle. Low. Dangerous. It’s not a friendly sound.
“I wasn’t aware you owned this spot.”
“I wasn’t aware you had manners.”
You turn your head just enough for her to see the way your jaw tightens. Just enough to let her feel it — that spark of heat, of irritation, of fire. That same look you gave her after the race. Unbothered, but barely. The kind of calm that comes right before the engine seizes and the brakes give out.
“I didn’t cut you off on the track,” you say. “You left the inside open. I took it.”
“You muscled me off the apex like you were owed it.”
“I was owed it.”
That makes her snap.
Ellie turns, full body now, facing you like you’re the next corner she means to conquer.
There’s a heartbeat where the air goes still between you — like the whole damn club is holding its breath, just waiting for one of you to throw the first match into the powder keg.
But neither of you does.
Because this is worse.
This is slow.
A cold war with warm drinks and red dresses and razor-sharp words.
You stare at her like you want to say something final. Something cruel. Something that’ll end this whole damn thing once and for all.
But you don’t.
Instead, your voice drops, low and lethal. “Tell yourself whatever you need to, Williams. But deep down, you know I was faster. Cleaner. Better.”
She laughs — sharp, broken glass glittering in her throat.
“Better?” Her eyes flash. “You couldn’t even look me in the eye on the podium. You stood there with your little smirk like it didn’t mean anything. Like I wasn’t the only reason you pushed that hard in the first place.”
You say nothing.
Because she’s right.
And that silence is worse than any insult.
“You think because you’ve got a shiny car and a pretty smile, you’re untouchable? You didn't even get first place.”
You tilt your head to the side, still somehow infuriatingly composed. “You think my smile's pretty?” an infuriating smirk pulls at your lips. "Wow, Williams, you've got some weird flirting techniques. Insulting me, then telling me I have a pretty smile? Is this how you get all of your girlfriends?"
Ellie finishes her drink in one shot, slams the glass down too hard, and turns to go. But she stops. Just for a second.
“Fuck you,” she murmurs, voice like the last lap of a storm. “You can change the subject all you want, but you know you can't outrun this. You can win the race. But you’ll still have to see me at the next one. And the one after that. And the one after that.”
Your voice is quiet, but sharp as a knife.
“Good.”
And then she walks away.
Not fast. Not with fury.
With purpose.
With every step echoing the sound of unsaid things — things that still burn behind her ribs, things that taste like rivalry and sound like your name.
───────────────────────────────
The whiskey doesn’t burn anymore.
It slides down smooth, familiar, like disappointment you’ve learned to swallow whole. You tell yourself you won. You tell yourself Bahrain is just the beginning. You tell yourself she doesn’t matter.
But Ellie’s voice still echoes inside your skull, caught between your ribs like debris after a crash.
"Like I wasn’t the only reason you pushed that hard in the first place.”
You’ve heard worse. You’ve heard drivers lose their cool in worse ways — slamming doors, hurling helmets, cursing at engineers. But Ellie’s anger doesn’t come in explosions.
It comes in precision.
Her words are like finely-tuned machinery — built for damage, designed to land beneath the skin. And they did. You’re still bleeding somewhere, even if the world can’t see it.
“Hey, you good?” Abby says beside you, nudging your shoulder gently. “You’re grinding your teeth like you’re chewing gravel.”
You blink, your focus snapping back to her. She’s leaning against the bar, one brow raised, her expression somewhere between amusement and concern.
“I’m fine,” you say again. Lie.
Abby doesn’t push. That’s the thing about her. She never forces anything. She just waits.
Waits for you to stop pretending you don’t feel the things you do.
“She gets to you,” Abby says eventually, quietly, as the bartender returns with a second drink for her. “Ellie.”
You laugh — sharp, dry. “She doesn’t.”
Abby gives you a look.
“Okay, maybe she does,” you admit. “But I’m not letting her know that.”
“Bit late for that, don’t you think?” she says, taking a sip. “I mean, the way you two were eye-fucking earlier, I thought someone was about to throw a punch or… kiss.”
Your glare is immediate. “Abby.”
She grins. “I’m just saying. You two could power the entire paddock with that kind of tension.”
You want to deny it. You want to scoff, deflect, dismiss. But the truth is a weight in your chest.
Because she’s right.
There’s something volatile between you and Ellie — something ancient and electric and utterly unspeakable. It’s more than competition. More than ego.
It’s like gravity.
No matter how far you push, you circle back to each other. Always.
And it’s exhausting.
You down the rest of your drink in one go, the ice clinking harshly against the glass. You don’t wait for the taste to fade. You set it down, turn on your heel, and grab Abby’s hand.
She looks startled, her brows shooting up. “Where are we going?”
“Dance floor,” you say, already dragging her through the crowd. “I’m not standing here letting her crawl around in my head all night.”
The music swells around you, a thick, visceral thing—bass pounding like a pulse too fast to control. Lights spin overhead, painting the crowd in neon streaks, reds and violets and acid yellow. The air smells like perfume and sweat, heat coiling around your neck like a silk noose.
You press deeper into the chaos, the bodies around you closing in. Abby spins you into the crowd with a laugh, her hand tight in yours, and for a moment—just one—your mind lets go.
You move.
You move like you did on track—fast, sharp, purposeful. You don’t dance like someone trying to have fun.
You dance like someone trying to erase.
Every sway, every step, every pulse of your hips is a distraction you’re chasing like a finish line. Abby follows your rhythm easily, smirking at your intensity.
“I thought you hated this kind of scene,” she shouts over the music.
“I do.”
“Then why—”
You spin, a blur of frustration and heat, and answer honestly. “Because I need to forget.”
Abby doesn’t ask what.
“Dance floor,” you say, already dragging her through the crowd. “I’m not standing here letting her crawl around in my head all night.”
The music swells around you, a thick, visceral thing — bass pounding like a pulse too fast to control. Lights spin overhead, painting the crowd in neon streaks, reds and violets and acid yellow. The air smells like perfume and sweat, heat coiling around your neck like a silk noose.
You press deeper into the chaos, the bodies around you closing in. Abby spins you into the crowd with a laugh, her hand tight in yours, and for a moment — just one — your mind lets go.
You move.
You move like you did on track—fast, sharp, purposeful. You don’t dance like someone trying to have fun.
You dance like someone trying to erase.
Every sway, every step, every pulse of your hips is a distraction you’re chasing like a finish line. Abby follows your rhythm easily, smirking at your intensity.
“I thought you hated this kind of scene,” she shouts over the music.
“I do.”
“Then why—”
You spin, a blur of frustration and heat, and answer honestly. “Because I need to forget.”
Abby doesn’t ask what.
She already knows.
And maybe that’s why she stays with you, grounding you, laughing with you, pulling you back every time you threaten to vanish inside your own head.
But no matter how hard you dance—
You can still feel her.
Your head turns of its own accord.
And there she is.
Ellie.
A dark silhouette against the club’s glittering backdrop. Red silk draped over her body like danger dressed up for the night. Her glass is half-empty. Her stare is not.
She watches you like you’re the only thing in the room.
Her eyes don’t drift. Don’t wander. They pin.
You.
And suddenly, you don’t know what the hell you’re doing anymore.
You spin again, back to Abby, forcing a laugh that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You throw your arms up, let your body move faster, sharper — pretending it’s all fine. Pretending Ellie isn’t still watching.
You lean in close to Abby, lips near her ear.
“Let’s make this look good.”
Abby grins, catching on instantly. “So this is a show.”
You smirk. “Everything’s a show.”
You slide closer, hands on Abby’s waist, moving in time with her. Not romantic. Not lustful.
Strategic.
Ellie’s eyes stay locked. You know because you don’t have to look to feel it. Her gaze cuts across the floor like a straight-line speed trap. She’s locked on.
She’s jealous.
Or maybe just angry.
Or both.
You wonder if she can see the way your pulse is leaping under your skin. If she knows how hard you’re fighting not to look back. Not to give her that satisfaction.
But in the end—
You do look back.
Just for a second.
And you find her still watching.
Expression unreadable. Glass still in hand. Fire barely leashed behind her eyes.
You look away before she sees too much.
You dance harder.
You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.
But Ellie’s stare has already etched itself into the back of your mind like tire marks on fresh asphalt — deep, black, permanent.
a/n: guys is the tension tensioning??? idk but this is probably the longest chapter i've ever written 😭 anyways tysm for all the support for this new series!!
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PAIRING: abby anderson x fem!reader
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the door clicked shut behind you, and for a second, just a second. you stood there in the hallway, staring at the handle as if it would explain what the last seventy two hours had taken out of you.
your body ached. not just in your muscles, even though those were screaming too. but deep in your bones. the kind that settles under your skin and makes you feel hollow.
you were too tired to think straight, too wired to rest.
so you did what your body moved you to do. walking into the bathroom, peeling off your stained clothes. the water ran long enough to fog the mirror and soak into your hair until it hung limp against your shoulders, but even then you didn’t move.
you just stood under the stream, forehead against the tile, eyes closed, letting the water try to wash off the days.
it didn’t work. but it helped.
now wrapped up in a towel, hair still damp, skin prickling with leftover cold, you stepped out.
pushing the door open gently.
and there she was.
the room was dim, the main lights off, only the soft orange glow of a desk lamp left on. it cast a warm ring across the blankets, catching the curve of abby’s shoulder, the shine of her hair. she was sprawled across your bed.
back propped on a pillow, one hand behind her head, the other curled around the spine of a book resting against her thigh. her legs were lazily parted, one sock halfway off, her usual post shower disarray that she never cared to fix.
you didn’t realise you were holding your breath until it left your lungs in one ragged exhale.
the towel clutched around your chest suddenly felt flimsy. not because you were embarrassed. god, no, but because standing there in front of her like that, exhausted and finally home, you were seconds from crying.
you hadn’t let yourself cry out there. not even when the storm had hit. not even when you were sure you wouldn’t make it back. but now? in front of her?
abby looked up, book pausing mid line.
something in her expression softened instantly. she didn’t speak. she just pressed her thumb into the page crease and slipped the bookmark into place before closing the book and setting it quietly on the nightstand.
then she opened her arms.
you didn’t hesitate.
you crossed the room before sinking into her. her hands came up immediately, one between your shoulder blades, the other low on your back, fingers spreading to cover as much of you as they could. you breathed her in. soap and abby. your towel shifted slightly as her arm wrapped tighter around your middle, but neither of you cared.
no urgency. no words.
just the sound of your breath against her collarbone. the brush of her fingers up and down your spine.
the silence stretched. full. full of what hadn’t been said on the radio. full of what couldn’t be said in front of the others. full of the way your bodies molded into each other.
as your eyes fluttered shut against her neck, you felt her chest rise with a deep inhale.
“i missed you,” she whispered first.
you barely managed your own reply, words muffled against her skin.
“i missed you more.”
her fingers gripped you just a little tighter at that.
you weren’t sure how long you stayed like that. pressed into her front, arms tangled, her thumb tracing mindless shapes on your back. you could’ve fallen asleep just like that, towel damp against your skin, cheek nestled into the hollow of her collarbone.
but she shifted.
not away. just enough to lean up on one elbow, looking down at you with that soft crease in her brow she always got when she worried.
“you’re cold,” she murmured.
you blinked slowly, still somewhere between asleep and floating.
“‘m’fine,” you mumbled, but you were shivering, you knew she felt it.
she didn’t argue. abby wasn’t the type. she just kissed your forehead and slid out from beneath you, legs swinging over the edge of the mattress. the bed dipped as she stood, moving toward the drawers on her side.
you watched her, eyes heavy lidded, towel slipping dangerously low on your chest.
she wore only a tank top and shorts, arms bare, muscles shifting as she bent to rummage.
she came back with one of her shirts. one of the older ones, soft and worn thin in places. you knew it well; she wore it on days she needed comfort. you knew it smelled like her even before you’d buried your face in it.
she knelt beside the bed, tugged gently at your towel. “arms up.”
you obeyed without a word. the towel slipped to your waist as she helped you out of it, not rushing, not leering, just… tender.
the shirt went on next. loose and long on you, falling to mid thigh. it smelled of her skin and the detergent you both hated but used anyway. she smoothed it down over your stomach before climbing back onto the bed behind you.
then came the brush.
you’d left it sitting on the nightstand, still damp from a hasty post shower attempt earlier. she reached for it wordlessly, moving behind you so your back was tucked against her legs. she gathered your damp hair in one hand, gently tugging it free from where it clung to your neck.
“don’t fall asleep yet,” she said softly, attempting to run her fingers through it. “you’ll wake up with a bird’s nest.”
you snorted a little. “wouldn’t be the first time.”
“yeah, but then i have to deal with it.”
you smiled.
the first pass of the brush through your hair made your whole body exhale. she was slow with it, starting at the ends like she always did, always gentle. she worked in silence for a bit, her hand resting against your neck whenever she paused to untangle a knot.
then, quietly, she started talking.
“today was boring,” she sighed. “inventory all morning. they keep screwing up the count in med storage. manny kept blaming the new kid, but it was actually him. he got defensive, so i told him he could do the math next time.”
you chuckled sleepily, leaning back into her legs.
she brushed a little slower.
“i saw nora at lunch. she asked about you. i didn’t say much, but i think she knew. she always knows.”
you hummed a quiet sound of agreement.
“i fixed the cabinet in the hallway. the one with the loose hinge. figured i'd save you before it pinched your finger again.”
you mumbled something half formed and drowsy in thanks, she huffed out a laugh above you.
her fingers stilled.
she divided your hair into sections with a kind of softness that didn’t belong to someone like abby. someone built like a tank, who could fire a rifle with one arm and lift a grown man with the other. but here she was, gently twisting your hair into a braid.
and it was. just for you.
she finished and tied it off with a thin band from her wrist, then leaned forward to kiss the crown of your head.
“there,” she said, arms sliding around your waist from behind, pulling you fully back into her chest. “now you can sleep.”
you turned slightly, just enough to see her profile in the dim light. the hardness she wore outside this room had melted off her completely. her eyes were half lidded, full of quiet contentment.
her hand slipped under the hem of the shirt to rest against your stomach.
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Personally I hate AI because it uses slave labor, is killing the planet and is making people stupid, but that's just me. The soulless art aspect is just one little piece of my grander disdain.
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