manu

You sip it like medicine, grimacing at the bitterness but knowing you’d be a public safety hazard without it. Bag slung over your shoulder, sneakers squeaking on the pavement, you head out to Venti Due—the only itameshi restaurant along the West Coast and, conveniently, your place of reluctant employment.

The brick façade of the restaurant looks deceptively cheerful in the morning light. You push the door open and step into the familiar hum of pre‑opening chaos. The servers are already buzzing around, though ‘buzzing’ is generous when it comes to Oscar. 

He greets you with his usual sleepy smile, one hand still clutching his phone as if he’s been dragged out of bed five minutes ago. Knowing Oscar, it probably isn’t far from the truth. A uni student pulling part‑time shifts, he’s charming in the way of someone who can’t fully hide his exhaustion but tries anyway.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice caught somewhere between dreams and reality.

“You’re awake. Miracles do happen,” you shoot back, tossing your bag behind the counter.

Jules pops her head up next, practically materializing from behind a stack of menus. “Don’t jinx him. He’s fragile in the mornings.” Jules, with her eccentric flair and a tendency to turn even simple table setups into performance art, beams at you. She’s already managed to scatter napkins across three different tables in what looks suspiciously like an avant‑garde arrangement. You decide to let her have her moment.

George, the sommelier, is next in line for introductions whether he wants it or not. He shuffles past with a clipboard in hand, brow furrowed in concentration. Frumpy, yes. Well‑meaning, also yes. He greets you with a distracted nod, muttering something about bottle inventories that you’re not entirely sure wasn’t directed at himself. You’ve seen him lose battles with corkscrews more often than you’d care to admit, but his heart’s in the right place.

The bar clinks with the unmistakable rhythm of Lando at work. He’s got that too‑easy grin, the kind that spells trouble before you even reach the counter. “Morning, pastry princess,” he calls, shaking a cocktail shaker despite the hour. You roll your eyes, already bracing yourself. Lando’s in the middle of his Master’s, somehow balancing academia with bartending and an unrelenting commitment to flirting with anything that breathes.

“You’re not supposed to make drinks before noon,” you point out.

“You’re not supposed to look this grumpy before noon, but here we are.” He winks, and you resist the urge to throw a spoon at his head.

The kitchen door swings open and Alex emerges, still tying his apron. Away from kitchen duty, he’s personable and warm, the type of guy who remembers birthdays and always has an extra pen when you’re short. When it’s time to cook, though, the sous chef is Gordon Ramsey reincarnated. “Don’t let him bother you,” Alex says, shooting Lando a look before offering you a smile.

The rhythm of the morning crew is familiar, each cog in the machine spinning in its predictable orbit. You’re halfway to convincing yourself this Monday might pass without incident when the air shifts.

Yuki Tsunoda steps into the room with the kind of presence that demands attention. Not loud, not showy. He’s only sharp, focused, carrying an authority that instantly changes the tempo of the restaurant. He shrugs off his jacket, ties his apron with brisk precision, and surveys the room with an expression that dares anyone to waste his time.

You hate the way your stomach flips. It’s Monday morning. You’re supposed to be miserable. Instead, all you can think is: here we fucking go.

Yuki sets his knife roll on the counter with a soft thud, pulling the ties loose with the focus of someone already two steps ahead of everyone else. You’ve seen him do this a hundred times. Efficient, precise, and more than a little intimidating if you’re new. But you’re not new. You’ve been here since the beginning, which makes you immune to the brunt of his stormy focus. Mostly.

“Morning,” he says finally, not looking up as he inspects a blade for sharpness.

“You mean ‘good morning, how are you, did you sleep well?’” You lean against the prep counter with your arms crossed. “That’s how normal people greet each other.”

He snorts, clearly unimpressed. “If I wanted small talk, I’d ask Jules. Did the flour delivery come in?”

“Wow. Straight to business. My weekend must mean nothing to you.” You slide your phone across the counter so he can see the checklist you’ve already made. “Yes, it came in. Two sacks instead of three. I called the supplier already. They’re sending another one this afternoon.”

Yuki glances at the list, lips twitching in what might almost pass for a smile. “And the pistachios?”

“Safe and sound. Locked away from Lando, in case he gets bored and decides to experiment with nut-based cocktails again.”

“That was one time,” Yuki exhales, lining up his knives like soldiers. He pauses, flicking a look your way. “You remembered to order the hazelnut paste?”

“Do I look like someone who forgets the backbone of her own creations?”

“Sometimes,” he says. But you catch the corner of his mouth fighting upward, and it’s enough to make your pulse skip. This is how it always is. Professional words with just enough bite to keep you on your toes. You can read the rhythm of his moods like sheet music, filling in the gaps with your own easy counterpoint.

“I’ll start on the tarts once the ovens finish preheating,” you say, turning toward your workstation. “If you behave, I might even let you have the first one.”

Yuki shakes his head, feigning exasperation as readjusts his chef’s jacket. “You talk like I can’t just take one.”

“You could,” you concede, glancing at him over your shoulder, “but then you’d miss the fun of me pretending you earned it.”

For a moment, his gaze lingers on you longer than it should, heavy enough that you feel it even without looking directly at him. Then he clears his throat and flips open his notebook. “Inventory meeting in ten. Don’t be late.”

“As if I would ever,” you say, already pulling flour from the storeroom. Your hands move on autopilot, weighing, measuring, prepping for the day ahead. You and Yuki have done this dance so many times, it’s practically second nature. Two halves of the same rhythm, balancing each other without ever needing to speak it out loud.

By midmorning, Venti Due hums like a machine that knows its purpose. Orders aren’t flying in yet, but prep is its own battlefield. Knives chop in rhythm, pans hiss and sputter, and the front-of-house polishes glasses with militant devotion. It’s chaos, but choreographed chaos. You fall into the current without hesitation, sleeves rolled up, fingers dusted in flour before you’ve even noticed.

You catch Oscar fumbling with a tray of wine glasses and Jules swooping in with the dramatics of a knight saving a maiden. George is muttering about pairings to no one in particular, while Lando is teaching himself how to juggle lemons when he thinks no one’s looking. Alex keeps the kitchen calm, redirecting energy like it’s second nature. And Yuki—well, Yuki commands it all with a glance. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to. A sharp nod, a clipped word, and everyone falls into line.

You don’t have the luxury of stopping to admire it. The pastries won’t prep themselves, and you’re elbow-deep in dough by the time the clock ticks toward noon. The ovens cycle batches with military precision, trays sliding in and out as you shape and fill with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times. Your world shrinks down to sugar, butter, and the hum of timers.

By lunch, Alex slips away first, snagging a plate and scarfing it down with the kind of efficiency only a chef of his calibre can manage. Yuki takes his turn after, pausing just long enough to check on the line before disappearing toward the staff room. You wave him off when he gestures toward you. “I’ll eat after this batch,” you insist, shaping another neat lattice over a tart.

You don’t notice time slipping until the next batch cools and the savory scent of lunch is a faint memory in the air. Wiping your hands on your apron, you finally make your way toward the back, stomach growling in protest. The tray of staff meals is nearly empty, save for a few scraps of bread and what looks suspiciously like the last sad bite of salad. Alex shrugs apologetically from across the room.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you grumble, a little louder than you intend. “I slave away over butter and sugar, and this is the thanks I get?”

Before you can work yourself into a proper tirade, a plate slides into view under your nose. Perfectly portioned, still warm, and suspiciously untouched. You look up to find Yuki standing there, arms crossed, expression caught between exasperation and fondness. “I knew you’d do this,” he says simply, “so I saved one.”

You narrow your eyes, though the twist of relief in your chest betrays you. “What are you, my babysitter now?”

“More like the only one here with common sense,” Yuki replies, pulling out a chair with his foot. “Sit. Eat. Before you faint into a tray of éclairs and make me fire you.”

“I’d haunt this place,” you huff, but you sit anyway. The first bite is a revelation, your stomach sighing in gratitude. You peek up at him through your lashes. “You know, some people might think this is sweet.”

Yuki shrugs, deadpan as ever. “Some people don’t know you well enough.”

It’s meant to be a jab, but the silence that follows is heavier than either of you expect. You break it first with a snort, nudging his hand as you reach for your fork again. “Thanks, chef.”

His mouth twitches, the barest hint of a smile before he turns back toward the kitchen. “Don’t make it a habit.”

The day’s dinner service winds down with the steady rhythm of plates cleared and chairs stacked. The air is thick with the scent of garlic, wine, and the faint sweetness of the last tiramisu you sent out. You wipe down your station, fingers stiff but satisfied, and listen to the restaurant exhale after another day survived.

Yuki gathers the staff near the pass, arms crossed, expression sharp but not unkind. He does this every night. Quick notes, a pulse check on the team, a reminder that tomorrow demands just as much precision as today.

“Service was clean,” he starts, scanning the group. “Oscar, your pacing was better. Jules—don’t rearrange the cutlery mid-shift. It confuses the guests.”

Jules gasps like she’s been personally insulted. “It was art!”

“Save the art for your apartment,” Yuki replies, tone clipped. “George, good pairing tonight. Lando, stop experimenting during service. Alex, solid work on the line.”

The feedback rolls out like clockwork, efficient and even. The crew listens, nods, takes it in. Despite his dry delivery, you can feel it. The respect humming beneath every word, the quiet trust that everyone here leans on. When Yuki speaks, people listen. Not because they’re scared of him, but because he’s earned it.

Finally, his gaze lands on you. “Pastries were consistent,” he says. “Timing was better too. Keep it up.”

There’s nothing in the words themselves, but the weight of his eyes lingers. You offer a small shrug, as if to say, of course they were.

“God, just kiss already,” Lando mutters from the back, which earns him a snort from Jules and a scandalized look from George. Oscar, barely holding back laughter, pretends to check his phone.

Heat prickles your neck, but you roll your eyes and toss your towel at the bar. “Don’t project your tragic love life onto us, Lando.”

“Tragic? Please. I’m thriving.” He sticks out his tongue at you before Yuki clears his throat, sharp enough to cut through the noise.

“Focus,” Yuki says simply. Just like that, the teasing dies down, the crew dispersing with the tired chatter of people who’ve given their all. Bags are slung over shoulders, goodbyes are murmured, and soon the restaurant quiets to its bones.

You linger at your station a moment longer, stacking trays with more care than necessary. Yuki moves past, close enough that his sleeve brushes yours. “Ignore them,” he says softly, not looking at you.

“Who says I care?” you reply, but the laugh in the back of your throat betrays you.

He doesn’t press, doesn’t tease. He only gives the smallest nod before heading toward the office. You’re left with the ghost of his sleeve against yours, wondering why ignoring them feels impossible.

The next week at Venti Due settles into its rhythm: the clang of pans, the rise of voices calling for orders, the sweet hush of pastry cream thickening under your whisk. Between the noise and the chaos, you find yourself drifting. Thinking back to how it all started, how you ended up tethered to this kitchen and, somehow, to Yuki.

Culinary school feels like another lifetime now, all stainless steel counters and the sterile scent of bleach. Yuki had been the one student who managed to make a uniform look like armor, his sharp focus cutting through every room he walked into. You’d first spoken during a class on fundamentals. He’d been hunched over a cutting board, perfecting a julienne that looked like it had been measured with a ruler. You’d leaned closer, deliberately dramatic. “Going for world’s straightest carrot sticks?” you’d teased.

He hadn’t even glanced up. “Some of us care about precision.”

“And some of us care about not boring ourselves to death.” You’d grinned, tossing him a piece of your unevenly chopped onion. “See? Personality.”

He’d finally looked at you then and said, “Your personality smells.”

It was the start of something neither of you had language for yet.

Between classes and late-night study sessions, you carved out a rhythm. Yuki was disciplined to the point of obsession, while you thrived in improvisation, especially once the curriculum turned to pastries. You remember the first time he tried one of your test tarts, biting into it with a seriousness that made your palms sweat. “Not too sweet,” he’d said eventually, and you’d laughed because coming from him, that was the highest form of praise.

One evening, you found him sitting alone in the library, textbooks sprawled around him, a notebook filled with scrawled ideas. “Itameshi,” he’d said before you could even ask. “Japanese-Italian fusion. Not gimmicky, not watered down. Balanced. Something that respects both traditions.”

You’d sat across from him, intrigued despite yourself. “That’s oddly specific.”

He’d leaned back, expression thoughtful. “It’s what I grew up with. Pasta with shoyu, miso in risotto. My mom didn’t think about it as fusion. It was just… dinner. I want to take that and make it into something that belongs on a Michelin menu.”

You’d nodded slowly, tucking that piece of him away. It explained the focus, the drive that sometimes looked like obsession. It wasn’t just food to him. It was identity, stitched together by memory and taste.

“And you?” he’d asked then, catching you off guard. “What do you want?”

“A patisserie,” you’d answered after a moment of hesitation. “Glass display cases, rows of pastries, the smell of butter and sugar hitting people when they walk in. Something that’s mine.”

He’d given you a rare smile then, small but real. “Sounds fitting.”

Graduation came faster than you expected. A blur of exams, sleepless nights, and too much caffeine. The ceremony itself felt like theater, everyone pretending not to care while secretly waiting for their names to be called. Yuki wore the cap and gown like he wore everything else: with a kind of reluctant irritation, as though the whole pageantry offended his sense of efficiency.

It was afterward, when the crowd thinned and the graduates dispersed to dinners and family celebrations, that he cornered you outside the hall. The sky was slipping toward dusk, a warm June evening wrapping the campus in gold. He stood there with his hands shoved into his pockets, expression unreadable, and for a second you thought he was going to comment on how crooked your cap sat.

Instead, he said, “Be my pastry chef.”

Your brows furrowed, wondering if you misheard. “Excuse me?”

“I’m opening a restaurant. Itameshi. You know what I want it to be.” His gaze locked on yours, steady and unflinching. “I want you there. Pastry chef.”

You laughed, nervous but amused. “Yuki, that sounds like a proposal.”

“It is,” he said flatly, his eyes crinkling as he broke out into a proper, toothy grin. “For food. Not marriage.”

“You really know how to sweep someone off their feet.” You had crossed your arms, tilting your head at him. “What makes you think I’ll say yes?”

“Because you already said you want your own place. You won’t waste time at someone else’s restaurant. Not unless it mattered.”

The words hit harder than you expected, like he’d been listening closer than you realized. You rolled your eyes to cover the way your chest tightened. “Fine. But it’s temporary. I’ll help you launch, save up, and then I’m gone. Patisserie, remember?”

He nodded once, solemn, like you’d struck a deal. “Temporary.”

You shook his hand, though it felt oddly ceremonial, and something inside you whispered that this was more binding than either of you admitted aloud.

That was four years ago.

Now, standing in Venti Due’s kitchen with sugar under your nails and the hum of service in the background, you realize the word ‘temporary’ has stretched longer than you ever intended. Every day has carried the same steady gravity of that handshake. An agreement that was never just about work, no matter how hard you both pretended otherwise.

By closing time, the kitchen looks like it survived a small war. Pots stacked high, jam staining your apron, the faint smell of seared fish clinging to your hair. You’re wiping down your station when Yuki approaches, holding out an envelope. “Salary’s in your account,” he says, tone casual. “This is extra. Tips.”

You glance at the wad of cash inside, instantly shoving it back toward him. “No way. I don’t need your charity fund.”

His eyebrow lifts, sharp and unimpressed. “It’s not charity. It’s from the floor. Customers like desserts, apparently. Who knew.”

“Shocking revelation.” You push the envelope across the counter again. “Split it with the servers.”

“They already got their share. This is yours. Take it.” He says it with the stubbornness of someone who will stand here all night until you cave. His arms are crossed now, a silent dare.

You sigh, snatching the envelope before he can start another speech. “Fine. But if I blow it all on overpriced candles, that’s on you.”

“Save it. Or don’t. I don’t care.” 

“Thanks,” you add, quieter than intended. He doesn’t reply, only nods and turns back to check on Alex, as if the conversation never happened.

Later that night, your apartment greets you with the quiet hum of the fridge and the faint creak of floorboards. You set the envelope on the counter, then reach for the Mason jars lined up in the cupboard. Their weight is familiar, each one filled with neatly rolled bills. Months, years of tip envelopes, savings, little sacrifices. The ritual of stacking them has always been your silent countdown to freedom. You pour the new bills into the jar marked with a strip of masking tape, the one labeled Someday. It’s already full to the brim, crammed so tightly that the lid barely twists shut.

Here’s the truth: you had enough last year. 

Enough for the deposit on that storefront downtown, the one with big windows and a perfect corner for displaying cakes that would stop people in their tracks. Enough to hire staff, to design menus, to finally call something yours.

And yet you’re still here. Still showing up at Venti Due every morning, still brushing sugar from your clothes and trading barbs with Yuki across the kitchen. You tell yourself it’s practical. Safe. Sensible.

When you glance at the jar, heavy with possibility, you know it’s none of those things. You’re still here for one reason only. 

The weekend market is already buzzing when you and Yuki arrive, shoulder to shoulder in the lazy late-morning sun. Vendors are hawking their produce with theatrical gusto, baskets of tomatoes and eggplants gleaming under striped awnings. You tug your tote bag higher on your shoulder and try to look like this is just another errand, not some weirdly domestic ritual you’ve fallen into with your best friend-slash-boss. “Which one first?” Yuki asks, scanning the rows of stalls like he’s plotting a battle strategy.

“Whichever one isn’t going to tempt you into buying another box of mushrooms we don’t have fridge space for,” you shoot back.

His mouth curves upward. “That’s very specific. Almost like it already happened.”

“It did. Last month. You held them like a newborn.”

“They were good mushrooms.”

You roll your eyes but follow him anyway, weaving through the crowd. There’s an ease to this—how you match each other’s pace without thinking, how he hands you a sample of melon before even tasting it himself. The vendor grins at the exchange, as though the two of you are some couple straight out of a weekend slice-of-life film. You ignore the implication and bite into the melon, pretending the sweetness on your tongue is the only thing worth noticing. “Thoughts?” Yuki asks, expectant.

“It’s good. Very… melon-y.”

“That’s profound. Truly your culinary school tuition at work.”

You elbow him lightly, earning a laugh that draws a curious glance or two. He doesn’t seem to care, and you pretend not to either. Later, while you’re considering a stack of strawberries, he appears at your side with skewers of yakitori, one already half-gone. He holds out the other without ceremony. “Lunch.”

“You just couldn’t wait?”

“Chef’s privilege.” His voice is light, but his eyes flicker with mischief as you take the skewer from his hand. You mutter a thanks around your first bite, trying not to acknowledge the fact that you’re sharing food in a way that feels intimate.

You keep telling yourself this isn’t a date. You’re here for produce, for scouting local vendors, for the sake of the restaurant. But then Yuki brushes a stray leaf off your shoulder without comment, and you wonder why the lie has to work so hard to convince you.

The market shifts sometime around noon, when the lazy sprawl of vendors and wandering locals turns into a slow-moving human tide. At first you think it’s just you getting bumped one too many times by an elbow or an overenthusiastic shopping bag, but then you notice Yuki’s face. That pinched look he wears when something irritates him but he hasn’t decided if it’s worth a fight. Spoiler: nine times out of ten, it isn’t.

He lingers closer than usual, not that you’re about to complain. His hand hovers once near the small of your back before he thinks better of it, retreating to the safety of his pockets. Instead he becomes a living barrier between you and the chaos of the crowd, always stepping a half second ahead of anyone who might jostle you. He’s subtle about it, or at least he thinks he is. You can read him too well. “You look like you’re about to start body-checking grandmas,” you tease, nudging his arm with your elbow. “Relax, Yuki. I can handle a market crowd.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he says. His eyes dart toward a group squeezing through the aisle, and his jaw ticks. “You’re short, people don’t see you. Easy to get pushed.”

There’s a warmth tucked in that blunt little statement, disguised as irritation. You let it hang in the air, unspoken, savoring it like the last bite of dessert. “Fine,” you grin. “Since you’re obviously seconds away from picking a fight with a produce stand, why don’t we bail? Early dinner?”

He exhales, relief hidden in the smallest curve of his mouth. “My place. Closer than yours. And I don’t want to carry all this stuff any farther.”

You arch a brow at the loaded grocery bags he’s holding in one hand, as if the weight of it is nothing but child’s play. “Uh-huh. Definitely not because you’d rather control the menu.”

You head for his apartment, tucked right next to Venti Due. Convenient for the workaholic. Yuki’s place isn’t new territory. By now, you can navigate it without even thinking. Keys tossed on the counter, shoes kicked by the door, sleeves already rolled to your elbows before Yuki’s even finished locking up. His place is small, but it feels lived-in. Warm. Familiar. The kind of space you drift into without ever needing to ask permission.

You’re already in the kitchen before he joins you, pulling a pan from its usual spot. “You do realize you’ve tricked me into more cooking after a full week of baking, right?” you say, giving him a look over your shoulder.

Yuki shrugs, as if that explains everything. “I’m not tricking. You volunteered. Big difference.”

“Uh-huh.” You set the pan on the stove, nudging him with your elbow when he crowds in beside you. “And what, exactly, did I volunteer for? Being your sous chef?”

He smirks, reaching for the garlic. “More like my commis.”

You make a face. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He tosses you the knife like it’s a challenge. You catch it easily, slicing into the cloves with more precision than he probably expected. He leans just close enough to watch, and you’re tempted to say something biting, but the way he’s looking at you—quietly impressed—makes you bite your tongue.

The rhythm comes easy, though. It always does with him. He stirs while you chop, you season while he tastes. The banter fills the cracks in the silence, steady as muscle memory. “So,” you say, flicking a piece of garlic at him, “what are we calling this masterpiece? Chef’s special?”

“Chef’s survival.”

“Catchy. Michelin will be begging.”

He laughs under his breath, and the sound sticks with you longer than it should. The apartment fills with the smell of browned garlic and olive oil, something simple and grounding. By the time pasta hits the pan, you’re both shoulder to shoulder, stealing tastes straight off each other’s forks. Dinner ends up being just that. Two spoons, one pan, and no patience for plating. Yuki passes you a bite, and you take it without hesitation, like it’s nothing. Like it isn’t something at all.

“You know,” you say around a mouthful, “I think we might actually be good at this whole cooking thing.”

“Finally noticed?” He chuckles, stealing the spoon back. “Took you long enough.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t quite smother the smile that follows. Sitting at his tiny table, sharing dinner out of the pan, it feels too easy. Too natural. And maybe that’s what makes it dangerous.

The bell above the café door jingles as the three of you step inside, the smell of espresso and roasted beans wrapping around you like a blanket. Jules makes a beeline for the counter, and Lando falls into step beside her, leaving you trailing with the quiet suspicion you’ve just been set up. “So,” Jules says with an innocence that fools no one, “Yuki seemed in a good mood last night. Wonder why.”

Lando, ever the accomplice, smirks. “Probably has something to do with a certain pastry chef who practically lives at his side.”

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle you don’t sprain something. “Wow. Stellar detective work. Truly groundbreaking analysis.”

Jules grins at you over her shoulder as she orders her usual oat latte. “Come on, you can’t tell me you don’t see it,” she insists. “You two are practically married already.”

You shoot her a look. “If we’re married, then I want half of Venti Due in the divorce.”

Lando nearly chokes on his laugh, stepping up to the counter to order. “That’s the spirit,” he says offhandedly, “but seriously. You should just date him. It’d save us all the suspense.”

You lean against the counter, the perfect picture of unimpressed. “Right. Because what a restaurant really needs is its manager and pastry chef combusting over a messy breakup. Brilliant idea, ten out of ten,” you bite out.

They exchange a look, conspiratorial in its silence, and you know they’re not about to drop it. You sip your coffee when it arrives and decide you’ve had enough. “You know what,” you say, your voice syrupy sweet, “I think you two should date. Jules, Lando—match made in heaven.”

That does it. Lando goes red immediately, fumbling with the sugar packets like they’re suddenly the most fascinating things in the world. Jules sputters mid-sip, coughing into her sleeve, eyes wide with something close to shame. You grin, mischievous, basking in the chaos. “See? Works every time.”

The walk back is blissfully quiet, the two of them still awkwardly avoiding each other’s eyes. You sip your coffee triumphantly, knowing you’ve just secured yourself at least a week’s reprieve from their meddling.

The coffee run conspirators are barely out of earshot when Yuki finds you back at the counter, sleeves rolled up again like the morning never ended. He raises an eyebrow, the kind of silent reprimand you’ve come to know far too well. “You could at least pretend to rest when you leave the building,” he says, not looking at you as he straightens a tray of glasses.

“Rest? Never heard of her,” you reply, grabbing a towel for no reason other than to look busy.

He shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth betrays him. “One day you’ll thank me for trying to keep you alive.”

“Or curse you when I die of boredom,” you shoot back, and he laughs. Soft but warm, the kind that lingers longer than it should.

You let that moment slip past, choosing instead to busy yourself until George’s bark of laughter cuts through the room. He’s standing with Alex by the espresso machine, both of them suspiciously smug. You narrow your eyes just in time to see Alex slip a bill into George’s waiting hand. “Really?” you say, marching over. “Please tell me you’re not gambling on how long it takes for me to sass Yuki back.”

“Not exactly,” George says, unbothered as he tucks the money into his pocket. “But you two make it too easy.”

Alex shrugs, grin breaking across his face. “It’s good money. Don’t take it personally.”

“Don’t take it personally?” you repeat, scandalized. “You’re making a profit off my tragic, very professional, completely platonic working relationship?”

“Professional,” George repeats, and Alex snorts like that word’s the funniest punchline he’s heard all week.

You swivel to the nearest sane person: Oscar, nursing a mug of black coffee. “Tell me you’re not a part of this.”

He shakes his head, calm as ever. “Nope. I don’t bet.”

“Thank you.”

“But,” he adds, “if I had to calculate it, I’d say the odds of you and Yuki ending up together hover around… eighty-one percent? Maybe higher if you count the market trips. Those skew the data.”

You gape at him. “You’re supposed to be my ally.”

“I am,” he says. “I’m just being scientific.”

George and Alex are wheezing now, delighted by your misery. You throw your hands up. “Unbelievable. I’m surrounded by degenerates.”

With that, you storm off, exasperation trailing behind you like the aroma of coffee grounds. Strong, bitter, and impossible to shake. The shift winds down in its usual rhythm, the clang of pots fading into the background as Yuki does his end-of-day ritual. He moves through the kitchen, giving nods, comments, and the occasional dry joke that has everyone smiling despite their exhaustion. There’s something about the way the crew listens when he talks. Not stiff, not fearful, but attentive, like they’d follow him into battle if the battlefield were lined with stovetops and prep counters.

You hang back, waiting for your moment. All day, people have been throwing you into the ring, teasing you about him like it’s a group sport. You’ve deflected, joked, even tried to flip it back on them. Now, you plan to sneak in a jab of your own, something light, something that will finally even the score. When the last of the staff filters out, you sidle closer. “Big day for me,” you say, leaning against the counter. “Apparently I’m starring in a rom-com I didn’t audition for. Thought you’d like to congratulate me on my lead role.”

Yuki huffs a laugh, one hand tucking into the pocket of his apron. “You’re good at improvising. You’ll win Best Actress, no contest.”

You open your mouth to volley back, but then he adds, almost too casually, “Speaking of… I should get going. I have a blind date tonight.”

The words clatter to the floor between you, louder than the pans ever were. Your brain scrambles, reaching for something witty, something sharp. All you manage is a smile that feels too thin around the edges. “Wow,” you say, and your voice sounds a little too bright even to your own ears. “Someone’s adventurous.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “It’s just dinner with a friend of a friend. Who knows, right?”

You nod, even though you want to shake your head until the whole idea falls out of the universe. “Right. Who knows.”

He gives you a small, easy smile before grabbing his things. “Don’t wait up.”

In the next moment, he’s gone—slipping out the back door, leaving you with the hum of the refrigerators and the hollow thump of your own heartbeat. You stay a moment longer than you should, staring at the empty space where he stood, then finally grab your bag and head out into the night.

You make a valiant attempt at salvaging the night, like it isn’t already slightly soured. Distraction is the name of the game: cleaning out the fridge, reorganizing your spice rack (alphabetical, then rearranged back to the order you actually use them in), watching half an episode of some cooking competition before realizing every contestant is making you think of Yuki anyway. You groan, flop dramatically on your couch, and eventually drag yourself to bed.

Your phone buzzes just as you’re about to fall asleep. It’s a text from Yuki. A TikTok link. 

It’s a video of a cat swatting flour off a counter while the baker screams in horror. You snort so hard you have to clutch your chest. The fact that he thought of you—your flour-covered apron, your tendency to leave powdered sugar handprints everywhere—hits a little too close.

You reply with: That cat has better technique than you.

He answers quicker than you expect: Bold words from someone who once dropped an entire bag of cocoa powder on the floor.

You grin at your phone in the dark, but your thumbs hesitate before typing. Finally, you cave: So… how was the date?

Three dots appear, vanish, reappear. Then his reply comes, simple. There won’t be a second date. 

Your stomach does a traitorous little flip. You squeeze your pillow and type back: Their loss.

His reply is slower this time, but it still arrives. Good night.

You stare at the screen longer than necessary, smiling despite yourself. Then, you type the words you mean and don’t mean all at once: Dream of me, Yukino.

I always do, comes his easy response, and you hold your phone to your chest as you feel the thump, thump, thump of your heart.

Chaos is not new to Venti Due, but today it feels like the world is testing how much caffeine-fueled patience one restaurant can hold. Orders are stacking faster than the ticket machine can spit them out, Alex looks one second away from throwing a pan, and Yuki’s temper is sparking like a gas stove with faulty wiring. You try to keep the rhythm, weaving between stations with that too-bright smile you wear when everything’s going to hell. “Table six says they’ve been waiting thirty minutes,” you announce, voice sugar-sweet, as if sugar could soften the blow.

“Tell them it’ll be thirty-one,” Yuki snaps, slamming a pan onto the burner. The clang echoes through the kitchen, and Alex mutters something sharp under his breath. Yuki hears it, of course. He always does.

“Say that louder, Albon,” Yuki challenges, eyes flicking up like knives. “To my fucking face.”

You slide between them, spatula in hand like it’s a peace offering. “Okay, gladiators, how about no one throws cookware today? Pots are expensive.” Your grin wobbles at the edges, but you keep it in place. Comic relief is your best weapon, even when you’re dying inside.

Alex scoffs, tossing chopped herbs with more force than necessary. “Tell your boyfriend to chill, then.”

Heat climbs up your neck, not just from the stoves. “He’s not my boyfriend. And he is very chill. He’s the definition of chill. Like a freezer.”

Yuki slants you a look that’s anything but chill, though his lips twitch like he almost wants to laugh. Almost. The kitchen keeps roaring, plates keep flying, and you keep tightrope-walking between Alex’s sarcasm and Yuki’s sharpness, pretending your heart isn’t racing for reasons that have nothing to do with service.

Oscar and Jules call in almost at the same time, their voices overlapping through the kitchen phone. You catch fragments—“table six wants their third refill five minutes ago,” “guy at four is snapping his fingers,” “if one more person says ‘extra crispy’ I’ll lose it.” Lovely soundtrack for a Friday night.

Yuki looks like he’s two seconds from ripping the apron off and walking out. His jaw’s set, his shoulders wound tight. You can practically hear the steam whistling from his ears. You know that look. You also know the last thing this kitchen needs is Mount Yuki erupting all over the line.

You step in, hand pressing lightly to the small of his back. A tether, a nudge. “George, pour some free wine, make it look like we’re generous saints,” you start. 

Alex picks up what you’re putting down. He’s already yelling for Lando  to bring out his shaker like it’s a weapon. “Whip up a couple of your science project cocktails,” Alex hollers. “If the drinks are colorful enough, maybe the customers will forget their existential despair.”

It’s not exactly Michelin-star crisis management, but it works. The edge in the air dulls. You feel Yuki breathe out beside you, his shoulders loosening. His hand finds yours, quick, almost stealthy, a squeeze hidden between moments. By the time anyone looks your way, he’s already back to pretending he’s unflappable, barking new orders like nothing happened.

You, of course, are left with your heart pounding harder than it has any right to during a dinner rush.

The aftermath of the shift looks like war survivors slumped against barstools. George has his head tilted back, eyes closed as if he’s auditioning for a Renaissance painting. Jules is counting tips with the air of someone too tired to do math, mouthing numbers like they might bite her if she miscounts. Alex is sprawled over two chairs, dramatically near death, while Oscar taps away on his phone with the clinical detachment of someone who has already emotionally detached from the evening.

Everyone is waiting for the inevitable. Yuki is still standing, arms crossed, expression unreadable as he surveys the wreckage. Normally this is the part where he dissects every misstep, precision-knife sharp. You brace for it too, already preparing your counterarguments and deflections. Instead, he sighs. “Good work tonight, everyone.”

The silence that follows is so loud it could count as a new kind of noise pollution. Yuki continues, voice softer. “It was rough, but you all handled it. I know I was short-tempered. Alex, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m sorry.”

Alex blinks as if someone just offered him free real estate. “You’re… apologizing? To me?”

“Don’t make me take it back,” Yuki says flatly, but there’s no heat in it.

A ripple of muffled laughter moves through the room. The tension lightens, shoulders drop. Yuki turns to you. His eyes linger, steady. “And you. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you tonight.”

Cue the chorus of ooooooohs from the peanut gallery. George clutches his chest like he’s about to swoon. Jules mutters, “When’s the wedding?”

You roll your eyes and wave them off, forcing breeziness into your tone. “Don’t be dramatic. Yuki did great tonight.” You look at him deliberately, keeping it light but meaning it more than you should. “Seriously. You kept us all together, chef.”

For a moment, Yuki holds your gaze like he knows exactly what you mean, like he can hear all the words you don’t say. But then he clears his throat, turning back to the group, already moving on. The tips of his ears are a little red.

The spray of the sink is too loud, the plates too slick, and the kitchen too cramped to be having this conversation. Which is exactly why you’re having it now, with Oscar. Poor Oscar, elbows deep in soap suds, eyes wide like he can sense danger coming.

“I swear, he’s impossible,” you grunt, scrubbing at a plate like it personally wronged you. “Everyone else can see it. George, Alex, Jules, even Lando, and he barely notices anything. But Yuki? Nothing. Not even a flicker. How do you miss someone literally spelling it out for you with neon lights?”

Oscar clears his throat. “I don’t think anyone here is using neon lights.”

You flick suds at him. “You know what I mean. He’s oblivious. Painfully oblivious. Like, should I start carrying around a banner? Hire a skywriter?”

Oscar fumbles with a glass, nearly dropping it, and you swoop in to take it before disaster. He looks grateful, then immediately regretful that this means you’re still glaring at him. “You could just tell him?” he offers, voice small, like he knows it’s the worst possible suggestion.

“Brilliant. Revolutionary. Why didn’t I think of that?”

He winces. “Right. Sorry.”

“I’m serious, though,” you sigh. “How do you even tell someone like him? He’s either going to laugh it off or think I’m joking. He never takes me seriously unless I’m yelling about oven temperatures.”

Oscar gives you a long, awkward blink, as if calculating whether it’s safer to keep quiet or offer more useless wisdom. “Maybe… yell about this, then?”

You throw your dish towel at his head. “You’re no help.”

He grins, half apologetic, half relieved you’re teasing again. “Didn’t think I would be.”

The dish pit is still warm with steam when you and Oscar finish the last stack of plates. Your hands smell faintly of lemon soap and regret, though mostly the soap. Oscar is drying the last tray of glasses with all the care of someone performing delicate surgery, which makes it an easy moment for him to look at you sidelong.

When you move to leave, tugging your apron off, Oscar catches you just before the door. His voice is casual, but it lands with a strange weight. “You know, you’re pretty oblivious yourself.”

You turn, brows pulling together. “Oblivious about what?”

He just shrugs, retreating back to stack the glasses. “Figure it out.”

The words scratch at the back of your mind all the way into the night, but they don’t get far. Because as soon as you’re free, your phone buzzes with a message from Yuki: Dinner? My treat.

Oscar’s warning evaporates like steam in the dish pit. You don’t hesitate. Sure.

Yuki is already waiting on the sidewalk when you show up, still in your work clothes and very aware that you smell faintly like fryer oil and espresso. You throw your arms out dramatically, as if you’re presenting evidence at a trial. “I didn’t even have time to freshen up,” you announce. “I’m a walking PSA for why service industry workers need hazard pay.”

Yuki just shrugs, easy grin sliding onto his face. “You always look pretty.”

That’s it. Like it’s nothing. Like he hasn’t just lobbed a grenade straight into your ribcage. You do the only logical thing and roll your eyes, pretending the heat in your cheeks is from the streetlights. “Pretty tragic, maybe,” you mutter, but Yuki’s already walking ahead, hands shoved in his pockets, like he’s perfectly pleased with himself.

The two of you gravitate toward one of the food trucks parked down the block, another one of those rituals you’ve fallen into without ever actually planning it. After nights at Venti Due, when the air inside feels too tight and the noise clings to your skin, you both need the antidote. Greasy paper plates, cheap plastic stools, food that drips down your fingers. It’s become its own tradition, like a sort of rebellion against the polished chaos you both live in during shifts.

You sit side by side on stools that wobble dangerously if you breathe too hard, elbows brushing as you dig into whatever fried concoction you’ve ordered this time. Yuki nudges his shoulder into yours as he chews, expression sly. “This is balance, right? Five-star kitchen by day, suspicious street meat by night.”

You point your fork at him. “Suspicious? Please,” you tease. “This is haute cuisine compared to the stuff I eat when you’re not around.”

He laughs, head tilting back, and the sound pulls something warm through your chest. The street hums around you—passing cars, the hiss of the grill inside the truck, the faint buzz of a neon sign overhead—but it all fades when Yuki looks at you again, still smiling like he knows something you don’t. Or maybe like he does, and he’s waiting for you to catch up.

Tonight, Yuki actually going front-of-house to greet guests himself. No clipped instructions to Jules, no waving you over. He’s personally out there, polite smile and all, which can only mean these guests are the kind of people that matter. You lean toward George, eyes following the scene like it’s prime-time television. “Alright, ten bucks says it’s a Michelin inspector.”

George smirks, polishing a wine glass he has no intention of using. “Fifteen says it’s his secret girlfriend,” he says, and you try to ignore the twang in your chest.

“Twenty says you’re both wrong,” Lando chimes, “and it’s just some old man who taught him how to cook noodles.”

Before George can counter, Yuki turns, spotting you. “Come here,” he calls, casual but with the edge of someone about to put you on the spot.

You shoot George a look that says pay up before heading over. When you get there, you freeze in your tracks. Pierre Gasly and Isack Hadjar. Head chef and sous chef of Alpha Tauri, one of those French bistros that food magazines worship like a minor deity. They’re sitting at one of Venti Due’s cramped tables like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Uh,” you manage, because your brain is still buffering. “Hi.”

Yuki, apparently thrilled to be the cause of your speech malfunction, gestures between you. “These are my friends. Pierre, Isack. This is—well, this is who keeps this place from falling apart.”

“Flattering,” you exhale, before catching Pierre’s grin. He looks exactly like the kind of guy who would charm his way through both a dinner service and a black-tie gala. Isack, quieter, has the sharp eyes of someone cataloguing everything in the room.

“Ah, so you are the famous right hand,” Pierre says smoothly, his accent making it sound even more like a compliment.

“Famous for what, exactly?” you ask, because sarcasm is easier than admitting your ears are warm.

“Putting up with Yuki,” Isack deadpans, which earns an actual laugh from Yuki and nearly makes you choke.

Isack and Pierre don’t just order like regular customers. They order like men on a mission. No glancing at menus, no awkward pauses. Just a quick exchange in French—one you don’t need to understand to recognize as fluent culinary shorthand—before Pierre rattles off their requests.

It’s not the safe pasta route or a token pizza either. No, these two go straight for desserts, as if they came here with a purpose. Cannoli with a yuzu mascarpone filling. Matcha tiramisu layered with delicate ladyfingers soaked in sake instead of espresso. A chestnut mont blanc with candied ginger woven into its spiral. Even a semifreddo that borrows from kakigōri, shaved ice folded into the cream and studded with shards of caramelized sesame.

You jot it all down, already picturing the chaos this order is about to cause in the kitchen. Dessert-first people are a different breed. When you step back through the kitchen doors, you brace yourself. You pass the ticket along with the kind of caution reserved for live grenades. To your surprise, nobody panics. Lando perks up, muttering something about having wanted an excuse to torch meringue anyway. Alex groans, but you know he’ll secretly enjoy the challenge.

And Yuki. Yuki tries very hard not to look smug as he passes through the kitchen, glancing at the ticket and then at you. His face is the picture of composure, but you know him well enough to see it—the proud little tilt of his chin, the quick dart of his eyes toward you like he’s saying, See? They trust you. They trust us.

You ignore him, or at least you pretend to, focusing instead on plating. The tiramisu layers neatly. The cannoli shells crackle when you pipe in the filling. Each dish hits the pass like punctuation marks in a sentence you didn’t realize you were writing until now.

When you finally carry them out, Isack and Pierre are waiting, watching like hawks. They murmur their approval before forks even touch plates. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy it. Because maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to see why Yuki looks so proud.

After the sweetest hour of their life, the Frenchmen’s plates are cleared and their wine glasses sit half-full. Isack leans back with a satisfied sigh. “We want to compliment the pastry chef,” he declares, pronouncing it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You glance at Yuki, half-expecting him to wave you off and take the credit himself, but he doesn’t. Instead, he flicks his eyes toward you with the faintest smile, almost as if to say, go on then. You do, your apron still dusted with sugar, sweat threading through the eggshell white of your jacket.

Isack greets you first, his grin boyish and enthusiastic. “Those desserts were brilliant. Clean, balanced, but playful. The panna cotta? It tasted magnifique.”

Pierre nods in agreement, sharper in his delivery but no less genuine. “You’ve got a strong hand. That miso tiramisu was clever without trying too hard. You should be proud.”

You mumble a thank you, cheeks hot, and when the tip comes it’s far too generous to brush off as a gesture of politeness. You try to slide it back discreetly, but Isack just waves you off, already standing to bid Yuki good night. 

Pierre lingers a moment longer. He studies you the way chefs do when they’ve spotted talent they don’t want to miss. “Listen,” he says, lowering his voice. “My pastry chef left two weeks ago. I need someone sharp, inventive. Someone like you.”

You gape, caught off guard, but Pierre presses on. “I know you’re loyal to Yuki. But Alpha Tauri pays better, and I can open doors for you. Connections, stages in Paris, maybe more.” He slides a small card across the table, his name embossed, the number beneath it neat and exact. Pierre Gasly, Head Chef of Alpha Tauri. “Think about it.”

With a final nod, he tucks his hands into his coat pockets and heads off to join Isack. The card is still warm in your palm when you head back toward the kitchen, rehearsing excuses you’ll never have to use. Except Yuki’s waiting, leaned against the doorframe like he’s been there the whole time, eyes sharper than usual.

“What did Pierre want?” he asks casually, which is how you know he’s not being casual at all.

You blink too quickly. “Nothing. Just… you know. French people talk a lot.”

Yuki raises a brow. “Talk a lot, or flirt a lot?”

Your laugh comes out too high-pitched, too guilty, and you instantly want to sink into the nearest stockpot. “Don’t be ridiculous. He was just—” You wave a vague hand, failing to find a word less incriminating than ‘offering me a job.’

“So he did try to ask you out.”

The fact that he says it like a joke makes it worse. Your laugh doubles down, nervous and unconvincing. Yuki narrows his eyes, clearly clocking every octave of panic in your voice. He’s not a jealous type, not really, but he’s also not great at hiding it when it slips out. Right now, it’s all over him, disguised poorly as humor.

“Relax,” you say hastily, brushing past him with an overdone roll of your eyes. “No one’s asking me out, okay? You’re imagining things.”

Still, the weight of Pierre’s card in your apron pocket is impossible to ignore. Instead of tossing it in the trash like you should, you slide it deeper, tucking it away where Yuki can’t see. 

You’ve known from the start that Pierre’s offer would always be a no. 

Not because it isn’t tempting—better pay, prestige, connections most chefs would sell their knives for—but because you already decided your next step wouldn’t be working under someone else’s name. It would be your own place, your own kitchen. The thought is terrifying, but it’s yours. So Pierre’s generous card burns in your pocket, not with possibility, but with a strange sort of ache. The ache isn’t about Alpha Tauri at all. It’s about Venti Due, and how, no matter how many times you swear you’ll eventually move on, you can’t seem to imagine leaving it. Leaving Yuki. That’s the part you don’t say out loud.

You spiral instead, eyes glazed as you plate tiramisu for table six, your thoughts chewing themselves into knots. You barely hear George asking if you’ve gone deaf. You barely register Jules dropping an empty wine glass into the sink. It’s like everything’s muffled, until Yuki’s voice cuts through the fog. “You’re distracted.” He says it like an accusation, sharp enough to slice through your reverie. His brow furrows as he studies you, like you’ve been caught cheating on a test.

You manage a laugh, which comes off as shaky and thin. “Just tired. It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t look fine.” Yuki wipes his hands on a towel, stepping closer, his gaze stubbornly locked on you. He’s trying to read you, as if peeling back layers with his eyes alone.

You shrug, picking up another plate, anything to avoid the weight of his stare. “Really. Nothing’s wrong.”

He doesn’t buy it, not for a second. You can tell by the look on his face. The silence stretches, taut and uncomfortable, until he finally exhales and mutters, “If you say so.”

You keep your eyes on the desserts, but you feel him still there, hovering, unwilling to leave you to whatever storm you’ve walked into. It’s why the sting hits before you even realize what you’ve done. Your hand makes contact with the oven door, and the heat bites instantly. You curse loud enough to make the whole kitchen snap their heads toward you. Yuki is back at your side in seconds, rattling off a string of reprimands in Japanese and English like you’ve personally offended every kitchen safety rule in existence.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, snatching your wrist up before you can cradle it against your chest. “How many times have I told you to—”

“I know, I know!” you cut him off, wincing as the burn throbs. “I was distracted, okay?”

“Distracted,” he repeats, unimpressed. “You could have lost your hand.”

“Pretty sure I still have it,” you say, trying for humor, though your voice shakes just enough to betray you. The corners of your eyes sting, and you bite down hard on the inside of your cheek.

Yuki catches it immediately. He’s quiet for a beat, just studying your face, before his shoulders drop in a heavy sigh. The lecture dies on his tongue. Without another word, he tugs you toward the back, past the prep stations, and swings open the heavy metal door of the walk-in freezer. The cold rush of air hits you like a wall, prickling your skin, but he’s already pulling you inside.

“Here,” he says simply, guiding your injured hand toward a shelf stacked with frozen containers. He presses the burn gently against the icy surface, holding it there with his own hand covering yours. The temperature bites, but it’s a welcome relief compared to the searing heat from minutes ago.

For a long moment, it’s just the two of you standing in the blue-white hum of the freezer, his fingers brushing against yours as he steadies your hand. His breath fogs in the chill, and you can feel his warmth even in the cold. “You scare me when you do stuff like this,” Yuki admits quietly, his usual sharpness dulled to something softer. You look up at him, ready with another joke to lighten the mood, but the way he’s watching you makes the words stick in your throat.

The freezer hums around you, cold air rolling over your skin as you press your burned hand against the icy metal shelf. Yuki’s brow is furrowed, and though he’s still muttering under his breath about how reckless you are, his eyes keep flicking to your face like he’s waiting for you to break again.

“Seriously, what’s going on with you?” he asks, softer this time. “You’ve been somewhere else all night.”

“Like I said, I’m just tired,” you say with a shake of your head.

“Liar.” He says it plainly, no bite, just fact. He crosses his arms, resting his weight against the shelf stacked with tubs of gelato. “You think I don’t notice when you’re lying? You think I don’t notice anything?”

Your silence only makes him sigh. His shoulders drop, and when he looks at you again, there’s something raw in his expression. 

“Don’t go,” he says. 

That catches you off guard. “What?”

“Don’t go,” he repeats, firmer now, though his voice trembles at the edges. “Don’t… don’t date Pierre. Don’t move to Alpha Tauri. Don’t leave Venti Due.”

The words stick in your throat. You want to remind him of the truth—that your dream has never been someone else’s kitchen, that it’s always been your own patisserie. That Pierre’s offer doesn’t matter because your loyalty was never up for sale. You open your mouth to say all of it.

But then Yuki takes a step closer. His hands hover like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like touching you will make everything collapse, but his voice breaks when he whispers, “Don’t leave me.”

That’s what undoes you. Because the way he says it, it isn’t about work, or restaurants, or loyalty. It’s about him. About the late nights and food trucks and the way he always looks for you in a crowded kitchen. About every joke and fight and moment that’s been stacking up between you like bricks to a house you didn’t realize you were building.

Before you can get a word out, his resolve cracks completely. Yuki leans in, quick and desperate, and his mouth finds yours in the cold of the freezer, his kiss tasting like salt and nerves. You don’t immediately reciprocate, your brain blanking at the feel of finally getting what you’ve always wanted.  

Yuki pulls back just slightly, his forehead brushing yours. His breath ghosts against your lips, uneven, and his eyes flick down to your mouth like he’s caught himself in some kind of crime. For once, he looks nervous—almost shy, like he’s already regretting how impulsive he was. The great Yuki Tsunoda, who can breeze through a dinner service without breaking a sweat, suddenly looks like he might crumble under the weight of his own feelings.

Before he can take it back, before he can wrap his walls back up around himself, you lean in, kissing him harder, catching him before he even thinks of retreat. 

He makes a startled sound in the back of his throat, a half-surprised, half-helpless noise, and then he’s melting into you, his shoulders dropping like he’s been holding tension for years. His hands hover awkwardly before finally finding their way to your waist, fingertips pressing lightly as if afraid you might vanish if he holds on too tightly. The kiss stretches, breaks for a breath, then finds its rhythm again. 

In between breaths, in between the brush of his lips over yours, he murmurs, voice ragged and unguarded, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.” The honesty in it hits you harder than the kiss itself.

You laugh against his mouth, playful even as your pulse threatens to sprint out of your chest. “Then you’d better make up for lost time.” Your words spark something in him, teasing a spark into flame.

It’s like lighting a fuse. He kisses you again, firmer this time, urgency curling at the edges, no hesitation left. There’s a shift—something determined, something fierce—like he’s trying to prove he means every word, every unspoken thought he’s ever swallowed around you. His thumb strokes the side of your waist, almost absent, almost reverent, and he leans into you as if he’s finally decided this is real, and he’s not about to waste another second.

The cold air of the freezer doesn’t stand a chance against the heat rising between you. The clink of metal shelves and trill of the fan fade into background noise, unimportant, irrelevant. All you can feel is him, close enough that the world seems narrowed to this exact point in space, this kiss, this gravity. For the first time all night, you’re not thinking about burns, or job offers, or all the ways you keep talking yourself into staying at Venti Due.

Right now, there’s only him, and the terrifying, thrilling realization that everything is about to change.

It’s Monday morning, and the first thing you register is that this isn’t your ceiling. You blink at the unfamiliar cracks, the faint water stain that kind of resembles a turtle, and the sudden realization hits: you’re not at your place. You’re at Yuki’s.

The second thing you register is the solid weight beside you, the rise and fall of his breathing. He’s still asleep, hair mussed, lips parted in the kind of slack, unguarded way that makes you grin like an idiot. The third thing—your feet are freezing, and you know exactly what to do about that. You wiggle closer under the covers and press your icy toes against his shins. Predictably, he jolts, groaning like you’ve just personally betrayed him. 

“Why are you like this?” His voice is rough with sleep, muffled into the pillow.

“Because it’s effective,” you reply, unapologetic as you burrow into his warmth. “Human hot water bottle. Don’t complain.”

He cracks one eye open, glaring in the most halfhearted way possible. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re still letting me stay here,” you counter, tracing lazy circles on his chest as if that proves your point. “So, really, who’s the idiot?”

For a second, it seems like he’ll just roll over and go back to sleep. Instead, Yuki shifts, catching you completely off guard as he flips you onto your back with a speed that makes you squeal and laugh all at once.

“Wait—” you start, but he’s already grinning, playful as ever in the low morning light. “You asked for this,” he says simply, and then he disappears beneath the covers.

Your laughter pitches higher, mixing with a breathless kind of disbelief as you grab at the sheets, your toes curling now for a very different reason. 

The smell of coffee fills the kitchen before you’ve even pulled yourself together enough to stand. Yuki’s already moving around, grinding beans, flicking the switch, pouring milk. He doesn’t ask how you take yours; he just sets the cup down in front of you the way you like it, like he’s been keeping track all along. You try not to look too pleased about it, but he catches the gleam in your eye anyway.

“Don’t,” he warns, though it’s half-asleep and half-affectionate, the kind of voice that tells you he’s already lost whatever argument you’re about to start.

You sip the coffee, burn your tongue a little, and grin through it. “I should probably swing by my place, grab clothes, you know,” you say instead of teasing him. “Just to avoid looking like a scandal walking into work.”

His frown is subtle but obvious. “Why? You can just wear what you have.”

“Right, because showing up in the same outfit as last night isn’t suspicious at all.” You tap his cup with yours like you’re toasting him for being so ridiculous. “Let me grab something fresh, then I’ll come back. It’s a quick pitstop.”

He sighs like you’ve just told him you’re moving continents. “You can only be ten minutes late. No more than that.”

You lean over and kiss his cheek, lingering just long enough to watch the tips of his ears turn red. “I’ll take that as girlfriend privilege,” you half-joke. 

The word hangs in the air, light and heavy all at once. You don’t miss the way his eyes dart to yours, startled before settling into something softer. He tries to hide it by taking a very long sip of his coffee, but you see it. The flush that spreads up his neck, the smile he can’t quite hide.

It might be your new favorite way to start a Monday.

The moment you step into Venti Due, the weight of the kitchen settles on your shoulders the same way it always has. The gleam of pans, the rush of prep, the scent of yeast and sugar all return you to familiar ground. Professional. Focused. The kind of atmosphere where there’s no room for slip-ups, especially not the kind that involves stolen kisses and warm glances across stainless steel counters.

You and Yuki made the unspoken agreement clear last night, punctuated with a nod and the brush of his knuckles against yours before he unlocked his front door. Don’t tell the others yet. Don’t make this into a thing. Keep it quiet.

When you pass him in the kitchen this morning, it’s nothing more than a muttered “Morning” and an acknowledging tilt of his chin. He’s every inch the head chef, doling out orders with clipped precision, demanding sauces be reduced faster, knives sharper, plating tighter. You’re every inch his pastry chef, shoulders squared as you pipe cream with steady hands, pretending your chest isn’t buzzing with the memory of his mouth on yours. 

There are the moments in between. The way he adjusts the oven timer behind you when he doesn’t need to, close enough that his hip briefly presses against yours. The way your hand lingers an extra second when you pass him a spoon for tasting. The barely-there smile that flickers across his face before he turns to yell at someone else. No one notices, or maybe they do and they’re too busy to care.

And then there’s the freezer.

You both slip in under the guise of checking stock, of making sure the deliveries match the invoices. Inside, it’s a hush of chilly air and dim light, the hum of machinery wrapping around you like a secret. He presses his forehead to yours, hands skimming your waist. 

“I’ve got éclairs setting,” you whine, “and you’ve got steaks searing.” 

“Don’t care,” he breathes, lips cold from the air as he kisses you deeply. 

By the time you both step back out, it’s like nothing happened. The thread of something softer pulls under every clipped instruction, every quiet acknowledgment. Professional. Focused. But different now. Different in a way you can’t hide from yourself, even if you can from everyone else.

The market looks exactly the same as every Saturday. Stalls lined with crates of tomatoes that still smell of vines, herbs piled high in baskets, the air thick with the mingling scent of bread, flowers, and espresso. But you notice how different it feels with Yuki’s hand looped through yours. It’s casual, almost lazy, the way his thumb rubs the back of your hand as if he’s not even aware he’s doing it. Spoiler: he’s definitely aware.

You pause at the usual olive oil stand, and the vendor offers up tiny wooden spoons dipped in golden green. You lift yours to your lips, and Yuki leans in behind you, bracing his chin against your shoulder so he can taste off the same spoon. “You’re just stealing my sample,” you protest, laughing.

“It tastes better when it’s yours,” he says, lips brushing too close to your skin for you to take it as anything but intentional.

At the cheese stand, he hovers closer than usual, one hand resting at the small of your back as if someone’s about to bump into you every other second. When you roll your eyes at his overprotectiveness, he murmurs, “Crowded. Don’t want to lose you.”

The sourdough stall is the last stop. The vendor, who’s been watching you two banter for years, smiles knowingly. “Finally together, huh? Took you long enough.” Before you can respond, she pushes two warm loaves toward you. “On the house. Congratulations.”

Yuki flushes bright red and mumbles something under his breath in Japanese you can’t quite catch. You thank her quickly, clutching the loaves to your chest, and turn to him with a grin. “Guess it’s obvious.”

He groans, trying to hide his face behind the bread bag. “We should have told her ourselves.”

“Too late. We’ve been exposed.” You lean closer, bumping your shoulder against his. “At least we get free carbs out of it.”

That makes him laugh, finally looking back at you. The sound is delicate, unguarded, and it carries in the crisp morning air. He squeezes your hand, voice quiet but certain. “Worth it.”

You’re mid–bite of a pastry sample when Yuki makes some comment that has you laughing too loud, the kind of sound that makes a few heads turn. He squeezes your hand, and you’re about to shove another piece of croissant in his mouth when you freeze. Because there, weaving between stalls with all the casual energy in the world, are Jules and Oscar.

Panic hits you faster than the sugar rush. You tug Yuki’s sleeve. “Hide.”

“What?”

“Hide!” you hiss, already dragging him behind a stack of crates filled with apples. He nearly trips over your feet but follows, and the two of you crouch down like fugitives in the middle of a farmers’ market.

Yuki whispers, “We look insane.”

“You’d rather they see us holding hands?” You peek through the gaps between crates, spying the two servers. 

Jules is animated, talking with her hands, while Oscar listens, amused. You lean closer to Yuki, lowering your voice. “I thought Jules was with Lando.”

Yuki frowns, squinting at them. “Really? I didn’t notice.”

You glance at him, incredulous. “How do you not notice? We literally work with these people every day.”

He shrugs, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I only ever pay attention to your personal life.”

That knocks the air right out of your chest. The worst part? He says it so casually, like it’s not the most devastating thing anyone’s ever whispered to you while hiding behind apples. Heat crawls up your neck and you smack his back lightly, trying to cover it up with indignation. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” He’s smiling, and you’re doomed.

You straighten up, grabbing his wrist and tugging. Thankfully, Oscar and Jules are already off in some far end of the market. “That’s it,” you declare. “We’re going back to your place.”

“Now?” He tries to sound surprised, but the spark in his eyes gives him away.

“Yes, now.” You lace your fingers with his again, quickening your pace as you begin to haul him away from the market. “Before I combust from secondhand sweetness.”

“Pretty sure that’s firsthand sweetness,” Yuki teases, but he doesn’t let go.

By the time you get back to Yuki’s apartment, you’re already on him like you’ve been starved for weeks instead of just hours. Buttons, zippers, the trail of your jacket. It all blurs. You can’t remember who stumbles first against the wall, only that you’re laughing into his mouth while trying not to trip over your own shoes. By the time you reach the couch, you’re both half-breathless and entirely lost to it.

Later, once the world slows down, you’re stretched out on that same couch, cheek pressed into the curve of a pillow. Your body is still buzzing with the kind of lazy satisfaction that makes the ceiling look prettier than usual. Yuki lies below you, close enough that your fingers brush his when you move.

Of course, it’s not new—the wanting him part. You’ve always wanted him. You remember culinary school, how your heart raced when he’d glance over your shoulder to critique your knife cuts, his voice gruff and teasing like he had a personal grudge against julienning carrots. You remember thinking you’d put up with a thousand more lectures just to feel his breath on your neck again. So maybe it isn’t such a mystery why you agreed to Venti Due in the first place. Professional growth, sure, but also the chance to be near him. Maybe you’re only admitting that to yourself now, in the afterglow, when your guard’s too low to bother with excuses.

You tilt your head toward him, breaking the silence with the most important question you can think of. “What’s for dinner?”

He hums like he hasn’t thought about it, though his lips twitch like he’s already amused by your impatience. “Probably just takeout.”

You glare at him, mock-offended. “After all this effort I put in today, that’s the best you can offer me? Takeout?”

Yuki smiles widely, turning toward you with the kind of look that makes your stomach flip all over again. “I’m trying to save my energy for something else.”

Before you can fire back with another quip, he shifts, rolling smoothly on top of you. The weight of him pins you down, and suddenly it’s hard to remember what you’d even asked in the first place.

Business has been busier than usual, and you know exactly why. You’ve been experimenting more, letting yourself be bolder with flavors, textures, and presentations. The display case looks like a technicolor dream: glossy tarts crowned with jewel-bright slices of candied citrus, delicate choux puffs dusted with pistachio crumble, and a mousse cake layered so neatly it looks like it belongs in a glossy food magazine. Customers linger, phones out, photos taken before the first bite, and you can’t deny the thrill that rushes through you every time someone swoons over something you made.

Alex notices too. Of course he does. He watches as another pair of customers leave, practically glowing with satisfaction. “I’ll admit it,” he says, his mouth curved into a knowing grin. “Your desserts have been next-level lately. Whatever you’ve been doing, it’s working.”

You feign innocence, shrugging as you wipe down the counter. “What, am I not allowed to have creative bursts every once in a while?”

Alex narrows his eyes, still smiling. “Sure, sure. But usually those bursts don’t line up with you glowing all week,” he jabs. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

You roll your eyes, but Yuki, standing beside you, is visibly stiffer than usual. He clears his throat, a little too quickly. “She’s just working harder. Nothing weird about that.”

“Right,” Alex drawls, amusement dripping from every syllable. “Totally normal. Just suddenly decided to reinvent the pastry case out of nowhere. No possible explanation besides ‘working harder.’”

You and Yuki exchange a quick glance—yours amused, his panicked—and you can’t help but cover a laugh with your hand. “Maybe inspiration struck,” you say, aiming for breezy.

“Uh-huh,” Alex says, clearly unconvinced but entertained. He points between the two of you as he turns to leave. “Whatever it is, keep it up. But don’t think for a second I’m not onto something.”

Yuki mutters under his breath once Alex is gone, “He’s too nosy.”

You grin, nudging him with your elbow. “Relax. Deny, deny, deny. It’s practically foolproof.”

Yuki shoots you a look that’s half irritation, half affection, and you can’t resist leaning close enough to add, “Besides, if Alex thinks my pastry game is suspiciously good, wait until he tries what I’ve been practicing at your place.”

A couple of days and a dozen more pastries later, the bell over the door jingles and you glance up, already halfway into your automatic “Welcome to Venti Due” when you freeze. Standing in the doorway is Doriane. You know her instantly. The same bright smile, the same blonde hair. Culinary school feels both like yesterday and a lifetime ago, but here she is, bustling toward you as if no time has passed at all.

“Are you kidding me?!” she squeals, throwing her arms around you. You laugh, startled, returning the hug. The sound of her voice alone drags you back to late nights in the pastry kitchen, sharing half-burnt éclairs and bad coffee while cramming for exams.

You pull back, a little breathless. “Dori. What the hell are you doing here?”

She beams. “Scouting. My bakery just hit one year. Can you believe it? One year, and we’re still standing.” She launches into chatter, telling you about her staff, her favorite customers, the early mornings that nearly killed her and the croissants that made it all worth it.

You smile, you nod, you laugh where appropriate. You mean it—you are happy for her. You are. But somewhere under your ribs something twists, sharp and unexpected, like a knife you didn’t realize you’d been carrying. You keep your hands busy twirling your kitchen towel, because if you don’t, you’ll have to look at her and admit to the ache in your chest.

She doesn’t notice, or maybe she does and ignores it. Either way, she hugs you again before she leaves, clutching your arm like she used to. “I’m so glad you’re still you,” she says warmly, then tilts her head. “Though, honestly, I’m surprised you’re still here. I always thought you’d have your own place by now.”

Her words land heavier than they should, sticking to your skin long after she’s gone. You stand there, smile fading slow in the sterile kitchen you’ve overstayed in. For the first time in a long time, you wonder if you’ve been hiding behind the safety of Venti Due, behind the steady hum of it—and maybe even behind Yuki—longer than you realized.

You don’t notice the dip in your mood right away, but Yuki does. He’s running through the day’s feedback, voice steady and precise as always, while you’re staring off at a smudge on the stainless-steel counter like it holds the secrets of the universe. Normally, you’d be volleying back with sarcastic commentary or reminding him he sounds like an overzealous Hell’s Kitchen knockoff. Today, though, your mind is somewhere else, and Yuki’s sharp enough to take note of it.

He doesn’t call you out in front of everyone. He’s too careful for that, too considerate. But when the night winds down, the last tables cleared, and you’re elbow-deep in soapy water, he finally makes his move. You don’t hear him until his arms are wrapping around your waist from behind, his chin settling against your shoulder like it’s been waiting there all day.

“You’re quiet,” he whispers, not an accusation but an observation. The kind that makes your chest feel tight. “What’s wrong?”

You force a small laugh, too brittle to pass as genuine but hopefully enough to slip by. “I think I’m coming down with something,” you fib, eyes still fixed on the plates in front of you. 

He hums, the kind of sound that tells you he doesn’t believe you, but he’s not going to push. Instead, he presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, warm and unhurried, a promise tucked into the gesture. “I’ll make you soup.”

The words melt something in you and shatter something else all at once. You nod, letting him believe it, letting him take care of you in the way he knows how. All the while, your heart sinks under the weight of the lie you’ve chosen. The one you’re telling the man you love.

“I want to talk to you about something.”

That’s how Yuki starts, right after you’ve both trudged up the stairs to his apartment. Dinner dishes from your late shift still linger faintly in your clothes, and you brace yourself, heart thudding like he’s about to confirm every fear you’ve been carrying. This is it, you think. He’s caught on. He knows you’ve been off for the past few weeks. Maybe he’s about to call you out for lying, for being distant.

Except then he kicks off his shoes, shrugs out of his jacket, and says it all-too plainly, “I’ve been thinking about expanding Venti Due.”

Your brain short-circuits. “Expanding?”

He nods, totally serious, as if he didn’t just blindside you with a bomb. “Yeah. I’ve been eyeing a property not far from here,” he informs you. “Smaller, more intimate. Different vibe, but still under the name.”

You’re still standing there with your arms crossed, waiting for the trick, waiting for the moment he circles back to the thing that’s been gnawing at you all this time. He doesn’t. He just moves around the apartment like he’s casually announcing he bought a new blender.

“Yuki.” You narrow your eyes. “You can’t just drop the word ‘expansion’ like it’s no big deal. That’s—”

“A big deal,” he finishes for you, smiling faintly. “I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Me?”

“Of course you.” He says it so easily, so matter-of-fact, it throws you off balance. Then he meets your gaze squarely, no hesitation this time. “Because I want you to be the head chef of the branch.”

You blink at him. Head chef. At a branch of Venti Due. The words taste surreal.  “Yuki, I can’t,” you say quickly, as though cutting him off before the idea can breathe.

His brows crease. “Can’t? What do you mean you can’t? You can.”

“No, really—”

“Yes, really.” He walks back to you, already in full persuasive mode, like you’ve thrown down a gauntlet he refuses to leave on the ground. “You’re brilliant. Your desserts bring people through the door. Half the reason Venti Due has a line every Saturday is because of you. Don’t even start pretending otherwise.”

You laugh, though it comes out sharper than you intend. “Flattery noted, but this isn’t about that.”

He gestures with his hands in that animated way he does when he’s mid-rant. “You think I don’t see it? The way you’re always experimenting, always pushing,” he presses. “You’d make a perfect head chef. You’ve been ready for it for a while now.”

You match his steps across the living room. “You’re not listening,” you plead. “It’s not that I don’t think I’m good enough.”

“Then what is it?” He stops pacing and turns to you, frustrated but still trying to soften it with that boyish insistence, with that love for you that you don’t quite feel deserving of at this very moment. “Because from where I stand, the only thing holding you back is you.”

The words sting more than they should, and you feel the knot that’s been lodged in your chest all day finally snap. “What’s holding me back is that this isn’t my dream!” The volume surprises both of you. You’re breathing harder, anger and something raw bleeding through your voice as you go on, “I didn’t bust my ass in culinary school so I could run someone else’s restaurant. I always meant to open my own bakery. Mine, Yuki. Not yours. Not Venti Due. Mine. You’ve known this from the very start.”

You don’t even mean to blurt it out. The words just slip out: “I’ve had the money for over a year.”

Yuki freezes. His head snaps toward you, disbelief flickering across his face. “Over a year?”

“Savings. Investors. The whole thing’s been ready. I could’ve signed a lease last spring if I wanted.”

The air shifts. Yuki’s quiet, too quiet, and when he finally speaks his voice is low, careful, like he’s afraid of stepping on glass. “Then why haven’t you?”

You swallow, throat tight. The truth pulses at the edge of your tongue, desperate and obvious: because of you. Because you’re here, because every morning at Venti Due means seeing him, because the thought of leaving feels like ripping out a piece of yourself. But you don’t say any of that. You can’t. So instead you shrug, trying to pass it off like it’s nothing. “Timing wasn’t right. That’s all.”

Yuki studies you, eyes narrowing, and you can tell he doesn’t buy it. He knows you too well. His lips press into a thin line, and then, almost hesitantly, he admits, “I thought… maybe you’d changed your mind.”

Your chin lifts at that. “Changed my mind?”

His gaze flicks away, somewhere toward the window where the city hums indifferent outside. “About the bakery. About leaving Venti Due. Especially now.” His voice dips softer, a strange mix of vulnerable and tentative, as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to want what he’s hinting at. “Now that we’re… us.”

Because you’re dating. Because you’re together. He’d thought his dreams were suddenly—what? Weightier than yours? Worth bucking for? You reach for your bag without really thinking about it, the weight of Yuki’s words still pressing against your chest. It feels like white-hot humiliation, threading itself with frustration that refuses to dissolve. His apartment, usually warm and safe, suddenly feels stifling, every wall closing in on you.

“Where are you going?” Yuki’s voice is quick, alarmed. You hear the shift of his footsteps, him crossing the room toward you, and you don’t even have to look up to know the crease between his brows has deepened.

“Home,” you say, short, clipped. The bag strap slides over your shoulder, a shield you cling to. You’re not even sure if you mean your apartment or just somewhere that isn’t here.

His hand reaches for your wrist, the way it always does when he wants to tether you to him, but this time you twist free. Your heart stutters at the shock on his face. He wasn’t expecting that. Neither were you.

“Wait,” he tries again, gentler now. “Don’t do this. Don’t just walk out.”

You shake your head. “I’m not doing anything dramatic, Yuki. I just need air.”

“Air here,” he insists, stepping closer, his tone walking that line between pleading and commanding. “Stay. We can—”

But you take a step back, clutching your bag strap tighter, almost like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “Not right now.” Your voice comes out almost a whisper, but it cuts anyway. His mouth closes on whatever he was about to say.

The silence that follows is thick, the kind that tastes of all the words unsaid. You manage to leave without looking back, even though every part of you wants to.

Venti Due sings with its usual rhythm: pans clinking, knives against boards, the soft hiss of burners catching. You’re in sync with Yuki the way you always are. Plates move from your station to his without a word, garnishes land with exact precision, sauces are poured with timing that borders on instinct. From the outside, it looks flawless.

Inside, though, it’s different. There’s a tightness under your ribs every time his hand brushes too close, a silence that stretches too long when your eyes meet. It isn’t explosive or obvious, but it lingers like smoke, curling in the corners of the kitchen. The others pick up on it. 

Jules keeps glancing between the two of you, eyebrows furrowing like she’s trying to do the math. Alex lingers longer at the pass, waiting for a joke or some playful jab that never comes. Even Oscar, who usually minds his own business, looks like he’s about to ask something and then thinks better of it.

It’s Lando who finally cracks. He drapes himself across the counter during a lull, smirking like he’s caught you in something. “What, did you two have a lovers’ quarrel? Or is this just some weird chef telepathy thing I’m not getting?”

Normally, you’d quip back. Yuki would roll his eyes and toss a towel at him. Something light, something that breaks the tension and lets everyone laugh. But not today. You keep plating, hand steady as you drizzle a sauce. Yuki doesn’t even look up from his pan. The silence that follows Lando’s joke is louder than the busiest dinner rush.

Lando’s grin falters. “Right. Cool. Totally normal vibes here.” He clears his throat and slips away, leaving the kitchen to its strange quiet again.

You and Yuki move on, the machine still running, but the heart of it misfiring. Perfect tandem, imperfect everything else. The end of shift debrief runs like clockwork, but without the usual noise of teasing interruptions or side comments. Everyone stands gathered near the pass, waiting through Yuki’s rundown. His tone is even and precise—too precise, the kind of politeness that feels like it’s been scrubbed down with bleach.

“Alex, your timing on the mains was sharp today,” Yuki says. “Keep that consistency.” Alex nods, offering a faint grin that doesn’t quite last before glancing at you, as if to gauge whether you’ll soften the mood with a sarcastic remark. You don’t.

“Lando,” Yuki continues, “good initiative with plating, but watch your portioning. Two grams might not sound like much, but it matters.” Normally, this would be where Lando fires back with a smart remark. Instead, he just mutters, “Got it,” subdued, like the tension is pressing down on him too.

“George, solid work on prep. You were efficient and organized. Keep that up.” George straightens like he’s back in school receiving a gold star, though his eyes flick curiously between you and Yuki, clocking the distance in your voices.

“Oscar,” Yuki says next, “good rhythm with service. Quicker reaction times today.” Oscar nods once, his usual grin absent, like he knows better than to test the air tonight.

Then Yuki looks at Jules. “Jules, strong on salads and support. I noticed you handled the backup on sauces without being asked. Good work.”

Jules, normally bright and easy with her thanks, only gives a polite nod, her smile faltering at the edges when she glances between the two of you. Everyone is too aware of the cracks in the kitchen’s unspoken choreography.

Finally, Yuki closes the clipboard, his voice steady as he says, “That’s all. Good shift, everyone. See you tomorrow.”

No jokes, no lingering chatter. The crew disperses quickly, leaving the silence behind like a dirty pan nobody wants to scrub. The kitchen feels too clean, too quiet. You’re drying your hands on a towel when Yuki clears his throat like he’s announcing himself.

“So,” he says, leaning against the counter like nothing’s wrong, like the air between you isn’t thin enough to snap. “Good service tonight. Your chocolate tart sold out. Again.”

You nod, polite as a stranger. “Yeah. People like chocolate.”

There’s supposed to be a grin, a nudge, a quick-fire joke to bounce back. Instead, his smile dies before it even arrives. He shifts his weight, trying again. “George didn’t burn the sauce today. That’s progress.”

“Miracles happen,” you answer, and it comes out flat.

It feels like watching someone dance with two left feet. Yuki doesn’t give up, but every line he throws lands awkwardly, catching in the silence. The rhythm you always had—the banter, the shared eye rolls—has abandoned you both. Finally, he exhales through his nose, tired. “Do you want to get dinner? There’s that new ramen place down the street. Or anywhere, really. My treat.”

The offer dangles in the air, heavy with hope you can’t touch. You tuck the towel over the sink and shake your head. “Not tonight,” you say simply. 

Something flickers in his eyes, but he swallows it down. “Right,” he says, pushing away from the counter. He doesn’t press, doesn’t try to argue. “Get home safe.”

You nod, grab your bag, and head for the door. For the first time in a long time, you leave the restaurant before him. When you glance back once, he’s still standing there, hands braced on the counter, like if he stays behind long enough, the kitchen might tell him where he went wrong.

The awkwardness stretches on for a week. Seven whole days of polite hell, where you and Yuki still move around each other in the kitchen, but the heat is gone. It’s all surface-level courtesy, no lingering glances, no teasing brushes of hands at the prep table. You can feel the staff notice it too. Every sidelong glance, every muted conversation that dies when you enter the room. The silence between you and him is louder than the sizzle of pans.

So when Yuki asks to see you after a shift, your stomach twists into knots. He calls it a ‘meeting,’ the word dropping like a blade between the two of you. You scrub your hands clean at the sink, buying time, bracing yourself for what feels inevitable.

The dining area is empty by the time you join him. The low hum of the refrigerators and the soft clink of cutlery being reset by Jules are the only sounds filling the room. Yuki is sitting at one of the tables, posture perfect, face unreadable. It’s the kind of stillness that makes you want to squirm.

You take the seat across from him, pretending you don’t notice how your pulse has picked up speed. “So,” you say. “Is this where you break up with me in a public setting? Very professional.”

He doesn’t smile. Not even a little moment with a corner of his mouth. His hands are folded on the table, knuckles white from how tightly he’s holding them together. The silence stretches, the air so heavy it feels like it’s pressing down on your chest. You swallow hard, waiting for him to just spit it out already, to confirm the thing you’ve been dreading all week.

Finally, he exhales, slow and deliberate. His eyes lift to meet yours, dark and serious.

“You’re being terminated.”

A beat. He doesn’t laugh. He’s not joking. 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, “but have you lost your fucking mind?” 

That’s the first thing out of your mouth, sharp and incredulous, the words ricocheting off the walls like you’ve just lobbed a pan across the kitchen. Your hands are moving as if they have a life of their own, slicing the air, pointing at him, at the table between you, at anything that isn’t his maddeningly calm face. “Completely gone. Checked out. Cooked through. You’ve officially lost it.”

Yuki doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even try to interrupt at first, letting you get halfway through your tirade about betrayal, about how you’ve slaved in this restaurant, about how you’ve been nothing but loyal. How he’s being unfair, bringing your relationship problems into your employment. His silence only fuels you further, until your voice is tripping over itself, sarcasm and hurt bleeding into every syllable.

Finally, he cuts in. “It’s not your skills,” he says firmly, voice slicing clean through your spiral. “This is about retrenchment. The business is cutting costs.”

You freeze, mid-sputter, blinking at him like he’s just spoken in another language. “Cutting costs,” you repeat, pained. “So, I’m… what, garnish? Disposable parsley?”

He exhales slowly, not rising to your barbs, which only makes them sting sharper when they bounce uselessly off him. “There’s separation pay. I’ve already worked out the numbers. You’ll have enough to—”

That’s when it clicks. The cool tone, the carefully chosen words, the way he’s framing it not as a failure but as some kind of opportunity. You hear the subtext so loudly it drowns out everything else. He isn’t firing you because the restaurant is sinking. He’s firing you because he wants you gone.

“You’re trying to get me to leave.” Your voice is almost stunned, but it settles heavier than any of your earlier shouting. “This isn’t retrenchment. This is you pushing me out.”

Yuki meets your gaze, steady, unreadable. You feel the bottom of your chest drop, because you can’t tell if he’s doing this out of love—or out of fear. In the softest voice, he says, “You know that stupid saying… if you love someone, you have to let them go?”

“Wow,” you say slowly, “quoting fridge magnets now? Should I be worried?”

Yuki’s cheeks go pink and his hands start to fidget with each other, unraveling the neat knot he’d tied them into. “I—I didn’t mean… I mean, we haven’t… I know we haven’t said that. Love. I just thought—God, I didn’t mean to assume. I’m not assuming. Forget I said it. Pretend I didn’t say it.” His words spill in a frantic rush now, each one tripping over the next. “I’m not trying to pressure you. I just—”

“Yuki.”

“I just realized I was so stupid, asking you to head the new Venti Due branch when I’ve always known—”

“Yuki.”

“—and I don’t want you to think I hate you or anything, because I don’t, and—”

You’re already climbing across the narrow space of the table before he can finish, balancing on one hand as you reach him. His eyes widen, panic stopping mid-sentence as your mouth presses against his. The table rattles under your knee, a fork clattering to the floor, but you don’t care. He tastes like the peppermint tea he’d been nursing, warm and grounding, and the way his breath catches against you nearly undoes you.

The moment you break for air, his arms are around you, hauling you into his lap. He mumbles against your mouth between kisses, his voice shaky but sure: “Missed you. Missed you so much.”

You don’t feel the pit in your chest, just the weight of him holding you close, as if letting you go had never been an option. You don’t know how long you two are making out—just that you’re still in his lap, his mouth still pressed against yours—when you finally manage to crack a joke against his lips. “What are the ethics here?” you tease. “Making out with my boss. At my place of work. Pretty sure this is an HR violation.”

Yuki’s laugh rumbles low in his chest, and he bites at your lower lip like he’s trying to underline his point. “I won’t be your boss much longer,” he says before kissing you again. His hand has inched up, hovering just above the hem of your shirt, his fingers spreading over the strip of skin there.

You’re caught between wanting to tease him for how cocky that sounded and wanting to let him prove it when the door swings open. “Oh my God!” George’s shriek bounces off the walls, higher than any soprano’s note could dream of reaching.

You both freeze. Yuki’s hand is suspended mid-climb, your lips still parted against his. Slowly, painfully slowly, you and Yuki turn toward the doorway. George is standing there, wide-eyed, like he’s just stumbled into some cursed ancient ruin. “I did not need to see that,” he screeches, his voice pitching higher as he slaps his hands over his eyes. “Ever. Ever!”

You stifle a laugh that bubbles up, half mortification and half delight at how utterly horrified he looks. Yuki, though, is the picture of calm. His arm still securely around your waist, his voice maddeningly casual. “George,” he says, like you’ve been caught discussing inventory instead of each other’s tonsils. “Knock next time.”

George lets out another noise—something between a whine and a yell—before stumbling backward, muttering curses under his breath about bleach for his eyes. The second the door clicks shut again, you collapse against Yuki’s shoulder, laughter spilling out of you in gasps. He grins into your hair, hand finally resting warm against your side. 

“Well,” you giggle, still catching your breath. “Guess we’re really terrible at keeping secrets.”

“Mm,” Yuki hums, “I couldn’t keep you a secret if I tried.”

Monday morning pulls you out of bed with more force than your alarm ever could. There’s something about knowing the day won’t end with fluorescent lights and order tickets that makes you stand a little straighter as you dress. By the time you step onto the street, coffee in hand, you already feel the hum of something new, something yours, coursing under your skin.

The storefront waits for you downtown, sunlight spilling across its big windows like a spotlight. The glass gleams, showing off the polished counters and the corner you’ve already claimed. The one perfect for cakes designed to stop people in their tracks. You picture passersby pausing, drawn in by sugar and butter made art, their feet carrying them in almost against their will.

When you push the door open, the smell of yeast and vanilla has already settled in, warm and rich. Chloe is at one counter, already elbow-deep in dough. She glances up at you, grinning with that edge she always has. “Took you long enough,” she sings. “We were about to start without you.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you shoot back, slipping into your apron with practiced ease.

Across the room, Rafaela raises a brow, steady hands piping buttercream rosettes onto cupcakes lined up in perfect rows. She’s the picture of efficiency, her voice dry but not cold. “Don’t tempt me. Chloe was one second away from eating the leftover pastry cream straight from the bowl.”

“That was quality control,” Chloe protests. 

You laugh, and just like that, the morning begins. Easy, familiar, and bright. It feels like the world has rearranged itself around you, and for once, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Mere minutes after you’ve flipped your sign to Open, the bell above the bakery door rings, crisp and cheerful. You don’t even have to look up to know who it is. Jules always comes in first—like clockwork, like the sun, like the personification of caffeine itself in her oversized sunglasses and slightly chaotic hair. You’re already bagging a pastry before she even says hello.

“Morning,” she yawns. “Tell me you’ve got a raspberry croissant today.”

You glance at her over the pastry bags, lips twitching. “Raspberry croissant? So it was Oscar last night.”

Her sunglasses tip down just enough for you to see her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t deny it. Instead, she puts a hand to her chest with mock dramatics. “I feel so seen. Next you’ll be reading my aura.”

You shrug, sliding the croissant into her bag. “I don’t need your aura. You give yourself away with your pastry order,” you point out. “Chocolate twist? Lando. Raspberry? Oscar. Plain croissant? Alone, tragically.”

“Tragically,” she repeats, sniffing like a Victorian widow, then peeks into the bag like she wasn’t sure you’d actually give her what she asked for. “God, I miss you at Venti Due. That kitchen’s a disaster without you. Yuki pretends he’s fine, but we all know the truth. You abandoned us.”

“Funny, I don’t remember you fake-crying when I’m sliding you free pastries.”

Jules lifts her hand and mimes dabbing away tears, complete with a hiccup of false sobbing. “You don’t understand. The pain of losing my favorite chef and the joy of gaining free carbs—it’s tearing me apart.”

You snort. “You’re so full of it.”

She beams, unbothered. “Absolutely. And you love me for it.” In one swift move, she leans over the counter, kisses you on the cheek, and straightens up. “See you tomorrow, babe.”

The bell rings again as she leaves, and you’re still half-smiling at the empty doorway, the echo of her theatrics setting the tone of your day. 

The bell above the door jingles around lunch, and you glance up just in time to see George slipping in with his sunglasses still on, as though the bakery is paparazzi territory. You don’t call him out on it; you’ve learned that George thrives on delivering his own punchline. Sure enough, he drifts to the center of the room, turns a slow circle, and hums. 

“Darling, it’s cute,” he says, drawing out the word like it’s a compliment and an insult at once. “But these chairs? Bold choice. Retro or tragic? The line’s very thin.”

You quirk your lip to one side, flour dusted across your cheek like war paint. “Retro, obviously. Are you going to order something, or did you want me to get your input on the wallpaper too?”

“Please. I’d only charge you a small consulting fee,” he huffs. “Friends and family discount.”

By the time you’re sliding him a plate—croissant sandwich, because you know him—he’s already snapping a picture of the pastry case like he’s secretly going to Yelp-review you. When he leaves, you catch Chloe grinning at the jar. A crisp bill, folded neatly, tucked among the coins.

Not long after, Alex wanders in, hands buried in his hoodie pockets, cap pulled low. He pauses just inside the door as though unfamiliar with the place, then meanders toward the counter with the casual air of someone trying not to look like a regular.

“Can I help you, sir?” you ask, playing into the role. “First time here?”

He deadpans back. “Yeah, just passing by. Figured I’d try the… what do you call them… muffins?”

“Wow,” you say. “Bold to insult me to my face before I’ve even taken your money.”

Alex doesn’t crack, though his eyes crinkle with laughter he can’t quite conceal. He takes his muffin to go, but not before dropping a note in the jar on Chloe and Rafaela’s side of the counter. He doesn’t look at you when he does it. They both leave in their own ways—George flamboyant, Alex pretending he’s a stranger—but the jar fills steadily, and your bakers exchange conspiratorial glances every time you turn away. Proof of love, wrapped in regulars and tips and remembered orders. 

Your bakery winds down, quiet as it opened. No clattering trays, no chorus of orders being shouted across counters, none of the frenetic heartbeat that defined Venti Due. Just the soft shuffle of parchment, the occasional metallic clink of a tray being stacked away, the murmur of Chloe and Rafaela wiping down surfaces as the golden hour light washes through the front windows. It isn’t adrenaline here. It’s yours.

You lean against the counter, notes in hand, giving them feedback. One of the things you’ve picked up from your time at Veni Due. Chloe listens intently, nodding in all the right places, while Rafaela balances the spray bottle on her palm as she listens to your feedback. Both of them grin at each other whenever you say something particularly earnest, but they still take it to heart. It’s a rhythm, and you like it.

“Honestly, you’re cramping my style,” a voice cuts in from the doorway.

Chloe and Rafaela both swivel toward the sound and then immediately turn back to you with the kind of grins that spell trouble. “Ooooh,” Chloe sing-songs under her breath, and Rafaela raises her brows in mock warning. 

“Don’t stay up too late,” Rafaela adds, grabbing her bag and tugging Chloe along toward the back.

You roll your eyes, but they’re already giggling their way out, their laughter lingering long after the bell on the back door jingles shut. Which leaves you with the doorway. And him.

Yuki is standing there like he hasn’t thought this through. Still in his chef’s outfit, hair mussed like he sprinted here. A bouquet of flowers gripped awkwardly in one hand. The sight of him—rumpled, breathless, yet somehow still beaming—is ridiculous enough to make your chest tighten. 

You don’t even think about it. You’re already moving, barreling forward like gravity’s got you tethered to him. Yuki steadies you on impact, arms locking around your waist as though he’d been bracing for exactly this, and the sound he makes—half laugh, half groan—is ridiculously fond.

“Are you always going to tease me like this?” he teases, mock suffering painted across his face even as his hands linger at your back. “One day, you’re going to break my ribs. Then what? No more cooking, no more flowers, just hospital food for the both of us.”

“You’d survive,” you say, voice muffled against the warm press of his shoulder, though your grin is sharp enough to betray you. 

You lean back just far enough to swipe the bouquet from his hand with practiced ease, turning it in your grip like evidence. The blooms are impossibly fresh, bursting with color, every stem perfectly chosen. “Okay, seriously. Do you have some sixth sense for when your last arrangement dies?” you jab. “Because that’s suspicious. Like, stalker-level suspicious.”

Yuki only shrugs, his eyes lit with something playful. “I take one flower for my office at Venti Due. When it starts to wilt, I know it’s time to bring you new ones.” 

He says it like it’s nothing, like it isn’t the most absurdly meticulous, heartbreakingly thoughtful thing anyone has ever admitted. You freeze, bouquet balanced loosely between your palms, suddenly aware that this—this stupid, simple habit—is him in a nutshell. Not grand speeches or flashy declarations. Just steady, impossible attentiveness. The kind of detail only a chef could pull off, as if he’s spent his whole life honing his craft to turn it on you. He notices the smallest things, the almost invisible shifts, the way your world tilts when the petals begin to fall. And he answers it, every single time, with something that says: I see you. I won’t stop seeing you.

It floods you, a strange alchemy of fire and sugar that catches you low in the chest and spreads until you’re nearly dizzy. You’ve tried to outpace this, duck away from it, pretend it won’t undo you. But Yuki’s love, quiet and relentless, doesn’t burn out. It roots itself deeper, until even running feels useless.

The thought barely finishes before you’re kissing him. Not coy, not testing. It’s hungry, reckless, yours. He tastes like the exact thing you’ve been starved for: laughter caught between breaths, a relief so sharp it almost hurts. Your hands fist into his jacket and tug, impatient, demanding.

“Take this off,” you whisper against his mouth, half command, half plea.

The projector whirs like it’s considering bursting into flames, casting flickering light across your classroom. The fourth-years in your English lit. class sit tiredly on their chairs, their bodies slouched in varying degrees depending on their stage of senioritis. Half of them are waiting to be entertained, the other half are already half-checked out.

“Alright,” you say, remote in hand, “Remember the excerpt we just read, and keep in mind that we’re analyzing narrative perspectives and unreliable perceptions. I’m going to show you a clip from the movie, just so you guys can visualize what you just read. Pay attention to what’s said, but more importantly, how it’s said. How does Darcy see himself in this situation versus how Elizabeth perceives him? How does the author, or in this case, the filmmaker, favor one perspective over the other?”

There are a few dutiful nods, and a few blank stares. Someone in the back whispers something about SparkNotes, and you decide to ignore it.

You cue the clip. On the screen, a still-frame. You’re about to show your students Elizabeth Bennet, standing in a rain-soaked gazebo, and glowering as Mr. Darcy stumbles through a confession of love that sounds suspiciously like an insult.

“This,” you add before pressing play, “Is one of the most famous proposal scenes in English literature. Oh, and also keep in mind this is a highly dramatisized version from the actual novel but I just love this scene. So, I’m forcing you all to watch it. And make sure to jot down notes for the questions on the side.”

The room quiets, and you shut off the fluorescent lights, leaving only the warmth of your fairy lights on — the coziness only furthering the exhaustion of your students, you think. But then the orchestra starts in a chaotic frenzy jolting a couple kids awake, before dying down as the sound of rain hisses from the projector speakers. Darcy starts listing the reasons why Elizabeth is unsuitable for him before proclaiming he can’t stop loving her anyway. Elizabeth’s fury is sharp, cutting. Keira Knightley is an angel.

You’re watching your students more than the film, as you take a seat at your desk and grab your sugary coffee for another sip. A few try not to smile at Elizabeth’s sharp tongue. A couple girls try not to smile at Matthew McFadden and his very pretty blue eyes.

It’s as thunder claps over these star-crossed lovers, that the door slams open.

You feel heads turn, but you’ve developed a sixth sense to know who’s at the door without even moving.

And in strides Satoru Gojo, physics teacher across the hall, nightmare of the faculty lounge, and apparently incapable of reading a clock. His white hair is unpleasantly tousled, and as you make eye contact you notice how his half-rimmed black glasses gleam under the fairy lights.

You look up at him, and scrunch your face with emphasis to your exasperation. “Really?”

“Relax,” he says cheerfully, “Just need to borrow your stapler.”

“In the middle of my class? How many times have I talked to you about this–”

“Oh..” He looks up, as if for the first time acknowledging that he’d burst into the middle of your very important—not at all self-indulgent—lesson about Pride & Prejudice. He waves back at a couple students, and obnoxiously smiles. “The lights were off and I thought you had a prep period too. And my stapler jammed. I can’t help it!” He doesn’t even lower his voice.

The students glance between you and him, their attention fully wrenched from the rain-soaked misery of Darcy and Elizabeth. Someone snickers, and your head whips around too fast.

You look back at Gojo, who’s now rummaging over your desk. Inconsiderately blocking part of the projector with his tall frame and big head. You slap his wrist, and he looks down at you, a little amused.

You hiss through your teeth, pointing at the projector. “Can you not?”

Gojo cups a hand to his ear dramatically, and leans closer towards you, as if trying to hear what you had just said, but then you watch his jaw drop as Elizabeth says that Darcy’s the last man in the world she could ever be prevailed upon to marry.

“Wow. What did he do?” Which gets a couple laughs from the students, to your dismay.

He stands, moving aside from the projector and instead going behind your desk now, looking through the drawers like they’re his. You glare at him, and the coffee in your hand suddenly starts feeling like a projectile you could be using.

“If you’re going to interrupt, at least be quiet.” You stage-whisper.

“Me? Loud? Never.” He presses a finger to his lips like a cartoon spy, in an exaggerated shhh sound.

“The stapler is in the small drawer on the left. Leave my classroom.” As he moves a bit closer, opening the only drawer he forgot to check, your eyes pan up to his navy blue shirt, which reads in heinous lettering: Without friction, we’d all slip into despair. It’s a new one, and you have to wonder how many t-shirts with physics puns on them this grown ass man owns.

“Nice shirt.” You sarcastically quip. He pauses for a moment, holding your pretty pink stapler in hand.

“Aw. You like it?” He looks down at you in your chair, and pinches the front of his shirt with his free hand, as if to give you a better look at it. You want to smack that grin off his face.

“Hard not to when it’s screaming, I have no social life! in Comic Sans.”

He frowns, stage whispering back at you. “You’re kidding. This shirt’s a conversation starter. It’s so deep and poetic. Far from anything you could comprehend” 

“Sure,” you deadpan, “Specifically, it starts the conversation: ‘God, what a loser.’” 

“Me? A loser?” He whispers and cups a hand over his mouth this time, saying something now only you should hear. “Didn’t you turn down going to the club with Shoko last weekend so you could rewatch ‘The Great British Bake Off’?” You think that you can feel your face flushing.

“Wha—Why would Shoko tell you that?!” you sputter, a little louder than intended. Shoko Ieiri, what a traitor. A couple students near the front titter, and Gojo tips his head, smug.

You shoot the front row a sharp look. “Don’t encourage him.”

Onscreen, Darcy’s voice cracks with tension: “Forgive me, for taking up so much of your time.” But no one’s watching. They’re watching the way you’re squared off against Gojo like you’ve been through this routine a hundred times before.

You try to will your students’ attention back to the projector, but the air is buzzing with suppressed laughter, and the clip ends. Elizabeth is storming away from Darcy. Silence.

All eyes are on Gojo, as he starts walking towards the door.

One of the students mutters, just loud enough to hear, “Kinda feels like Elizabeth and Darcy right now.” You look around to see who said it, and of course it’s Hakari in the back row, slouched and practically half asleep. Always instigating.

Gojo perks up instantly. “Wait, which one am I?”

“You’re Mr. Collins.” you snap.

Gasps and laughter ripple through the class.

“Ouch,” Gojo says, clutching his chest theatrically. “Marriage proposal still stands, though.”

You can feel your blood pressure climbing as the students shout their ooo’s and ahh’s. “You got the stapler. Now, Get. Out.”

He grins, holding it up like it’s a trophy. He’s almost out the door now, his head is just peeking in like he wants to do one last thing to piss you off. “Thanks, sweetheart.” 

“Don’t call me that.”

“Right, right.” He pushes his glasses up, and his voice sing-songs sweetly. “See you at dinner, honey.”

And then he’s gone, out the door and across the hall to his classroom—and the entire class loses it. You want to sink through the floor.

“Alright,” you flick the lights back on, and try to act like you’re not planning to take that stapler back and whack him over the head with it once the bell rings. “Settle down. I don’t know what Mr. Gojo’s problem is but I want you all to act like that never happened. For my own peace of mind.”

They’re still giggling and you can hear the trail of whispers through the classroom. But still, it’s the image of Gojo’s grin that’s burning hot at the edge of your patience.

Your classroom feels strangely hollow after the bell, like the laughter of your students still clings to the walls even though they’ve all scattered for break. The projector is cooling down with a low hiss, the fairy lights glow faintly on the walls against bookshelves, student projects, and all the Etsy posters you bought for decor, and the only sound is the steady hum of the AC above to cool the late August heat outside.

You sit at your desk, stirring a plastic cup of iced coffee that tastes like melted ice cream and regret. Sickly sweet, just how you like it, though this morning you feel like you made it a little too sugary. You’ll survive, though.

The door creaks open and Utahime steps inside, a familiar relief with her cardigan draped neatly over her shoulder, her keys and staff lanyard swinging around her neck, and her ever-practical cherry red heels clicking against the linoleum. Without hesitation, she sinks into a student desk in the front row, sighing as her knees bump awkwardly against the underside. She lets her heels dangle a little, like she’s trying on a role that doesn’t quite fit.

“Don’t you have your own office?” You ask.

“Mm.” She tilts her head back, studying you from across the room. “Don’t you have better coffee?”

You look down at your coffee, now a bisque-shade from how much creamer you put in it this morning. Unpleasant to the untrained eye. But you snort, and take a sip anyway.

“That’s going to kill you before the students do.”

“It’s called self-preservation.” You swirl the coffee like it’ll magically taste better if you move the sugar around.

Utahime props her chin in her hand. “How’d you sleep?”

The truth is that you stayed up half the night rereading old messages from Naoya until your chest felt too tight to breathe. You could never tell Utahime this, though. First off, she was the one who you had cried to then rewatched the third season of Sex & The City with that weekend he’d broken up with you. Second off, she would use her guru-esque quality, not just as a school counselor, but as one of your best friends, to advise you against your self sabotaging habit of only looking at the good parts in your less than adequate, decade long relationship.

You force a casual shrug and don’t meet her eyes. “Fine. Finished a reread of Gatsby before we start our unit.”

“Mm-hm.” Utahime’s tone makes it clear she doesn’t buy it, but she lets it slide—for now.

Instead, she gestures vaguely toward the hallway. “So. How many times did Gojo barge in this week? I’m still betting under forty for the whole year. Suguru said over. So, no pressure, but just to let you know I have twenty dollars on the line right now.”

You groan and drop your forehead onto your folded arms on the desk. After the bell rang, you had quickly stomped over to his classroom to retrieve the stapler he’d stolen from you, but the idiot had already left and put a bright blue post-it note on his door that read: “BRB. I have the stapler on me. You know where to find me, Ms. L/N ~ ;)”  You had ripped it off and threw it away—and hoped no one else noticed the perpetual steam coming out of your ears.

“Every day. Every single day this week. It’s like living across from an albino raccoon who figured out how doors work.”

Utahime chuckles, but her expression softens. “You’ve gotta stop falling for his bad ragebait.”

You peek up at her through your arms. “I can’t stop him from getting under my skin. It’s like his only hobby.”

“Then ignore him.”

“I’m trying. But then he does that thing where he inhales and then exhales—”

“—You mean breathing?”

“Exactly.”

Utahime shakes her head, amused, but the laughter fades as her eyes search yours. “You sure you’re okay?”

You straighten, wrapping your hands around the icy condensation of your coffee cup so your hands feel numb. “Sure. Never better.”

“You don’t have to joke about everything.”

“I’m not joking.” You smile anyway, the kind that feels plastered on. “I’m deflecting. It’s different.”

She doesn’t say Naoya’s name, but you hear it anyway, tucked inside the silence between you. It’s been about two months and eleven days since you had called it quits on who you thought—at some point or the other—would be the man you would spend the rest of your life with. Your high school sweetheart, the man who had seen you from junior-year prom to your masters thesis. Who you had moved in with at 19, then kicked you out at 27. It was mostly mutual, an unremarkable, inevitable split. The last couple years had felt like the end of a novel, dragging out the last few pages long after the story should’ve concluded. There wasn’t a week where you didn’t argue, scream at each other, or even talk at all. Ten years in, and you felt like it had been about six since the last time you could say without hesitation that you loved him unconditionally. The scary part is you don’t know if he ever loved you that way at all.

Doesn’t mean leaving didn’t hurt, though.

Utahime shakes you out of your thoughts, as she leans back in her chair, letting her heels swing lazily. “So…still dreaming about your good-for-nothing ex, or have you moved on to…physics teachers?”

You nearly choke on your coffee. “Excuse me?!?”

“You know, the students are already starting to speculate ever since you took down those photos of you and Naoya from your bulletin board,” You take a glance to your left, where you had a cute bulletin board you had crafted of scraps and pictures and stickers and sentimental items. It was half empty now…since most of your pictures were of you and your ex. You didn’t really think anyone would notice, but now that you’re looking at it, the emptiness is screaming at you. Yikes. “I’ve caught a few of them whispering whenever you two appear in the same hallway.”

“What? Speculate — speculate about what?!”

“About you two.” She smirks knowingly. “I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to. Your reputation precedes you.”

Your eyes narrow. “Reputation? You mean being a grown woman who actively wants to whack an unfunny physics teacher? Did they finally catch me planning first-degree murder?”

“Kind of,” she says, concealing her amusement. “Except…it doesn’t really sound like murder to the average high schooler. To them, it just looks… interesting. For lack of a better word.”

You groan and press your forehead into your palm. “I can’t. I just can’t. It’s literally my life goal not to give him any fuel, and now—”

“Now they’ve invented a fantasy version of you two,” Utahime finishes for you, tilting her head. “Honestly, it’s kind of impressive. You’ve got some competitive energy going on. Maybe one could even call it sexual tension if I had to give it a word—” You make a gagging noise, profusely shaking your head, and Utahime laughs at you.

“And I mean all of that for a guy who has Digimon collectibles all over his room. And a weirdly large collection of physics shirts.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “It’s a curse. I walk into the building and somehow my first thought is, ‘Which new physics pun is he wearing today?”

“And the second thought is?”

“Oh. That I should hide my stapler.”

Utahime raises an eyebrow. “Ah. That explains the blue post-it note.” She winks. “Classic Gojo.”

You groan, dramatically dragging a hand through your hair. You had really hoped no one else had seen that. “I don’t even know why he bothers me so much. I feel like he’s gotten worse this year, and we’re not even a full week in yet. Last year, I tried to use his tricks against him and randomly burst into his class to distract his students, but he didn’t even care. He just found it funny so I gave up that tactic because seeing him all golly made me annoyed.”

Utahime’s not looking at you anymore, picking at the fuzzy pills on her cardigan with her nails. “You know, sometimes the people who get under your skin the most aren’t the ones worth your attention, but they’re the ones who teach you the most about yourself.”

You snort softly, half disbelief, half in agreement. “That’s a nice way to say, ‘You’re weak for letting him annoy you this much.’”

“Maybe.” She smirks, playful again, and still not looking up at you. “But be careful around those students. They’re vicious.”

You clear your throat, “Seriously, though, Gojo? He’s like a fungus. The more you try to scrape him off, the more he grows back.”

Utahime smiles at you. “Then maybe you should stop feeding him your attention.”

You sip your coffee, saccharine and stinging. But deep down, you can’t shake the question: if he’s really not worth it, then why does he get under your skin so much?

The gym at Jujutsu High smells like freshly polished floors, popcorn, and a faint trace of febreeze. At least it didn’t smell like BO anymore. Or, at least not yet. Sunlight streams in through the high windows, cutting across the chaos below. The bleachers are completely full, and the gym is buzzing. Students are running everywhere—teams being called, banners being hung, foam fingers waving like flags.

It’s a Friday at lunch, and it's the end of your first week back. You’d almost forgotten that you had volunteered to supervise the Welcome Back Rally, until Utahime–who was also volunteering, against her will—had dragged you out of your classroom and placed a clipboard and whistle in your hand.

You’d imagined a relatively easy job, like patrolling the bleachers, maybe confiscating contraband snacks from first-years, or clapping politely at the cheer routine. What you hadn’t imagined was being paired with Gojo, because apparently the faculty roster is written by someone with a personal vendetta against you.

“Ah, my partner in crime.” He greets, sliding up to you with a grin wide enough to make you want to pull his teeth out. “And here you were, thinking you could make it through one school event without me.”

You eye him flatly. “I was actually hoping that exact thing, yeah.”

Your assignment, according to Mr. Takaba, the school’s activities director and his curt clipboard instructions, is to, “monitor the relay game.” Which translates into standing near a mess of cones and hula hoops while unobservant teenagers attempt organized chaos. Predictably, the chaos wins. A basketball goes rogue, someone trips over a hula hoop, and now some freshman’s already bleeding from the nose. You cover your gasp with your hand, and Gojo makes a surprised face. The crowd goes, oooh..and not in a good way.

“Oh. Um. This is fine.” Gojo says, as you both watch a senior haul away the freshman, who’s holding a hand over his bleeding nose. Shoko could take care of that.

The two of you are the only ones monitoring the home-side bleachers, so you and Gojo are unusually silent for a bit, watching the rally play out. Occasionally blowing your whistle here and there if you notice someone being unfair, but you’re mostly zoned out.

“Where were you this summer?” Gojo says suddenly, leaning against the railing, “I feel like I heard nothing from you.”

You glance at him, clipboard in hand. The dynamic between you and Gojo has always been…perplexing. Some of your closest friends at work, like Shoko Ieiri, the school’s head nurse, and Suguru Geto, the world history teacher and co-advisor of the school newspaper with you—have all been some of Gojo’s closest friends since university. You just can’t pinpoint where you and Gojo’s little back and forth started—it feels like there’s been a great number of reasons and incidents and coincidences that have built up over the years, ranging from things with Naoya that never sat right, to stupid things like using up the last life of ink on their shared printer—but ever since you’ve been teaching at Jujutsu High, so has Gojo. And by some cruel architectural twist of fate, he’s also always been just across the hall. 

You glance at him, clipboard in hand. “I just live a life of mystery, apparently.” You’d spent the whole summer sulking after your break-up. 

He smirks. “Mm-hm. Right. Or you were avoiding me.”

“Please,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “You’re everywhere anyway. I get my fill of Gojo for the entire school year. I need summer to recharge in peace.”

“Touché,” he says, hands tucked in his pockets. “But seriously…did you ever catch up with Shoko while I was off being brilliant and terrifying somewhere.”

You frown, thinking. “Yeah. We hung out a couple of times. Mostly called, though. She lives so far from here.”

He nods, and you glance at him, eyebrows raised. “And you? Did you actually do anything useful, or just flirt your way through your summer like usual?”

“Excuse me,” He feigns offense, tilting his head. “Flirtation is just a bonus. I was busy all summer with coaching baseball camp, and doing research at the university with this NASA-backed team there for Quantum Propulsions. I saw a real rocketship they’re building. You wanna see?”

He side steps a little closer to you, pulling out his phone and scrolling over to his photos app to show you a selfie of him with his face in the corner of the frame, pointing up at a rocketship with a big smile on his face. 

“You like it? I put it in my class introduction slides this week.”

“Mm. It’s not your worst picture.”

“I guess I’ll take it.” He says, turning off his phone and stuffing it back into the pocket of his dark wash jeans. He doesn’t move back to his original spot, but he crosses his arms and watches the game for a bit, playing with the whistle between his fingers.

“Oh. You know I saw Naoya at a family thing last week? He kept glaring at me, but he looked like shit. Did he tell you abou–” He started trailing off, but your head had only registered, he looked like shit. You decided to take it as a small win.

“Don’t.” You grumble under your breath.

He leans closer, voice dropping just enough to carry over the crowd noise. “Oh, come on. I feel like the guys never liked me. Said I was too…flirty? Imagine that—me, flirty? The horror.”

“You know, he thinks that you’re off-putting.” You say, smirking despite yourself.

“I’m ignoring that. But, anyway. He came up to me at the family thing, because it was some Gojo-Corp slash Zenin-Corp schmuck fest I didn’t ask to be a part of, and he just kept glowering at me. Like, hello? Did I do something to you?”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head. “I swear you remember every single time someone’s ever wronged you, even minor stuff.”

“I don’t forget, I catalogue,” he says, mock-proud. “It’s a skill. Besides, it keeps things interesting. You’d be bored if I didn’t stir the pot a little.”

You glance at him, you find it slightly endearing, despite yourself. “I’m…not bored. Just constantly exasperated.”

“Exactly,” he grins, as if he had successfully proved a point. “We’re the perfect team. You, glaring. Me, grinning. Classic combo.”

You roll your eyes again. “I’m not sure ‘classic combo’ is the phrase I’d use for disaster waiting to happen.”

“Semantics,” he says lightly, leaning back a little with arms crossed. “Anyway, I missed this—seeing you overanalyze everything and still manage to look ridiculous while doing it. Kinda like a sport in itself.”

You huff, a little embarrassed but trying to hide it behind your clipboard. 

The gym breaks into claps and whistles as the voice of athletics director, Mr. Ryomen Sukuna, announces over the speaker that the next relay round is about to start. You’re crouched down, trying to untangle two jump ropes that some geniuses thought would be funny to knot together, when you feel it — something flicks against the back of your ear.

You whirl around.

Gojo is standing there, twirling his whistle on a lanyard around his finger, infuriatingly casual as he looks down at you. “What?”

“You just flicked me.”

“Excuse me?” His voice dips into fake innocence, his grin widening when he sees your glare. He does it again.

“Stop that!” You hiss, and you’re back on your feet, glaring at him while he keeps twirling it between his fingers.

He leans down just enough to make his voice carry over the roar of the bleachers. “I’m just keeping you on your toes.”

You pause, and give him the most apathetic look you could muster.

“Get it…cause you were just crouching. On your toes…No?”

“You’re insufferable.” You yank the whistle from his hand and stuff it into your pocket, like you’ve confiscated candy from a baby.

Gojo just shrugs, then cups his hands around his mouth and looks at you, while simultaneously yelling towards the chaos of students, “Hey! Don’t steal school property, only teachers get to do that!” Before he places a hand to emphasize the gap between your height and his, making a show of how much taller he is than you. A few kids laugh, and you want the ground to swallow you whole.

“You are not funny.” You half cross your arms, with your clipboard still in hand.

“Not funny? Please. I’m the highlight of this rally.” He lifts his arms like he’s presenting himself to the crowd, and it gives you a full view of his newest outfit, written in block letters on a white shirt, accompanied with the graphic of a rollercoaster cart going up a drop: I have potential.

You hide your slight smile with a scowl. “Highlight? More like an eyesore. You lost your potential when you came in wearing a shirt like that.” 

He clutches his chest. Offended. “My shirt is a beacon of scientific truth.”

“It’s a beacon of why you don’t have a girlfriend.” You scoff. He pauses, and you think you’ve gone too far… but then he laughs at you, and the sound of it weirdly makes you lighten up.

“Hey, if you called me insufferable, but dated that one awful guy for—what was it—ten years?” He smirks at the way your jaw tenses. “Then that means there’s hope for me.”

You freeze, blinking at him. You wish you could have seen the look on your face at this moment. “Wait—did you say dated? As in past tense, used to date.”

He freezes too, smirk faltering. Absolutely caught. “Uh… I might’ve… overheard. Or someone mentioned it.” You looked at him, completely unimpressed. There’s only one other person who you ran to almost immediately after it was over. Who you called even before the snot had stopped running down your nose. And there was also only one person who was friends with both you and Gojo, who also had a big mouth. “Okay, fine—Shoko told me. But it’s not like I was being weird about it, I swear.”

Shoko Ieiri, that absolute traitor.

You glare. “You asked Shoko about my breakup?”

He scratches his neck, sheepish. “Yeah…? Maybe that was overstepping. I just saw you guys unfollowed each other on Instagram, so I asked.”

You laugh, a little bitter, and shake your head at the sheer audacity of this guy. “Maybe you were overstepping??”

He shrugs, but his eyes flick over you like he’s checking if he can cross a line again. He’s so shameless you have to stop yourself from blowing the whistle in his ear. “I’m just saying—if a dumb t-shirt makes you cringe, but a guy wasting ten years of your life didn’t? Kinda feels like your priorities are flipped.”

You actually can’t believe he just said that. The laugh you let out is sharp and bitter, surprising even yourself. “You would know all about bad priorities, wouldn’t you?”

That shuts him up for a beat. Long enough that the sound of cheering and sneakers squeaking on the gym floor go on for longer than either of you are comfortable with. Then he smiles again, brighter, faker this time. “Tch. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were projecting.”

You snap your head toward him. “Projecting what, exactly?”

“Mm.” He pretends to think, tapping his chin with one long finger. “Frustration. Deep-seated bitterness. Maybe some unresolved romantic trauma?”

Your mouth gapes open. “Excuse me?”

When you look back up at him, you see his head tilt up towards the bleachers, where a gaggle of juniors are very obviously whispering behind their hands, half-giggling, half-staring at the two of you like you’re they’re favorite celebrities. He nods his head at them, and you smile at them, and they burst out giggling before the two of you turn back around. What Utahime said to you yesterday rings in your head suddenly. You know the students are starting to speculate about you two…to them, it looks—interesting.

You shake your head, and he looks back at you, leaning in a little as the crowd roars again. “I mean, hey,” He says with an exaggerated shrug. “You don’t have to take it out on me just because someone dumped you.”

“I didn’t get dumped,” You hiss, jabbing a finger at his chest. “It was mutual.”

He gasps, scandalized. “Mutual? Oh no. That’s just what people say when they definitely get dumped.”

You shove his hand away as he reaches over like he’s about to pat your head. “Just stop talking.”

“Can’t. Won’t.” He beams. “Making you mad is way more entertaining than the relay race.”

“Gojo, I swear—”

“What? You’ll report me to Yaga? Please. He loves me.”

You’d thought about it. Had done your research to see if Gojo making you irritated and contemplate violence every time you see him border on the grounds of workplace harassment. But then you think about the things you’ve done to get him back over the years. Implied he got too excited over Digimon to his class of seniors, (if you know what I mean) which he laughed at. Broke some of his lab equipment after yelling at each other, which got slightly on his nerves. (And you felt bad, so you paid for most of it.) Swapped his whiteboard markers with ones that were dried out, to which he swapped yours with permanent markers. (The janitor had complained about it to Yaga.) Hid his chair in your room and replaced it with a kindergarten-sized one from the art room for a couple days. Hijacked his Spotify playlist to blast Dance Monkey in the middle of his lecture. To which he figured out your Spotify login and added I Am A Gummy Bear to all of your playlists. Those were some highlights among other things over the past four years.

And you know that Principal Yaga would only bring up all these other incidents if you were to complain about Gojo. Ugh.

“Yaga barely tolerates you.”

“Jealous?”

“Of what. Your complete lack of shame?”

“Of my charisma.” He winks. You gag.

“Gojo, if you say one more word, I’m shoving my whistle so far down your throat you’ll be calling plays from your stomach.”

He leans down until he’s eye-level, smile sharp. “Kinky.”

You feel your face flush again, and you spin around to see if anyone else had heard that. Thankfully, everyone seemed too focused on the kids about to hop over the finish-line of the three-legged race.

“You’re unbelievable.” You mutter, storming off towards the cones as the crowd erupts in cheers at the end of the race, commemorating the end of the rally and the start of the final cheer routine, which was highlighted in bright yellow on your clipboard. Behind you now, Gojo’s laughter booms over the crowd, louder than the pep rally itself.

Before he can retort, a cheerleader comes sprinting too close to the sidelines. She collides with one of the relay cones, sending it skidding straight toward you. You stumble back, about to lose your balance—until you feel a strong arm shoot out, catching you around the waist to steady you back on your feet.

And of course, because the universe hates you, Satoru Gojo doesn’t let go immediately. His hand is firm against your side, his face dipping closer than it has any right to be, his breath brushing your ear when he murmurs, “Careful there, wouldn’t want you to sue the school for hazardous cone placement.”

Your pulse spikes, embarrassment and heat searing through your face like you’d just played the entire relay yourself. The squeak of sneakers slows, replaced by a ripple of whispers and a sharp, collective gasp from the bleachers. The sound alone makes your stomach drop. You know people saw. Too many people.

You jerk out of his hold, spin around toward him with your clipboard clutched tight against your chest like a shield. “You’re unbelievable.” You hiss again, but this time it comes out thinner, because you can still feel the ghost of his hand against your waist.

Gojo leans back, his ears a little red, but his expression is unbothered, with that blinding grin spreading across his face like he’s covering another laugh. “Don’t worry,” he says, stretching his arms over his head as if he didn’t practically manhandle you in front of half the school. “I saved your life. You should really be thanking me.”

“You could’ve tripped me harder than the cone did.” You try to snap, but your voice wobbles, and judging by the smug sparkle in his eyes, he heard it.

“Huh. You’re right. Next time I’ll really commit.” He sing-songs, walking away to pick up the cone, and you feel your eye twitch. You step back as the cheer squad rallies into formation, and you can still swear you hear his soft chuckling over the buzz of the crowd. The sound of it echoes in your ears long after the marching band drowns it out.

You’re half-paying attention to the students as they file out of the gym, congratulating teams and waving banners, but the whispers follow you like a persistent shadow. Every time someone giggles behind their hand or nudges a friend, your stomach twists. You’re convinced it’s because pep rallies are dumb, and not because of anything—or anyone—in specific.

You teach English to seniors in the morning, and sophomores after lunch. You go about your last two English 2 Honors classes of the day trying to ignore the lingering heat in your cheeks. You pass out all the worksheets you had printed the day before, teaching the slides to round out your lesson on Literary Devices like you always do in the beginning of the year. You don’t forget to remind your class about their timed summer reading essays next Friday, which gives way to a unanimous groan.

You would’ve forgotten the way Gojo had held you at that pep rally, if only not for every time you glance up, you’d notice the subtle smirks and sidelong glances your students exchange. A few kids even whisper to each other while stealing glances at you, and it sets your nerves on edge. You shift your weight on your tennis shoes, hoping it’s all in your head. Surely, it’s just the lingering excitement from the rally.

By the time the final bell rings, you’re practically sprinting out the classroom, trying to look casual while stuffing papers into your bag. The hallways are still buzzing with students, some waving at friends from other classes, others chattering in small groups. And yet—and maybe you’re just a little paranoid—you notice the occasional pause as someone spots you and then whispers to the next person.

You’re crossing the main hallway near the teacher’s lounge, when you hear a small gasp from the far end of the corridor, followed by muffled laughter. Your stomach lurches. Kids are really scary sometimes. But you have to ignore it, ignore it, ignore it.

Still, the whispers and stifled giggles continue, subtly threading through the hallways as you make your way to the lounge. You’ve barely just closed the door, when it swings open behind you, and Utahime steps in, phone held out in front of her face.

“Explain THIS.”

You’re startled at first, but you follow her gaze, and your heart feels like it fell down to your ass. There it is—the photo. It’s a Snapchat photo, taken in low, zoomed in quality, with a black bar of text below that writes: “English X Physics OTP??????” The background is blurred, the gym chaos still visible, but the focus is zoomed in on the two of you. Gojo, leaning in close, one hand braced around your waist, your face flushed and wide-eyed like something out of a rom-com poster. And it all looks way too intimate than it really was.

“Oh. My. God.” You slump into one of the worn chairs in the lounge. Utahime follows, taking her phone back and staring at it with an infuriatingly gleeful grin plastered across her face.

“Oh, come on,” Utahime says, nudging you with her elbow. “It’s hilarious. Look at this!” She holds up the phone again, and you reflexively shield your face. “The posture! The panic! You’re basically a rom-com lead who just realized the camera’s on.”

“I am not a rom-com lead,” You whisper defensively. Your hands are covering your face out of complete embarrassment. “How many people has this gotten around to?? That looks—that looks criminal out of context—”

Utahime snorts. “Relax. It’s fine. It’s…well, it’s definitely not fine, because everyone’s seen it by now, but at least it’s funny.” She tries to give you a supportive smile, but is clearly savoring your meltdown. “I’ve got to say, though, the way your eyes are this wide—adorable.”

“Utahime!” You squeak, flailing. “Please delete it. Hide it. Burn it. ANYTHING.”

“Too late,” She says brightly, scrolling through her phone like she’s about to share it to everybody but you. “The students have it posted all over their private stories, apparently. You’re viral, congratulations.”

Before you can sputter further, the door to the lounge swings open and Ijichi, the secretary, pokes his head in, clipboard in hand and a polite, but firm expression.

“L/N?” He says, a little shy. “Principal Yaga is asking for you in his office. Right now.”

You jolt upright, nearly tripping over the chair. “Wha–what? Why?”

Ijichi blinks, a little startled at your reaction. “I don’t have details. He said it’s urgent. If you could come with me, please.”

Utahime bursts into another round of laughter, practically doubled over now. “Ohhh, this is perfect. Go on—walk into the storm, Ms. Bennet. (She says in a mock British accent) Make me proud.” 

You groan, flinging your bag over your shoulder and muttering curses under your breath as you follow Ijichi out of the lounge. You can still hear Utahime in there, barely able to contain her giggles while your stomach feels like it’s turning to mush.

As you follow Ijichi down the quiet hallway, now devoid of students, the worst possible scenarios slip through your mind. Of course this had to be about the photo—but can they fire you for that? Surely to any professional teacher, it would just look like a co-worker helping another co-worker from an imminent case of eating straight shit right? I mean, it was only to those hormonal teenagers for it to look like something else entirely, right?

And of course, of course, when you round the corner outside the principal’s office, there he is. Gojo. Sitting casually against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, phone in hand, scrolling with what looks like an irritatingly calm expression. He looks up, just for a second, and behind his glasses, the sparkle in those clear blue eyes tells you he knows exactly why you’re panicking.

“Yikes.” He mutters softly, seemingly more to himself than you, though you can feel it like a poke to the ribs.

Ijichi clears his throat, opening the door to Yaga’s office. “You two can come in,” He says, voice dry, eyes flicking between you and Gojo like he’s silently cataloguing the impending chaos.

Behind the door, Principal Yaga sits behind his desk, expression unreadable behind those visors he wears, even indoors. The office smells faintly of a Bath & Body Works mahogany and teakwood candle, and his chairs are weirdly far from his desk, and also weirdly shorter in comparison, making Yaga seem like a giant in front of them. “Sit,” he says, not bothering with pleasentries. Both of you comply, though Gojo makes it dramatic, leaning back and spreading his arms onto the rests.

“I’ve called you two in for a talk on professionalism.” Yaga begins, folding his hands on the desk. You feel your face cringe, and you don’t even bother looking over at Gojo. “While I don’t care what you do on your own time, I do care about what students see. I’ve seen the picture being spread. Stop giving them fuel for gossip. Stop giving them reasons to speculate about your behavior.”

You quickly nod, scared to look away, but Gojo leans toward you just enough that you can hear him whisper, with a smirk on his face. “Wow. We become that popular that fast?”

You snap your head toward him, voice sharp, but whispering, “Shut up. You’re literally the reason we’re here.”

Yaga sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Again. I don’t care what you two do outside of school, but this—” He gestures at the two of you, Gojo holding his chin with his hand, while leaning his arm on your arm rest, and you, your face unconsciously close to his as you were whispering to him just seconds ago. “—this hallway spectacle—is inappropriate. Since it’s already being spread amongst the students it could become a whole thing with the parents contacting us about professional conduct, and I just don’t want to deal with that headache. It’s happened before, and it wasn’t fun, Mr. Gojo and Ms. L/N.” 

You blink, swallowing hard, trying to gather your words because you’re afraid if you open your mouth you’re going to puke from the embarrassment. “I completely understand, Yaga. Trust me, it won’t happen again. And about the picture, I promise you—”

Gojo leans even closer, completely cutting you off with an amused tone to his voice, “It’s fine, really. It was all totally staged, Yaga. See? She actually tripped on purpose just so she could land in my arms.”

You snap, glaring at him so sharply that he actually flinches slightly. “Stop. Playing. Games. This was not intentional. A rogue cone came flying at me and he just so happened to help me, even though I very clearly did not need any help. You actually made it WORSE!”

Gojo chuckles softly, eyes sparkling, locked into yours. “But it looks so much better when you act flustered. I mean, have you seen the picture? Not the best angle but I thought we looked kind of cu–”

You throw your hands up, exasperated. “Delete that photo from your phone, erase it from everyone else’s memory, and —”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down,” Gojo interrupts, voice still teasing. “You’re making it sound like you’re…obsessed with me or something. Careful, or Principal Yaga might think the same.”

Your eyes go wide, and you’re afraid they’re actually going to twitch this time. The audacity on this motherfucker. “Obsessed? With you? Are you insane??!” 

Yaga groans, clearly done with both of you, and cuts in, voice sharp and final. “Do I make myself clear? Professionalism. Enough of this whispering, smirking, or any other nonsense. Our lead janitor is still angry at the two of you for your antics last year. I don’t care what you do on your own time, please. Go home. Both of you. Now.”

That seems to spook the two of you a bit, and you both look over at each other, immediately shutting up. You gather your things, give Yaga one last nod of understanding, and walk out the door, where Ijichi stands in the corner still, eyeing the two of you with a look of curiosity. You wonder how much of the conversation he’d heard.

As you walk out into the hallway, unfortunately having to walk the same direction to the staff parking lot, Gojo quickens his pace to match yours, and lets out a long, dramatic, mock sigh of disappointment, then leans toward you with a sly grin. “All I got out of that was Yaga just gave us his blessing. Officially. We’re cleared for all future shenanigans.”

You turn your head back at him incredulously. “He just said the exact opposite of that.”

“Opposite, same, potato, potathto…details, details. I prefer to think he secretly agrees with me.”

You close your eyes for a moment, listening to the way your steps sync on the linoleum floor. Imagining the takeout leftovers that are at home, waiting for you, before letting out a long, frustrated breath. “I hate you.”

“And yet,” He says, “You’ll be thinking about today all weekend.”

There’s some quick math done in your head, as Gojo blabbers onto you about his weekend plans. You calculate the amount of weeks in a year. Then you figure out how many weeks are left in a school year. 35 weeks of 36 to go. 35 more weeks of Gojo in your ear. 35 weeks more weeks until Gojo finally shuts up. 35 more weeks until you can find your sanity again. 

You think this year will be so much fun.

⭑ mae's note: HII you've officially finished the first chapter!! i'm sorry if any of it got info-dumpy at one point, but i really wanted you guys to get to know these characters, and get to meet some more familiar friends along the wayyy :D constructive feedback is soo appreciated and my inbox is open for questions & comments (help and ideas for future chapters from a teacher would be sooo appreciated LMAO, i know nothing about teaching, google has been my best friend writing this so far) as for updates, i'm planning to post a new chapter bi-weekly, but there will be some changes depending on my schedule and everything going on. i'm ngl i kind of base my motivation on interactions..💔 so if you liked this at all likes+reposts+comments are my driving force </3 see u guys in the next one!!

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He held doors open for you even when you were twenty feet away and then just stood there waiting like an idiot. He memorized your schedule 'by accident' and somehow always ended up near your locker. He started hanging around Mr. Clarke’s classroom after school even though science made his brain hurt, just because you were there.

He’d stare during lunch, chin in his hand, smiling like a complete loser while you rambled about scholarships and college applications and how you couldn’t wait to see the world outside Hawkins.

Tommy caught him once and snapped his fingers in his face. “You’re doing the heart-eyes thing again.”

“The what?”

“The pathetic, princess-in-love look. It’s disgusting. I need you to get it together.”

He didn’t get it together.

If anything, he got worse.

The whole school knew. The way he lit up when you waved at him like you waved at everyone else. The way he’d drop whatever he was doing if you so much as looked like you needed help.

Everyone knew.

Except you.

You, apparently, were immune to the obvious because in your head, Steve Harrington was just. . . Steve Harrington. Popular. Nice, lately. Weirdly friendly. Probably like that with everyone.

You never noticed how his entire world tilted toward you.

You had bigger things to think about.

Like getting out of Hawkins.

Mr. Clarke had stopped you after class a week ago, papers tucked under his arm, glasses sliding down his nose. He’d cleared his throat in that hopeful way teachers did when they were about to ask for a favor.

“I’m starting a peer tutoring program,” he’d said. “Colleges love community involvement. It would look very good on scholarship applications.”

You’d said yes before he even finished the sentence.

Anything that helped you leave.

You didn’t hate Hawkins. It just never felt like it belonged to you. It felt small, like a sweater that shrank in the wash. Your dreams didn’t fit here. You wanted big libraries and campus buildings covered in ivy and lecture halls and cities where no one knew your last name.

Your family supported you completely. Your mom already saved college brochures in a neat stack on the kitchen counter. Your dad bragged about you to the neighbors like you’d already made it.

Leaving didn’t feel sad.

It felt necessary.

So you signed up to tutor, figuring maybe a freshman or two would show up for help with algebra or biology. Maybe no one at all. You wouldn’t have blamed them.

Which is why, when you walked into the library after school and followed the little handwritten sign that said PEER TUTORING →, you weren’t prepared to see Steve Harrington sitting at one of the tables.

Waiting.

For you.

For a second, you genuinely thought you’d walked into the wrong place.

Steve didn’t belong here. The late sunlight through the windows caught in his hair, turning it gold, and he looked so out of place it almost made you laugh.

Then he saw you.

And his whole face changed like someone had flipped a switch inside him. He sat up straighter so fast he almost knocked his chair over.

“Hey,” he said, a little breathless, like he’d run here. “Hi. You’re— uh. You’re the tutor, right?”

“. . . Yeah,” you said slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Are you lost?”

His heart actually stuttered.

Lost. God. If only you knew.

“I mean,” you added quickly, “this is the tutoring area. If you’re looking for the magazines or—”

“No,” he said too fast. “No, I’m supposed to be here. I signed up. For tutoring. With you. I mean— not with you specifically. I mean— I guess it is specifically. But like, academically. For school. Obviously.”

You blinked at him.

Steve Harrington. The guy who once asked if The Great Gatsby was a real person.

You stared at the neat pile of books in front of him.

“. . . You need tutoring?” you asked, genuinely confused.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Turns out if you don’t pay attention for, like, three years straight, stuff catches up with you.”

You laughed softly and that sound hit him straight in the chest.

God. He’d do anything to hear that again.

“Oh,” you said, pulling out the chair across from him. “Yeah, that makes sense. Don’t worry, I’m pretty good at explaining things. What do you need help with?”

Everything, he almost said.

But not the homework.

He needed help with how you were sitting across from him, sleeves pushed up, pen tucked behind your ear, already focuse like this was the most important thing in the world. He needed help with how you bit your lip when you concentrated. How you leaned closer to his side of the table without even realizing it.

Instead, he slid the biology book toward you with slightly shaky hands.

“Cells,” he said. “They’re. . . confusing.”

You smiled at him like this was totally normal. Like he was just another student.

And Steve swore he’d never wanted to be anything more and anything less at the same time.

“Okay,” you said. “We’ll start easy.”

Easy. Right.

Except nothing about this was easy for him.

Because every time your fingers brushed his while passing a pencil, his brain short-circuited. Every time you leaned over to point something out, your shoulder bumping his, he forgot what planet he was on. He nodded along to explanations he barely heard because he was too busy staring at your mouth forming the words.

You thought he was struggling with science.

He was struggling with you.

“You’re actually catching on pretty fast,” you said after a while, surprised. “You’re not as bad at this as you think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re trying. That’s, like, ninety percent of it.”

Trying.

If you only knew.

He’d rearranged his entire schedule to be here. Asked Tommy to quiz him the night before so he wouldn’t look completely clueless. He’d even read the first two chapters so you wouldn’t think he was hopeless.

All because you were here.

Because the idea of you leaving Hawkins one day, chasing some big, shiny future, while he stayed behind. . . it twisted something ugly in his chest.

He wanted you to fly.

He just selfishly wished he could go with you.

“You know,” you said absently, scribbling notes for him, “I didn’t think anyone would actually sign up for this.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you said with a little laugh. “But I’m glad you did. It’s nice helping someone.”

He swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

You kept talking and Steve just. . . stared.

Not in a creepy way. Not on purpose.

He just couldn’t help it.

You had this little crease between your brows when you concentrated. You explained things with your hands, fingers tapping the table, drawing invisible diagrams in the air, and every time you leaned closer to underline something in his book, your shoulder brushed his and his brain turned to static.

He tried, really tried, to look at the page.

Cell membrane. Cytoplasm. Nucleus.

None of it stuck. All he could think about was how close you were.

“Okay,” you said, tapping the paper, “so think of the cell like a tiny city. The nucleus is like the mayor’s office. It controls everything. Does that make sense?”

Steve blinked.

You were looking at him so earnestly, waiting for his answer.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, that actually. . . helps. A lot.”

Your face lit up, proud and pleased. “See? I told you. You’re not bad at this.”

God.

He thought, distantly, that this had to be some kind of cosmic joke. Hawkins High’s former golden boy reduced to putty because you told him he understood a metaphor.

Pathetic.

He’d fought monsters. Literally. And this, this tiny smile from you, was what took him out.

You kept teaching, and he kept pretending to follow along, nodding at the right times, scribbling down notes you handed him. But half the time he was just memorizing you instead. The soft little “okay” you said when he got something right.

By the time the session ended, his chest hurt. Not in a bad way. Just. . . full. Like he’d swallowed too much feeling and didn’t know where to put it.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked, packing your bag.

He tried not to sound too eager. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”

Great. Like this wasn’t going to be the highlight of his entire day.

The week after that, something was different. You didn’t notice it at first because you were busy, always busy but Steve Harrington started showing up in your life.

The first time, you were juggling way too many textbooks outside your locker, stack wobbling dangerously, and before you could even adjust your grip, a pair of familiar hands reached out and took half the weight.

“I got it,” Steve said.

“Oh— thanks,” you said, surprised. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. I’m strong. Carrying books is kind of my thing.”

You knew it was not but you laughed, and he swore he’d carry the entire library if it meant hearing that again.

Then you started noticing him at your debate competitions, leaning awkwardly against the back wall of the classroom, pretending he was just “walking by” even though debate club met on the opposite side of the school from literally everything he did. Every time you looked up mid-argument, there he was, watching you like you’d hung the moon, clapping a little too hard when you finished.

In class, he’d somehow snag the seat next to you before anyone else could, sliding into it with an almost shy, “This taken?” even though he knew you’d never say no. He’d save you a chair at lunch, push it out with his foot like it was nothing, cheeks pink when you thanked him like he’d done something special.

And the tutoring sessions. God, the tutoring sessions.

He started getting good. Like, actually good.

He showed up having already read the chapters. He remembered things you’d explained days ago. Once, he even corrected himself mid-problem and you just stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Wait,” you said, leaning closer to check his work, “this is right. Steve, this is completely right.”

“Yeah?” he asked, trying to sound casual, failing miserably.

“Yeah. That’s really good. Good job, Steve.”

Good job, Steve. It was such a normal thing to say.

You said it the same way you’d say it to anyone else. But to him, it felt like you’d reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. He actually stopped breathing for a second.

Heat crawled up his neck, ears burning, stomach flipping stupidly like he was thirteen again.

“Oh. Uh. Thanks,” he muttered, staring very hard at the paper so you wouldn’t see the way his smile went soft and helpless.

You didn’t notice, just kept going, already onto the next question.

He thought, distantly, that if you ever said you were proud of him, he might actually die on the spot.

He thought about asking you out a hundred times.

Every single session.

When you leaned over him to point at a diagram. When your knees bumped under the table. When you smiled and told him he was improving. When you got excited explaining something and grabbed his sleeve without thinking.

The words sat on the tip of his tongue.

Do you maybe want to get coffee sometime?

Do you want to go to the movies?

Do you want to go out with me?

But then he’d look at you talking about scholarships and universities and all the places you were going to go, all the things you were going to be, and something scared inside him would whisper, She’s out of your league.

You were brilliant. The kind of person teachers wrote recommendation letters for without being asked.

He was. . . Steve.

Former jerk. Former king. Current disaster with questionable grades.

Even if no one else believed it, even if the whole school thought you were lucky to have him hovering around, Steve secretly thought the opposite.

He felt lucky you even talked to him.

So instead of asking you out, he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He tried harder.

He memorized your favorite authors after overhearing you talk about them with Nancy, went home and borrowed the books from the library just so he’d have something to say. He stayed up reading half-asleep, underlining sentences he thought you’d like. The next day, he’d casually drop, “Oh, yeah, I started that book you mentioned,” like it was no big deal while internally panicking.

Your face would light up every time. “Wait, really? You’re reading that?”

“Yeah,” he’d shrug. “It’s pretty good.”

You smiled at him, completely oblivious, and launched into a ten-minute rant about the book and he listened like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

And Steve sat there every single day thinking the same hopeless, aching thought. If he was brave enough, maybe one day you’d finally see what everyone else already did.

How completely, ridiculously, stupidly in love with you he was.

The opportunity came wrapped in cheap tinsel and paper snowflakes taped crookedly to the hallway ceiling.

You were hunched over the library table with Steve again, pencil tapping against your lip while you explained balancing equations for what felt like the fifteenth time, when the intercom crackled to life with some overly cheerful announcement about the Snowball Dance.

You barely registered it beyond a vague mental note that the gym would be unusable for the next week because student council would inevitably turn it into a dance zone.

Steve, on the other hand, heard the words Snowball Dance and nearly swallowed his tongue.

He tried to act normal, nodding along while you talked, but his brain had completely abandoned chemistry and latched onto one thought like a dog with a bone.

Dance.

Dance meant dates.

Dates meant asking someone.

Which meant maybe, possibly, if the universe was feeling merciful, he could finally ask you. His palms started sweating so bad he had to wipe them on his jeans.

You didn’t notice. You were busy drawing little diagrams and saying, “See? You just move the coefficient here.”

When the session ended, you both started packing up, you sliding your color-coded notes into neat folders, him shoving books into his bag with way too much nervous energy, when a familiar voice drifted over.

“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite nerds.”

Nancy.

You looked up immediately, smiling. “Hey.”

Nancy leaned against the table, eyes flicking between the two of you in a way that felt suspiciously knowing. “I was actually looking for you,” she said to you. “What are you wearing to the dance?”

You blinked. “The dance?”

“The Snowball,” she said patiently. “This weekend. You are going, right?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. I think so. My mom found this amazing blue dress in the back of her closet. It’s kind of old, but it’s nice.” You shrugged, like it didn’t matter.

“And who are you going with?” Nancy pressed, way too casually.

You laughed. “No one? I mean, I’m not entirely sure anyone’s even going to ask me, so I’ll probably just show up and hover near the snack table or something. It’s fine. I mostly just want the extra credit for attendance.”

Steve felt like someone had just set off fireworks inside his ribcage.

Nancy’s gaze slid to him slowly and then she gave him the look.

It was long and pointed and screamed, If you don’t ask her out right now, I will personally strangle you, Harrington.

Steve panicked.

Nancy patted your arm. “Well, you’ll look pretty no matter what,” she said. “Jonathan’s dragging me, so at least we’ll all suffer together.”

You smiled. “Have fun.”

She shot Steve one last sharp stare before walking away.

The silence that followed felt deafening.

Steve’s heart was beating so hard he was convinced you could hear it. You were still organizing your bag, completely unaware that this was possibly the most stressful moment of his entire life.

Just ask her.

It’s not that hard.

It’s literally just words.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He closed it.

Tried again.

“So,” he started, voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. He cleared his throat. “So. Uh. The dance.”

“Yeah?” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“You said you didn’t have a date.”

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s fine though. I’m not super big on dances anyway.”

Right. Cool. This was fine. He was dying.

“Well,” he rushed out, words tripping over each other, “maybe you. . . I mean— if you wanted we could, uh, like go together? If you want. Totally cool if you don’t. I just thought, you know, since we’re already tutoring and yeah.”

He wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

You just stared at him for a second. Then you smiled. Like he’d just offered you something nice and simple and not the entire fragile state of his heart.

“I’d like that,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll go with you, Steve.”

He stopped breathing.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you laughed. “I mean, you’re basically the only person I talk to after school anyway. Might as well.”

Might as well.

It shouldn’t have made him that happy.

But it did. It really, really did.

The days leading up to the dance were unbearable for everyone around him.

Because Steve would not shut up.

He talked about it constantly. At his locker. In the hallway. During lunch. To Tommy H. and Carol. To random freshmen. To literally anyone who made eye contact for longer than two seconds.

“Do you think blue is, like, a flower color? Should I get her a flower? Is that too much? Do girls still like flowers? What if she hates flowers? Oh my god, what if she hates dancing—”

“You’ve been on actual dates before,” Carol groaned. “Why are you acting like this is your first crush ever?”

“Because it kind of is,” Tommy muttered, annoyed. “He’s gone full loser. It’s painful to watch.”

Steve didn’t even argue. He just grinned like an idiot and kept talking about you.

They were sick of it but he couldn’t help it. He felt like his life was about to start.

When the night finally came, everything felt. . . good.

And then you walked in and you looked like the only thing in the room that mattered.

Steve forgot every single word he’d ever learned.

You smiled when you saw him, waving a little.

“Hey.”

The night blurred after that. He held your hand during slow songs. You talked in the corner about everything and nothing, about college applications and your favorite books and stupid childhood stories. He told you things he didn’t tell anyone, about feeling lost sometimes, about not knowing what came after high school, about being scared of messing up.

You listened and for the first time, Steve felt seen.

You laughed together, danced badly together, shared terrible punch and even worse cookies. At one point your head tipped back when you laughed and he thought, distantly, If this is all I ever get, it’s enough.

Walking you home felt like the end of a movie. His heart was so full it almost hurt.

At your doorstep, you turned to him, smiling, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said softly.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Then you leaned up and kissed his cheek.

His brain shut off completely. He thought he might actually pass out.

And then you smiled at him. “Thank you for being such a great friend, Steve.”

Friend.

It hit harder than anything else. Harder than a punch. Harder than rejection.

Friend.

His heart didn’t just drop. It shattered.

He stood there, frozen, mouth open, watching you disappear inside.

The door clicked shut.

He didn’t move. Just stood on your porch for ten whole minutes, staring at the wood grain, replaying everything in his head and feeling stupider with every second. Of course. Of course you only saw him as a friend. Why wouldn’t you? You were you. He was just some guy who needed tutoring and followed you around like a lost puppy. What made him think you’d ever look at him the way he looked at you?

He laughed once, bitter and quiet.

Idiot.

Absolute idiot.

But then something in his chest twisted, stubborn. If he walked away now, he’d regret it forever. So before he could talk himself out of it, he turned back and rang the doorbell again.

Please don’t be her parents.

Please don’t be her parents.

Please—

The door opened.

It was you.

Hair slightly messy, earrings gone, rings off which told him you were already winding down for the night.

“Steve?” you said. “Did you forget something?”

You stood there in the doorway looking at him like this was the most normal thing in the world, like boys didn’t usually show up on your porch ten minutes after dropping you off at midnight looking like they were about to either confess their love or throw up.

Your hair was half falling out of whatever you’d done to it for the dance, little pieces soft around your face, earrings gone, makeup smudged just enough to make you look real and tired and warm instead of polished and perfect. You had on an old sweater, sleeves too long, swallowing your hands, and Steve thought, distantly, that this version of you might actually kill him faster than the dress did.

“Steve?” you asked again, gentler this time. “Are you okay?”

He opened his mouth.

Nothing.

Closed it.

His brain was screaming at him to abort mission, go home, save whatever dignity he had left, but his heart was louder, pounding so hard he swore you could probably see it through his shirt.

“I— yeah. I mean. No. I don’t know,” he said, running a hand through his hair, messing it up for once. “Can we— can we talk for a second?”

Your brows pulled together immediately, worried. You stepped out onto the porch and closed the door softly behind you so you wouldn’t wake your parents.

“Of course. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Yeah, he thought. I fell in love with you and you called me your friend and now I feel like I got hit by a truck.

Instead, he just looked at you.

God.

You were looking at him like you cared.

Like you were already bracing to help him.

It made everything worse and better at the same time.

“I just—” He exhaled hard, hands on his hips, pacing once like he was about to give a presentation. “When you said that thing earlier. The friend thing.”

You tilted your head. “What thing?”

“When you said thanks for being such a great friend,” he said.

“Oh.” You smiled a little. “Yeah. Because you are. You’ve been really sweet lately, Steve. Like, really sweet. You didn’t have to come to my debate stuff or help me carry books or—”

“That’s the thing,” he blurted.

You stopped.

He looked at you like he was about to jump off a cliff.

“I don’t do this for my friends, okay?” he said. “I don’t match ties and memorize your stupid study schedule and wait outside tutoring for forty minutes just to walk you there for my friends.”

You blinked.

“. . . You wait outside tutoring?”

“Yeah,” he said helplessly. “All the time. Because you always show up early and I didn’t want you sitting alone.”

Your brain stalled.

“I don’t read Jane Austen and whatever that other one is— Brontë?— for my friends. I don’t buy strawberry milk when it’s disgusting just because you like it. I don’t sign up for tutoring I don’t even need just to sit across from someone for an hour for my friends.”

Your mouth fell open a little.

“. . . You hate strawberry milk?”

“It’s terrible,” he said immediately. “I don't get how you drink it.”

You stared at him. “Huh,” you said faintly. “So you didn’t match your Snowball tie to my dress on accident?”

Steve froze.

“. . . You noticed that?”

“It was literally the exact same shade of blue,” you said. “I thought it was a coincidence.”

He let out this small, broken laugh and covered his face with his hand. “Oh my god. I spent two hours at the store trying to match it. Nancy almost killed me.”

“Oh,” you breathed.

Oh.

All those times he showed up. All those little things. The books. The seat saving. The tutoring. The way he looked at you like you were saying something important even when you were just rambling about mitochondria.

Your stomach flipped.

Steve dropped his hand and looked at you again, eyes wide and terrified and so soft it made your chest ache.

“I like you,” he said, finally, simply, like it cost him everything. “Not like a friend. Not even a little. I’ve liked you for months. I just— I didn’t think you’d ever look at me like that. You’re. . . you’re you. And I’m just me.”

You frowned immediately. “Steve.”

“No, let me finish before I pass out,” he rushed. “I just needed you to know. Even if you don’t feel the same. I just— I couldn’t go home with you thinking I was doing all this because I’m nice. I’m not that nice. I’m selfish. I do it because I want to be around you all the time. Because you’re my favorite person. Because when you talk about leaving Hawkins, it freaks me out because I can’t picture this place without you in it.”

Your heart was beating so loud you could hear it in your ears.

He swallowed.

“So yeah. That’s it. I like you. A lot. Like, embarrassingly a lot.”

For a second, neither of you said anything.

And then you stepped closer.

Steve immediately tensed like you were about to reject him and he was bracing for impact.

Instead, you reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket.

He short-circuited.

“Steve Harrington,” you said slowly, “you absolute idiot.”

His heart dropped. “Oh.”

“I thought you were just being nice,” you continued. “I thought you felt bad for me or something. I didn’t think. . . I mean, why would I think you liked me?”

He stared at you. “Why wouldn’t you?”

You gestured vaguely at yourself. “I’m me. I carry six books at all times and talk about scholarships for fun.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Exactly.”

Your throat tightened.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Oh.

The way he looked at you suddenly made sense.

Everything did.

You laughed a little, shaky and fond. “Steve, you’re such a dork.”

He smiled nervously. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been told.”

“But,” you said, stepping even closer, “for the record. . . I don’t go to dances with just friends either.”

His brain stopped working.

“. . . What?”

“I said,” you murmured, cheeks warm, “I wouldn’t have gone with you if I didn’t like you too.”

The hope that lit up his face was so bright it almost hurt to look at.

“Wait. Really?”

“Really.”

“Like. . . like like me?”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Yes, Steve. Like like you. You’re cute. And you carry my books. And you listen to me talk about boring stuff without falling asleep. That’s basically marriage material.”

He laughed, breathless, disbelieving.

“You’re serious?”

“Steve,” you said softly, “I’ve liked you for a while. I just thought you were out of my league.”

He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was purple.

“Out of— are you insane?”

You both laughed, nervous and giddy and a little overwhelmed.

And then you were just. . . standing there.

Close.

Really close.

His hands hovered awkwardly at your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you.

You noticed. So you took pity on him and slid your hands up into his jacket, gripping the fabric.

His breath hitched.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, like it was the most fragile question in the world.

You smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You can.”

He leaned in slow, like he was scared you’d disappear if he moved too fast, one hand cupping your cheek so gently it made your chest ache. His lips brushed yours soft.

When you pulled back, you were both smiling like idiots, foreheads touching, noses bumping.

Steve let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “So. . . not just friends?”

You smiled, kissing him again. “Definitely not just friends.”

And okay, maybe—maybe—you’d thought about quitting. Maybe you’d had a few late-night fantasies about giving it all up and becoming a full-time gold digger. The classy kind, obviously. The kind who drank rosé on yachts and wore silk robes while pretending to care about crypto. It wasn’t the worst idea. You did live in Monaco, after all. Land of superyachts, supermodels, and super-rich men who thought “journalist” is just a cute way of saying “between jobs.” Honestly, if you were going to fail at something, at least you’d picked a scenic place to do it.

“I just need to write something life-changing. Then everything will be fine.” You leaned against the heater with all the drama of a woman on the brink, your back pressed to the window like you were starring in a very slow, very tragic film. You weren’t sure if you were trying to convince your coworkers or yourself. Probably both.

“Right,” Carol said, not even glancing up from her laptop. “And do you actually know what that is, or are we just manifesting now?”

“Well… no,” you admitted, with the kind of shrug that said please don’t ask follow-up questions. At least you were being honest. Sort of.

Across the room, Hanna looked up from her coffee. She was probably the smartest person in the office, which was both comforting and deeply annoying. She studied you for a second, her expression unreadable—somewhere between pity and amusement, with just a dash of judgment for flavor.

“I watched a movie the other night,” she said, her voice slow and deliberate, like she was trying to decide if this was worth sharing. “And it actually had a plot that might work. For an article, I mean.”

Your ears perked up the second Hanna spoke. “Wait… what is it?” you asked, straightening up like a detective who’d just caught the scent of a lead. You didn’t mean to sound so desperate, but honestly, you were one more rejection email away from pitching a story about the emotional lives of houseplants.

“How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days,” Hanna said, her voice lilting with that particular brand of smugness that only came from knowing she was about to drop something good.

Carol perked up immediately. “Oh my god, I love that movie!”

You blinked. Once. Twice. A third time for good measure. Was this a cultural reference you were supposed to know? Judging by the way both of them were looking at you—with matching expressions of mild horror and secondhand embarrassment—you had, in fact, missed something. Something big.

You tried to play it cool, nodding like you were totally on board. “Right. That one. Classic.” You had no idea what you were agreeing to.

Hanna didn’t buy it. She leaned forward, eyes glinting with something that looked suspiciously like mischief. “So, the girl has to find a guy,” she said slowly, drawing it out like she was telling a ghost story. “And then she has to do everything—everything—in her power to make him dump her. In ten days.”

You stared at her. “That’s… the plot?”

“That’s the plot,” she confirmed, clearly delighted by your confusion. “And it’s perfect.”

You weren’t sure what she meant by perfect, but your brain was already racing. Ten days. A doomed relationship. A built-in deadline. It was ridiculous. It was chaotic. It was… kind of brilliant.

And also, probably, a terrible idea.

But then again, what did you have to lose?

“So… you’re telling me I have to find some poor soul and make him dump me in ten days?” you asked, the words sounding ridiculous even as they left your mouth. It felt like the kind of thing you’d say as a joke at brunch, not something you’d actually consider doing. And yet—your brain was already buzzing, flipping through mental flashcards of eligible men and increasingly unhinged ways to drive them away.

“Exactly!” Hanna said, her eyes lighting up like she’d just invented the concept of journalism itself. “But make it Monaco. Find a billionaire, an athlete, someone with a yacht and a god complex. Go wild.”

Carol nodded solemnly, like she was blessing a sacred quest. “Yeah, like… traumatize someone rich. For journalism. Totally fair. Do you know the insane stuff these people do for money? You’d be doing the world a favor.”

You tried to keep a straight face, but a laugh slipped out anyway. The idea was unhinged. Unethical, probably. Definitely unprofessional. But also? It had legs. It had chaos. It had the kind of messy, clickbait-y energy that editors loved and readers devoured. And more than that—it sounded fun. Stupid, reckless fun. The kind you hadn’t had in ages.

You could already picture it: the awkward dates, the fake meltdowns, the slow unraveling of some poor, unsuspecting man’s patience. It was terrible. It was brilliant. It was exactly the kind of disaster you needed.

And if it just so happened to be the thing that saved your career? Even better.

“But who exactly is supposed to be my victim? Do we have any tributes?” you asked, glancing between the girls like you were about to host a very glamorous, very morally questionable Hunger Games. Honestly, in Monaco, the options were endless. The city was practically crawling with eligible men who had more money than sense and a deeply concerning relationship with their own reflections.

“Jannik Sinner!” Carol said immediately, like she’d been waiting her whole life to shout his name. “What does he play? Tennis? Whatever. He’s hot.”

You wrinkled your nose. Jannik was objectively attractive, sure, but he gave off the kind of energy that screamed protein shakes and motivational podcasts. Probably the type to say things like “rise and grind” without irony. Not your vibe.

Hanna tapped her pen against her notebook, eyes narrowed in thought. “What about the orange guy who drives fast cars? Piastri. Oscar. He’s cute.”

You tilted your head, considering it for half a second before shaking it. Also not your type. Too polite. Too clean-cut. He looked like the kind of guy who’d apologize for sneezing too loud. You needed someone cockier. Someone who could handle a little chaos. Someone who wouldn’t immediately crumble the second you fake-cried in a restaurant or brought up your imaginary Pinterest wedding board.

No, you needed someone who could take a hit. Someone who thought he was untouchable.

“I need to think it through,” you said, pausing just long enough to make it sound like a life-or-death decision. “But don’t worry—I’ll let you know the moment I choose my victim.”

You said it with a grin, but your mind was already racing. Monaco was full of possibilities—sleek suits, smug smiles, men who’d never been told no in their lives. It was practically a buffet of bad decisions. All you had to do was pick one and ruin his ten days of life. For journalism, of course.

Totally ethical. Totally fine.

Probably.

────────────

What happened when you mixed alcohol with four Formula 1 drivers—especially Lando Norris?

Bad decisions. The kind that started with expensive cocktails and ended with someone losing a shoe, a phone, or their dignity. Sometimes all three.

They were tucked into a velvet booth in the corner of the lounge, half-hidden by low lighting and the thump of bass-heavy music. Their table was cluttered with half-empty glasses and a bottle of something that probably cost more than most people’s rent. Oscar, Max, and Charles were deep in conversation, laughing about something that involved a yacht, a seagull, and a very unfortunate misunderstanding in Ibiza.

Lando, though, wasn’t listening. He was staring across the room, eyes fixed on the dance floor like he was watching a live documentary on human chaos. A group of girls had climbed onto the tables, dancing like they were auditioning for a music video—heels off, hair wild, dresses clinging to skin that shimmered with sweat and glitter. It was a lot. Like, a lot.

He blinked slowly, lips parted in mild horror. The kind of look you’d give if you walked into your hotel room and found a raccoon going through your minibar. He wasn’t judging, exactly. More… confused. Concerned. Maybe a little afraid.

“What are you staring at, man?” Oscar asked, leaning over to follow his gaze.

Lando pointed, eyes still wide. “Those girls. Do you see them? They have no dignity.”

Max snorted so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “You’re talking about dignity? You, Lando?”

Lando turned to him, offended. “Hey! I have dignity. Do I look like I’m up there shaking my almost bare ass to the music? No. Exactly.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “Should I remind you what you did after your Monaco win?”

Lando opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could already feel the memory creeping in—champagne-soaked, shirtless, standing on a table with a traffic cone on his head, yelling something about being the king of the world. Okay, maybe not his finest moment.

“That was different,” he muttered, taking a long sip of his drink. “That was… celebratory.”

Max grinned. “Sure, mate. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Lando rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. He hated how well they knew him. Hated it even more that they were right.

“That’s not even the point,” Lando said, letting out a dramatic sigh as he slumped back in his seat. “My point is—it’s actually so hard to find a girlfriend who isn’t a gold digger.”

He knew how it sounded. Rich, famous, young. Boo-hoo, right? But still. It was a real problem. Everyone around him seemed to have someone. Real relationships. People to text goodnight. People to come home to. And then there was him—third-wheeling his way through life, pretending he didn’t care.

“Right, because you’re the only one who’s single here,” Max said, grinning like he’d just caught Lando in a lie. “Even Oscar has a girlfriend.”

“Sorry?” Oscar blinked, confused. “We’ve been together since high school, Max.”

Max rolled his eyes, like that somehow made it worse. “Exactly my point. You’re the last one standing. We need to find someone for you.”

He clapped Lando on the back like he was doing him a favor, but Lando just groaned and took another sip of his drink. The idea of someone “finding” him a girlfriend felt like ordering love off a menu. And yet… maybe Max wasn’t wrong. Maybe it was time to try something new.

“Let’s make it more interesting,” Charles said, leaning back in his chair with a grin that made Lando’s stomach twist. “A bet.”

Oh no. Absolutely not. This was how chaos started. This was how group chats exploded and friendships got temporarily ruined. Lando had seen this look before—Charles was about to say something reckless, and once he did, there’d be no going back.

“A bet?” Lando repeated slowly, already feeling his shoulders tense. “Why does that sound like you’re about to say something ridiculous?”

“Because he is,” Oscar muttered, sipping his drink like he’d already accepted the disaster as inevitable.

Max perked up instantly, eyes wide and excited, like someone had just said the magic word. “Ooooh, I love bets! What are we betting on? Lando’s dignity? Because that’s already gone.”

Lando shot him a look, deadpan. “Very funny,” he said, voice flat and dripping with sarcasm. But deep down, he knew Max wasn’t entirely wrong. His dignity had taken a few hits lately. Mostly self-inflicted.

Charles ignored them all, clearly enjoying himself. He leaned forward, hands spread like he was presenting a TED Talk. “Lando, you need a girlfriend. We all know it. So…” He paused for dramatic effect. “You have ten days to pull a girl.”

Lando blinked. “Uh… okay. And the catch?”

Charles smiled like he’d just invented the concept of suffering. “No money. No fame. No cars. No F1 clout. Just… pure personality.”

Lando choked on his drink.

Pure personality? That was basically all the stuff he didn’t use. His whole charm package was built on fast cars, expensive watches, and being Lando Norris. Strip that away and what was left? A guy who made bad jokes, forgot birthdays, and still didn’t know how to fold a fitted sheet. He wasn’t even sure he had a personality outside of racing and nonchalant Instagram captions.

He looked around the table, hoping someone would jump in and shut this down. But Max was already nodding like this was the best idea he’d ever heard. Oscar looked mildly entertained. And Charles? Charles was practically glowing with evil joy.

Lando sighed, sinking deeper into his seat. This was going to be a disaster.

But part of him—some reckless, competitive part—kind of wanted to try.

Lando narrowed his eyes, already suspicious. “Okay… but what do I get out of this?”

He didn’t trust that look on Charles’s face. It was the same look he’d had before convincing Max to race a golf cart through a hotel lobby. The same look that had ended with a very awkward call from PR. Lando wasn’t about to walk into something stupid without at least knowing what was on the table.

Charles smirked, clearly enjoying the moment. “Oh, something big. Something worth your time.”

Oscar leaned in, lowering his voice like they were planning a heist. “A brand-new car. Your choice. Top model. Think of it as… motivation.”

Lando blinked. Then blinked again. A car? A new car? His brain immediately started spinning through possibilities—sleek lines, custom interiors, that new car smell. He already had a garage full of toys, sure, but this would be different. This would be earned. Won. A trophy with wheels.

He leaned back in his seat, trying to look casual, but his eyes were already gleaming. “Okay… now you’ve got my attention.”

Charles raised a brow, clearly not done. “Don’t get too cocky. You still have to actually… do it.”

Lando grinned, the kind of grin that usually got him into trouble. “Oh, don’t worry. I will. And when I do, that car is mine.”

“And who’s supposed to be the lucky girl?” Lando asked, scanning the club with a mix of curiosity and dread.

There were plenty of options—if you counted sequins, fake tans, and women who could smell wealth from across the room. The place was packed with designer heels and glossy lips, all circling like sharks in glitter. It was loud, chaotic, and exactly the kind of scene Lando usually tried to avoid unless he was already tipsy or being dragged in by Max.

Charles pointed toward the dance floor, where a blonde was holding court in the middle of a glittery circle. She moved like she knew everyone was watching, hips swaying, hair flipping, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “The blonde over there? I think her name is Magui or something like that.”

Lando squinted, trying to place her. She looked familiar in that Monaco way—like someone who’d probably dated three footballers, a tennis player, and maybe a prince. “Mate, she looks like she’s already dated half the athletes in here… and would probably make me sign a nondisclosure agreement before the first drink.”

He shook his head, already bored. “Pass.”

He wanted someone different. Someone who didn’t treat flirting like a business transaction. Someone who didn’t already know his net worth before he said hello.

“And what about her?” Oscar asked, nodding toward the bar.

Lando turned his head, following Oscar’s gaze—and then he saw you.

You were perched on a barstool, one leg crossed over the other, deep in conversation with a friend. There was something about the way you sat—relaxed, like you belonged there but didn’t need anyone to notice. You weren’t dressed like the usual Monaco crowd. No glittering diamonds, no designer logos screaming for attention. Just a simple outfit, effortless and cool, like you’d thrown it on without a second thought. And your expression? Calm. Unbothered. Like the chaos of the club didn’t touch you. Like you were in your own little world and perfectly happy to stay there.

Lando tilted his head, studying you. You didn’t look like someone who cared about fast cars or famous faces. You weren’t glancing around the room, hoping to be seen. You weren’t trying too hard. You weren’t trying at all.

And that? That was rare.

His lips curled into a slow, intrigued smile. Something about you felt like a challenge. Not the kind he could win with a wink and a flashy watch. The kind that might actually take effort. Honesty. Personality. Whatever that meant.

“Perfect,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

And just like that, the game was on.

────────────

With a few hours to kill before work, you figured you might as well be productive. Or at least pretend to be. So you parked yourself in a quiet café, ordered something overpriced and frothy, and settled in by the window with your laptop open and your eyes doing anything but working. You told yourself you were brainstorming. Researching. Casually scouting for your potential victim. You had ten days, after all. No time to waste.

Unfortunately, the selection was… bleak.

Too old. Too young. Too married. Too into themselves. One guy looked promising until he took a phone call and started yelling at someone named “Mum” about crypto. Another had a man bun and a tattoo of a lion on his neck, which felt like a red flag wrapped in a cliché. And then—Charles Leclerc. Sitting two tables away, laughing with someone you assumed was his girlfriend. Taken. Obviously. And thank God, honestly. The last thing you needed was a swarm of Ferrari fans in your DMs accusing you of ruining his focus.

You were just about ready to give up. Your coffee had gone cold, your cursor blinked mockingly on a blank document, and your brain was spiraling into that familiar pit of “what am I even doing with my life?” You stirred your drink like it might reveal the answers at the bottom, already preparing to pack up and call it a failed mission.

And then—someone stepped into your peripheral vision.

You didn’t look up right away. You were too busy wallowing. But then a voice cut through the low hum of conversation, casual and familiar in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

And nearly died on the spot.

Lando Norris.

Standing right there, like the universe had just dropped him into your lap with a wink and a challenge. He looked annoyingly good—messy curls, easy smile, hands shoved into the pockets of a hoodie that probably cost more than your rent. He didn’t look like a celebrity right now. He looked like a guy who’d wandered in off the street, maybe to grab a coffee or flirt with the barista. But you knew better.

Your heart did something weird in your chest. Not because you were starstruck—please, you were a professional. Mostly. But because this was it. The moment. The setup.

Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.

The universe had officially outdone itself.

Because standing in front of you was a man who was, quite frankly, perfect for the job. He checked every single box on your very short, very specific list:

1. Famous.

2. Attractive.

3. Almost definitely dumb enough to fall for whatever psychological warfare your article required.

Your brain lit up like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Oh. Oh. This was it. This was him. Your ten-day victim had just walked straight into your life, no effort required. You didn’t even have to chase him down—he came to you. Like a lamb to the slaughter. Or, more accurately, like a golden retriever to a squeaky toy.

“Hi,” you said sweetly, already spinning the first few lines of your article in your head. The headline was practically writing itself.

Of course, you had to play it cool. You had to pretend you had absolutely no idea who he was. Not the guy you’d written five separate articles about. Not the guy with a garage full of sixteen cars you could list from memory. Not the guy whose face had been on your Twitter feed more times than your own.

No. You were going full amnesia. Blank slate. Just a girl, sitting in a café, definitely not plotting emotional sabotage.

“I saw you yesterday in the club. What a coincidence,” he said, voice a little too high, a little too nervous for someone who regularly drove a rocket ship at 300 kilometers an hour.

You raised a single eyebrow. He saw you?

Interesting.

He seemed to realize how that sounded because he immediately panicked. “I mean—uh—may I sit with you?”

And just like that, your suspicions were confirmed.

Oh yeah. He was the one.

So it had begun.

Your challenge: make Lando Norris dump you in ten days.

You watched him settle into the chair across from you, all casual charm and nervous energy. It was almost too easy. He looked relaxed, but you could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—the way he scanned your face like he was trying to figure out if you were safe, or secretly filming him for TikTok.

“What’s your name, cutie?” you asked, voice syrupy sweet. The word cutie tasted weird coming out of your mouth, but you leaned into it anyway. You cringed internally—asking for his name when you knew every single gossip headline about him felt borderline criminal. You’d written about his dating history. His car collection. His skincare routine. You could probably recite his net worth in three currencies.

Still… you were curious. Would he lie? Would he play it cool, pretend to be someone else? Or would he go full Lando Norris, Monaco’s golden playboy, the city’s most sought-after souvenir?

“Lando,” he said.

Wow.

So he was actually telling the truth. No fake name. No mysterious alter ego. Just Lando. Bold move. And maybe also a little dumb. Perfect.

“That’s nice, Larry.”

He blinked. “It’s… Lando.”

You smiled innocently. “That’s what I said.”

He paused, eyebrows pulling together just slightly. Confused. Not alarmed, not offended—just trying to figure out if you were messing with him or genuinely bad with names. A regular Monaco man would’ve already made an excuse and bolted. But he stayed. That was promising.

“And what’s your name?” he asked, still trying to play it cool.

“I’m Y/n,” you said, offering him a soft smile that you hoped read as warm and just a little curious. At the same time, your eyes flicked toward the rest of the café, scanning the space like you were expecting someone to jump out from behind the espresso machine with a hidden camera. Was this a setup? Was he scouting the place? Spying? The whole thing felt too easy, too convenient. You’d barely started your mission and already the universe had dropped Monaco’s most eligible bachelor into your lap.

“So… you saw me at the club, huh?” you asked, keeping your tone light, like it was just a passing comment. Of course you knew he had. You’d been there with Hanna, sipping overpriced cocktails and pretending not to notice the swarm of athletes and influencers orbiting the VIP section. You’d clocked him immediately—messy curls, easy smile, the kind of presence that made people turn their heads without even knowing why. But you’d played it cool. You always did.

“Um… yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. His voice was softer now, a little unsure. “I was with my friends, and you… caught my attention. But you were with a friend, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

You tilted your head slightly, pretending to think. Caught his attention? That was… unexpected. You tried to guess which friend he’d been with—Oscar? Max? Carlos? Probably one of the three.

But what really surprised you was how polite he was. No cheesy pickup line. No smug grin. Just a little awkward, a little nervous, and honestly? Kind of sweet. You’d heard the rumors—Lando Norris, playboy of the paddock, heartbreaker with a grin. But this version? This slightly fidgety, maybe-too-honest guy sitting across from you?

You could work with this.

You could definitely work with this.

As much as you wanted to keep the conversation going—keep watching him fidget with his sleeves and stumble over his words like a boy who wasn’t used to being nervous—time was not on your side. Hanna and Carol would absolutely murder you if you were late to work again. And honestly, you were already pushing it.

“Anyway, I should get going. Y’know… work,” you said, slipping your laptop into your bag and trying to sound like a normal person with a normal job and not someone actively plotting emotional sabotage for a living.

But then—

“Wanna go out for dinner or lunch sometime?” Lando asked, voice hopeful, like he wasn’t sure if he was reading the moment right.

You froze.

Oh.

This was suspiciously easy. Like, too easy. You hadn’t even done anything yet. No fake tears, no chaotic energy, no weird stories about your ex-boyfriend’s ghost haunting your apartment. And here he was, asking you out like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’d love that,” you said, keeping your tone light, breezy. Inside, your brain was doing backflips. You could already hear Hanna and Carol screaming when you told them.

“Perfect,” he said, smiling now, more confident. “So… tomorrow, 6 p.m.? Here?”

You blinked. Here? Same café? That was bold. And kind of adorable. He was either really into you or really bad at dating. Maybe both.

“Deal,” you said, trying to sound casual, like this wasn’t the exact outcome you’d been hoping for. Like you weren’t already planning your outfit and your first sabotage move.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, gave him one last smile, and walked out the door with your heart racing and your mission officially in motion.

You burst into the office like a storm, practically tripping over your own feet as you threw your bag onto your chair without even bothering to sit. Your heart was still racing, your thoughts spinning, and you couldn’t hold it in for one more second.

“You are not going to believe what just happened to me!” you shouted, loud enough that someone in the hallway probably heard.

Hanna and Carol looked up from their desks, already exchanging that familiar look—the one that said here we go again. Hanna raised an eyebrow, and Carol tilted her head, both waiting for whatever chaos you were about to unload.

“Hm?” Hanna asked, calm but curious.

You started pacing, arms flailing a little as you tried to find the words. “Okay, so I was sitting in the café, right? Just doing my usual thing—pretending to work, sipping coffee, maybe scouting for the guy—and then boom. Out of nowhere. The universe just drops Lando. Fucking. Norris. right into my lap.”

Hanna gasped like she’d just been slapped. “You’re kidding!”

Carol’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She blinked, stunned, like her brain was still buffering.

You nodded, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “I swear. He walked right up to me. Sat down. Started talking. And the best part?” You paused for dramatic effect, letting the tension build. “I literally did nothing. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t even try. I was just sitting there, spiraling about my life, and he came to me.”

Carol finally found her voice. “Wait—what does that even mean?”

You dropped into your chair, still buzzing. “It means he invited me to dinner. Tomorrow. Six p.m. Same café.”

Hanna let out a shriek that echoed off the walls. Carol covered her mouth like she’d just witnessed a miracle. You leaned back, heart pounding, mind already racing through outfits and sabotage strategies.

This was it. The mission had officially begun.

────────────

DAY ONE

Dinner was at six.

You arrived at 6:07—just late enough to be annoying, but not late enough to be unforgivable. It was a calculated move. A soft push. You wanted him just a little off balance, just enough to wonder if you were the kind of person who always ran late or if you were testing him. Either way, it worked.

Lando was already there, sitting at the table with his fingers wrapped around a glass he hadn’t touched. He was spinning it slowly, staring at the condensation like it held answers. He looked nervous. Not panicked, but definitely unsure. Like a kid trying to act normal in front of the cool teacher. You loved that. You loved a man already on edge.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said brightly, sliding into your seat like you hadn’t just made a dramatic entrance. “My cat threw up on my shoes.”

You didn’t have a cat. You didn’t even like cats. But if tonight was about sabotage, you were going to start strong. Lies, confusion, chaos—your holy trinity.

Lando blinked, clearly trying to process. “Oh—uh, I hope they’re okay?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Shoes or cat?”

“…Both?” he guessed, voice soft.

Cute. He was trying. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way he kept glancing at you like he was checking to see if you were real. He wasn’t smooth, not yet. But he was polite. Sweet, even. And that made it better. You didn’t want a player. You wanted someone who’d fall hard and fast and then wonder what the hell happened.

The waiter came, and you ordered something expensive—something with ingredients you couldn’t pronounce and a price tag that made Lando’s eyebrows twitch. You watched him carefully, waiting for the reaction. He didn’t say anything, just nodded and ordered something simple. Interesting. He wasn’t going to challenge you. Not yet.

And then came your moment.

The first crack. The first twist.

You leaned forward, smile soft, voice sweet. Time to plant the seed.

Then came the inevitable question. The one that always showed up early, no matter how much small talk you tried to stretch out.

“So… what do you do? For work?”

You watched him closely as he answered. His eyes flickered, just for a second, like he was searching for the right words—or maybe the safest lie.

“I’m a… mechanic,” he said.

You blinked. Mechanic? Really?

You raised an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm. “A… mechanic? Here in Monaco?”

He nodded, stiffly. “Yeah… cars. Fixing cars.”

He looked like you’d just asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon. His shoulders were tense, his voice too careful. Like he was trying to sell a story he hadn’t rehearsed enough.

You leaned back in your chair, pretending to think it over. Mechanic. In Monaco. Sure. Because that made perfect sense. You knew what kind of cars he drove—cars that cost more than your entire apartment building. And now he wanted you to believe he spent his days elbow-deep in engine grease?

Something didn’t add up.

But you didn’t call him out. Not yet. You just smiled, nodded slowly, and filed the lie away for later.

Because if he was going to play pretend… well, two could play that game.

“Enough talking about me,” Lando said, waving his hand like he’d just cracked some kind of code. “I want to talk about you.”

Uh-oh.

You smiled, but inside, you groaned. Of course he wasn’t that interesting. You’d already figured that out. He was charming, sure, and a little nervous, which was cute—but the moment he called himself a mechanic, you knew you were dealing with someone who wasn’t exactly built for deep conversation. Still, you had to play nice. You were supposed to be sweet. Mysterious. Just weird enough to keep him guessing.

So you rolled your eyes—internally, of course, because externally you had to look polite and engaged—and braced yourself for whatever awkward questions were coming next. This was the part where he’d ask something basic, like where you were from or what you did for work, and you’d have to lie through your teeth without blinking.

“So… what do you do?” Lando asked, leaning forward a little, his elbows resting on the table, eyes wide with what looked like actual curiosity.

You blinked, caught off guard. He sounded so sincere. Like he really wanted to know. Like he wasn’t just asking to be polite or to fill the silence. You hadn’t expected that. You thought he’d be more self-absorbed, more interested in talking about himself, or at least flexing a little. But no—he was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

You gave a small shrug, pretending to think hard. “Uh… I, um… I specialize in… finding lost socks.”

His eyebrows lifted, just a little. “Lost… socks?”

You nodded, keeping your face serious. “Yeah. People’s socks. It’s very niche. Very demanding. You’d be surprised how emotional people get about it. Some socks never come back. It’s tragic, really.”

You watched him closely, waiting for the confusion to settle in. Waiting for the polite smile to crack, for the awkward silence to stretch too long. This was supposed to be weird. Off-putting. You were trying to throw him off, to make him question your sanity just enough to regret asking.

But instead, Lando’s lips twitched. Then curled into a smile. “That’s… actually kind of cute.”

You blinked.

Cute?

You were trying to annoy him, for crying out loud. You were trying to be strange and mildly concerning. And somehow, he’d taken your fake sock-finding career and turned it into something adorable. Like you were a quirky rom-com lead instead of a woman actively plotting her own romantic downfall.

This was going to be harder than you thought.

“So… do you have any hobbies? Or… weird talents?” you asked, leaning forward just a little, pretending to be genuinely curious. You tilted your head, smiled softly, and gave him space to answer. It was a test, really. You wanted to see what kind of lie he’d come up with next.

Lando hesitated. You could see the gears turning in his head, trying to land on something believable but still interesting. Finally, he shrugged. “Uh… I’m really into, um… pottery.”

You blinked.

Pottery.

Sure. That made total sense for someone whose actual life involved screaming engines, million-dollar cars, and a fanbase that could probably crash your Wi-Fi. You stared at him for a second, trying to picture it—Lando Norris in an apron, gently shaping clay with his hands, surrounded by half-finished mugs and lopsided bowls. It was… oddly charming. And also completely ridiculous.

“Pottery, huh?” you said, smiling like you weren’t internally laughing. “You know… you kind of remind me of someone.”

He tilted his head, clearly bracing for whatever you were about to say. His shoulders tensed just slightly, like he was preparing for impact. “Oh? Who?”

You grinned, letting the moment stretch. “I don’t know… someone fast, maybe… drives cars professionally? Something like that?”

His eyebrows shot up, panic flickering across his face. “Fast… drives cars? No, no, I… I just ride bicycles sometimes. Very competitive bicyclist.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was trying so hard. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way his voice got higher, like he was clinging to the lie with both hands. It was almost sweet. Almost.

But mostly? It was hilarious.

You were just about to go in for the kill. Just one little question. One tiny, innocent syllable that would’ve cracked the whole thing wide open.

“Are you, by any chance, L—”

But before you could finish, he jumped in, fast and a little too loud.

“Are you into F1, perhaps?”

You blinked.

Excuse you?

Where had that come from?

Your brain scrambled to catch up. Why would he ask that? Was this some kind of reverse psychology? Was he trying to throw you off? Or maybe he was testing you—trying to see if you’d slip up, if you already knew who he was. Did he think you were stupid? Or worse, a fan pretending not to be?

Your lips curled into a slow, suspicious smile. Two could play this game.

“F1?” you repeated, like you were trying to remember what that even stood for. “Ooh, fancy sport,” you said, waving your hand in the air like you were shooing away a mosquito. “Those guys go like—” you leaned in and made the most ridiculous zooming noise you could muster, “vroooom.”

He snorted. Actually snorted. The sound was half laugh, half surprise, and it made your stomach do something it absolutely should not have done.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Something like that.”

You shrugged, keeping your expression casual. “I don’t really follow it,” you lied, smooth as silk. “Not my thing. Too many rules, too much noise, too many men who think they’re hot shit just because they can turn left at high speed.”

He laughed again, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. And maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was wondering if you were serious or just messing with him. You hoped it was both. You wanted him confused. Off balance. Unsure of where he stood.

Because if he was going to lie, then so were you.

And you were better at it.

“Should I be interested in it?” you asked, tilting your head just slightly, letting your voice go soft and curious. You were playing innocent now, like you hadn’t just spent the last five minutes trashing the very thing that made him famous. You’d called it loud, ridiculous, full of egos—and somehow, he was still sitting across from you. Still smiling. Still trying.

Miracle.

Lando Norris was famously allergic to commitment. That much you knew. Commitment, honesty, basic emotional presence—pick one. He wasn’t known for sticking around. And yet… here he was. Not bolting. Not making excuses. Just sitting there, sipping his drink, looking at you like you were the most fascinating person in the room.

“Pff, no,” he said, waving his hand like F1 was a mosquito buzzing near his ear. “It’s a shit sport. Is it even a sport? I mean—everyone can drive a car.”

You stared at him.

He said that with his whole chest. No hesitation. No irony. Just pure, unfiltered disgust. And he was supposed to be one of the faces of the sport. You had to fight the urge to laugh. It was too good. Too ridiculous. You couldn’t have scripted it better.

“So you hate F1?” you asked, keeping your expression soft and sweet, like you were genuinely concerned. Inside, you were cackling.

“Hate,” he repeated, voice flat, eyes serious.

You let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “Good. Because I’ve never watched a single race.”

Lie. Massive lie. You’d watched every race. You’d written about half of them. You could probably quote his post-race interviews word for word. But tonight? You were just a girl who thought F1 was a bunch of guys turning left really fast.

And somehow… he was still into it.

You leaned back in your chair, squinting at him like you were trying to solve a puzzle. There was something about him—something in the way he smiled, all relaxed and smug, elbows resting on the table like he had nothing to hide. He looked far too confident for someone who should probably be sweating under the weight of his own lies.

“But still…” you said slowly, letting the words stretch, “you’re so familiar to me.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “From your dreams, probably.”

Smooth. Annoyingly smooth.

You smirked back, refusing to let him win the moment. You were supposed to be the one in control here. The one pulling strings. But he was playing along a little too well.

“No—joke,” he said, leaning in slightly. “I mean, a lot of people mistake me for some Landon who cheated on Wizard Liz.”

You blinked.

Wait. What?

No way. No way he actually knew about that bizarre internet mess. That was deep TikTok drama. The kind of thing you only knew if you spent way too much time online, scrolling through chaotic storytimes and conspiracy threads at 2 a.m. And yet… he said it so casually. Like it was common knowledge. Like he’d been following the whole thing, too.

“Yeah… I think that’s it,” you said, nodding thoughtfully, pretending it all made perfect sense. “You’ve got that same energy. Real Landon vibes.”

He laughed, and you took another sip of your drink, hiding your grin behind the glass. You weren’t sure if he was messing with you or just weirdly well-informed. Either way, it was working. You were supposed to be throwing him off—but somehow, he kept surprising you.

And you kind of loved it.

You let out a dramatic sigh, swirling your glass just a little too hard, watching the liquid slosh dangerously close to the rim. And then—oops. In the most “accidental” way possible, you tipped it forward, sending a neat splash of red wine straight onto Lando’s crisp white shirt. It was a perfect hit. Right across the chest. A slow, blooming stain that spread like a watercolor painting. You gasped, loud and theatrical, already grabbing your napkin and flinging it at him like it might somehow undo the damage.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” you cried, pushing back your chair with a screech and jumping to your feet. You clutched your hands to your face, eyes wide, voice cracking like you were on the verge of tears. “I ruined your shirt! I can’t believe me!”

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and bolted toward the door, fake sniffles bubbling up in your throat, your heart pounding—not from guilt, but from the thrill of it. This was it. The first real move. The first real test. You imagined the chaos of the next ten days unfolding like a movie montage—awkward moments, weird lies, emotional sabotage. You were already halfway to the exit, ready to disappear in a cloud of fake shame, when—

You felt a hand close gently around your arm.

“Hey, hey—stop,” Lando said, his voice low and calm, not even a little annoyed. He pulled you back, not hard, just enough to make you pause. “It’s okay. Really. Don’t cry.”

You turned, blinking up at him, caught off guard. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t flustered. He wasn’t even looking at the wine stain. He was looking at you, like he actually cared. Like he believed you were upset and wanted to make it better.

Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to get annoyed. Embarrassed. Maybe even storm out. But instead, he was being… kind. Gentle. The exact opposite of what you’d planned for.

Just as you were about to protest—maybe tease him a little more, maybe push the conversation into slightly weirder territory—he tilted his head, eyes sparkling with something that looked dangerously close to hope.

“Hey… so, random and funny thing,” Lando said, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to play it cool. “I, uh… accidentally bought two tickets to the Monaco vs PSG match. Would you… maybe want to come with me?”

You blinked.

Accidentally bought two? Sure. Totally believable. Because people just accidentally buy extra tickets to one of the biggest football matches in the country. You stared at him for a second, trying to decide if he was bluffing or just bad at lying. Either way, it didn’t matter. The offer was real. The moment was real. And it was falling into your lap like the universe had skipped ahead in your ten-day plan and decided to speed-run the romance part.

Part of you wanted to scream. This was too easy. You hadn’t even pulled out the weird stories or the fake emotional breakdowns yet. And already he was inviting you to a second date. A public one. With crowds and noise and cameras. You could practically hear Hanna and Carol losing their minds.

But the other part of you—the part that knew how to play this game—kept your face calm, your voice breezy.

“Uh… sure,” you said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I guess I could… watch a football match. Why not?”

He lit up. Like you’d just handed him the moon. His grin was wide and boyish and way too sincere for someone who was supposed to be emotionally unavailable.

“Perfect! Tomorrow, then,” he said. “You’ll love it. It’s… actually really fun.”

You nodded, sipping your drink slowly, pretending to think about it like you hadn’t already started planning your outfit and your next sabotage move.

────────────

DAY TWO

The truth was… Lando had actually bought five tickets. Not two. Five. One for you, one for himself, and three for the chaos committee—Max, Oscar, and Charles. The plan was simple: they’d sit a few rows back, close enough to watch the match, but mostly there to keep an eye on things. On you. On him. On whatever this was turning into.

Now the four of them were outside the Stade Louis II, leaning against a low wall, the sun dipping low behind the stands. The air buzzed with the usual pre-match energy—fans shouting, vendors yelling, the smell of beer and hot dogs drifting through the air. But Lando barely noticed any of it. His head was still spinning from the night before.

“So…” Charles started, his voice full of mischief, “how was the date?”

Lando groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Somewhere between horrible and amazing.”

It was the only way he could describe it. The whole thing had been a mess—an actual mess. The lies he’d thrown out? Completely unplanned. He’d panicked. Said the first thing that came to mind. Mechanic. Pottery. Bicycles. He wasn’t even sure what story he’d told by the end of it. It was all a blur of fake jobs and weird jokes and you looking at him like you knew exactly what he was doing and were choosing not to say anything.

“Why’s that?” Max asked, grinning like he already knew the answer.

Lando shook his head, still half in disbelief. “She has no idea who I am,” he said. “Told her I’m… a mechanic.”

Oscar choked on his drink. Charles burst out laughing. Max just stared at him, eyebrows raised, clearly impressed.

Lando sighed, staring out at the stadium. “I don’t even know why I said it. She asked what I did and I just… panicked. It came out before I could stop it.”

And the worst part? You’d believed him. Or at least, you’d pretended to. You’d nodded like it made perfect sense, like you hadn’t already guessed something was off. And then you’d gone and made up your own job—something about finding lost socks—and he still wasn’t sure if you were joking or just completely unhinged.

But you’d said yes to football. You were coming tonight. And that meant something, didn’t it?

Lando leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, a small shake of his head giving away just how much he was still processing. “And also… she told me she’s never watched an F1 race,” he said, almost like he still couldn’t believe it. “So she probably doesn’t know any of you. Honestly, it’s safer than I thought.”

Max let out a loud laugh, tossing a peanut into his mouth like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week. “Oh, please. Everyone knows my name.”

“Yeah,” Charles cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Because of how fucking arrogant you are.”

Max didn’t miss a beat. “And you’re known by everyone thanks to your seven-year-long Ferrari depression,” he shot back, grinning.

Charles scoffed, but didn’t deny it.

Oscar groaned, rubbing his temples like he was the only adult in the room. “Can you two please be quiet? You sound like an old married couple.” He turned to Lando, eyes narrowing with interest. “I want to hear more about her.”

Lando hesitated for a second, then let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Her name’s Y/n,” he said, voice softer now. “She’s… a bit weird. Like, really weird. But mostly cute.”

He didn’t mean it as an insult. If anything, it was the opposite. There was something about the way you said things—so confidently, so casually—that threw him off in the best way. You didn’t try to impress him. You didn’t ask for anything. You just sat there, sipping your drink, making up stories about lost socks. And somehow, that had been the most fun he’d had in ages.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Weird how?”

Lando just shook his head, still smiling. “You kind of have to see it to get it.”

“You look like you’ve been daydreaming about her,” Max said, nudging Lando with his elbow and grinning like he already knew the answer. “Does Lando Norris have a crush?”

Lando scoffed, too fast, too loud. “Gosh, no,” he said, waving a hand like he was brushing the whole idea away. “It’s not like that.”

It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It was just the car. The thrill of knowing he could still pull someone without the name, the fame, the noise. Just him. Just a guy with a fake job and a half-baked lie and somehow, she’d still said yes. That was all it was. A little ego boost. A reminder that he didn’t need the spotlight to be interesting. That he could still be wanted without the helmet and the cameras.

“I just want the car,” he added, more firmly this time. Like saying it again would make it true.

Max raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying a word of it. “Uh-huh. Sure, mate. Totally just the car.”

“Lando,” Oscar said slowly, narrowing his eyes like he was piecing together a mystery on a whiteboard, “you like her.”

Lando’s head snapped up. “I don’t,” he said, way too fast. Too sharp. The kind of answer that only made it more obvious.

Oscar raised his eyebrows, clearly not buying it. Charles didn’t even look up from his drink. He just took a slow sip and added, “You do. You get that face.”

Lando frowned. “What face?”

“That face you make when Max starts talking about his sim results,” Oscar said, deadpan.

Max gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been personally attacked. “My sim results are important.”

Charles didn’t even blink. “No one’s arguing that, Max,” he said, still focused on Lando. “The concept of Lando Norris liking girl who doesn’t know who he is…insane.”

Lando opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because what was he supposed to say? That he didn’t care? That it was all part of some weird game? That he was just having fun?

Except… he wasn’t sure anymore.

You’d gotten under his skin faster than he expected. And now, with the boys looking at him like they’d already figured it out, he felt like the only one still pretending.

Lando opened his mouth, ready to deny it again—ready to insist, for the hundredth time, that he didn’t like you, that this was just a game, just a bit of fun—but then Oscar’s eyes went wide, like he’d just seen a ghost.

“Uh, guys? Incoming.”

Lando turned.

And there you were.

Walking toward the stadium entrance, eyes scanning the crowd, your steps steady but your expression just a little uncertain. And then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—you spotted them. Him. And you started walking straight toward them.

“Shit.”

Lando shot to his feet so fast Max actually blinked. His heart was suddenly racing, his palms weirdly sweaty, and he had no idea why he felt like he was about to be caught doing something illegal.

“Okay—be normal,” he muttered under his breath, eyes darting between his friends. “Stop smiling like that, you look stupid. Oscar, stop waving at her. Max—Max, stop breathing loudly. And for the love of God, don’t mention anything F1.”

“I’m literally just EXISTING,” Max hissed, offended.

Too late. You were already there.

You were walking straight toward them, and your heart was pounding. Not just fluttering—leaping. Like it had launched itself into your throat and was now trying to escape through your mouth. Because there they were. Not just Lando, but Oscar Piastri. Charles Leclerc. And Max motherfucking Verstappen.

Holy. Shit.

He brought them with him?

You tried to keep your face calm, but your brain was screaming. Max was hotter in real life. Stupidly hot. It was actually rude. And Charles? Even prettier than the internet made him out to be. Oscar looked like he’d just stepped out of a Netflix teen drama. And they were all just… there. Standing around like this was normal. Like this wasn’t the most surreal moment of your life.

And Lando—poor, clueless Lando—was standing in the middle of it all, looking like he was trying not to panic. He had no idea. No idea that Carol and Hanna were just a few steps behind you, phones already out, documenting every single detail. Every glance. Every awkward smile. Every second of this ridiculous, perfect disaster.

This was it.

The article was writing itself.

You turned on the sparkle like it was a performance, digging deep into your emotional catalog for the most over-the-top, painfully sweet smile you could manage. It was the kind of smile that belonged in a cheesy soap opera or a reality show reunion—big, bright, and completely fake. You practically skipped the last few steps toward him, arms already outstretched like you were running into the arms of a long-lost lover.

“Babyyy!!” you shrieked, throwing yourself at Lando like you hadn’t seen him in a decade. Like you’d survived a war, a shipwreck, and a dramatic love triangle just to be here now, in his arms.

For a second, his soul visibly left his body. You saw it in his eyes—the pure panic, the moment of hesitation, the silent scream. Max’s eyebrows shot into another dimension. Oscar made a choking sound even though he hadn’t been eating or drinking anything. Charles just stared, wide-eyed, like he was watching a car crash in slow motion and couldn’t look away.

And then—somehow—Lando played along.

He caught you, steadied you, and wrapped an arm around your back like this was something he did every day. Like you hadn’t just given him the biggest ick known to mankind. Like this wasn’t the most unhinged greeting he’d ever received in public. He held you like it was normal. Like it was fine.

“Hey, love,” he said, his voice cracking just a little at the edges, like it was trying to hold itself together with duct tape and hope. “Good to see you.”

You almost broke character. Almost. Because the fact that he was committing to this? That he was actually going along with it? It was ridiculous. It was stupid. It was kind of… adorable.

You pulled back just enough to cup his cheeks in both hands, tilting his face toward yours like you were about to burst into tears from joy. “Lan-Lan,” you said, dragging out the nickname with as much drama as you could, “I missed you sooo much.”

You didn’t even have to look to know Max was cringing. You could feel it radiating off him like heat. Oscar had turned away, probably to keep from laughing. Charles looked like he was one sarcastic comment away from collapsing to the ground.

And Lando—sweet, poor, flustered Lando—somehow kept smiling. Barely. His eyes were wide, his jaw tight, but he didn’t let go.

“Yeah,” he wheezed, patting your arm like he wasn’t sure if you were going to kiss him or stage a public proposal. “Missed you too.”

You beamed at him, heart pounding with the thrill of it all.

You turned your attention to the trio standing just behind Lando, letting your gaze sweep over them slowly, like you were sizing up a suspicious group of teenagers loitering outside a convenience store. Their expressions were… well, interesting, to say the least. Somewhere between startled and deeply uncomfortable. Like they’d just been caught doing something illegal and weren’t sure if they should run or smile.

“You brought your little friends with you?” you asked sweetly, voice dripping with mock horror. You clutched your chest like you were genuinely scandalized. “Lando, I thought this was our special day.”

All three of them froze.

Their eyes went wide, like you’d just accused them of a federal crime. Max looked like he was calculating how fast he could disappear. Charles blinked once—slow, suspicious, like he was trying to figure out if you were dangerous or just deeply unwell. Oscar looked like he wanted to melt into the pavement.

“Um… yeah,” Lando said, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly regretting every decision that had led to this moment. “But they won’t bother us much. They’ll sit somewhere else.”

You raised an eyebrow, giving the trio a long, slow once-over. These were the famous F1 drivers? The legends? The icons? Honestly, they looked less like elite athletes and more like a trio of overgrown Powerpuff Girls—one brooding, one smug, one already emotionally exhausted.

“Well, yeah,” Lando added awkwardly, gesturing toward them like he was introducing a school project group he didn’t pick. “This is Oscar, Charles, and Max.”

The boys did not look thrilled. Not even a little.

Max crossed his arms, jaw tight, clearly plotting revenge in real time. Charles gave you the slowest blink you’d ever seen, like he was trying to process your entire existence in one go. Oscar just shook his head, muttering under his breath, “This is going to be a disaster.”

“Let’s go, Lando,” you said, grabbing his arm like you’d done it a hundred times before and tugging him toward the stadium entrance. No hesitation, no looking back. Just full steam ahead into the next phase of chaos.

Behind you, Max’s voice rang out, loud and delighted. “Have fun, lovebirds!” he called, waving like a maniac, clearly enjoying every second of this trainwreck.

You leaned in close to Lando as you walked, lowering your voice just enough to make it feel like a secret. “Ugh… Oscar,” you whispered, wrinkling your nose. “Seriously. He looks like he hasn’t felt a single emotion in his life. Creepy, right?”

You expected him to flinch. To pull away. To get weird about it. You were talking trash about his best mate, after all. This was supposed to be the moment he started to question you. To feel the ick. To wonder what he was doing here.

But instead—he laughed.

A real laugh. Not forced. Not polite. Just a soft, surprised huff of amusement that made his shoulders shake a little.

“Yeah… he’s a little scary, isn’t he?” Lando said, grinning as he shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from emotionless men in black.”

You blinked at him, thrown off for a second. That wasn’t the reaction you were expecting. Not even close. You’d meant it as a jab. A little test. Something to make him uncomfortable. But he’d just… rolled with it. Turned it into a joke. Matched your energy without missing a beat.

And now you were stuck somewhere between mild annoyance and reluctant admiration. Because damn it, he was quick. And charming. And apparently not as easy to rattle as you’d hoped.

You and Lando found your seats—surprisingly good ones. Padded cushions, perfect view, close enough to see the players’ expressions but far enough to avoid beer spills. It made sense, really. Lando was absolutely terrible at pretending not to be rich. He could say “I’m just a mechanic” all he wanted, but the man booked seats like he had a black card and a personal assistant.

You settled in, smoothing your jacket, crossing your legs just so. You took a slow sip of your drink, letting the moment settle. The sun was warm, the crowd buzzing, and Lando was next to you, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. For a second, everything felt weirdly… calm.

Then you glanced over your shoulder.

And froze.

A few rows behind you—just far enough to pretend it was a coincidence, just close enough to ruin your life—sat Carol and Hanna. Your best friends. Your co-conspirators. Your chaos committee. Phones already out, eyes locked on you like hawks. You could practically feel the group chat exploding in real time.

And right next to them?

The Powerpuff Girls.

Max, Oscar, and Charles. All three of them. Sitting there like they were just regular guys, not international celebrities with faces you’d seen on billboards and magazine covers. Max looked like he was already bored. Oscar had his arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd like a security guard. Charles was sipping something fizzy, legs crossed, sunglasses on, giving off the energy of a man who had seen things and was not impressed.

Of course.

Because coincidence wasn’t just real—it was a vindictive little bitch with a flair for drama.

You turned back around slowly, heart pounding, brain already racing through backup plans. This was supposed to be a controlled environment. A simple, low-stakes outing. But now the stakes were sky-high, and the audience was stacked with people who knew exactly what you were doing.

You turned back to Lando slowly, narrowing your eyes like you were about to interrogate him under a spotlight. He was trying to look relaxed, legs stretched out, hands in his lap—but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly against his thigh.

“So tell me,” you said, leaning in just enough to make him nervous, “where exactly did a mechanic get the money for seats like these?”

He froze for half a second. Blinked. And then, like a switch had flipped, he pasted on the most painfully casual smile you’d ever seen. It was the kind of smile that screamed I’m lying and I know it but I’m hoping you’re too polite to call me out.

“Uh—well—they were on sale,” he said, voice cracking just a little at the end. “And, you know… anything to charm a girl like you.”

You stared at him.

Right. And you were the Queen of England.

He cleared his throat, clearly scrambling now, and gestured around with a little flourish that looked like it had escaped before he could stop it. “And besides,” he added, trying to sound breezy, “you’re in Monaco, love. Every seat here is nice.”

You raised an eyebrow, sipping your drink slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him sweat. Sure. Keep lying, little mechanic boy. Keep digging that hole.

Because the more he tried to sell the story, the more obvious it became that he had no idea how to lie properly. And honestly? It was kind of endearing. In a deeply chaotic, wildly suspicious, how-is-this-your-plan kind of way.

You straightened in your seat, trying to look like you were deeply analyzing the game—like you were one of those people who said things like “high press” and actually meant it. You nodded slowly, seriously, as if you were watching a chess match instead of a bunch of men chasing a ball.

“Ah… yes, yes,” you said, voice low and thoughtful. “So… if he passes here, then—oh! And look! The defense… they’re, um… not very… aggressive?”

Lando turned to look at you, blinking once. You could see the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he was clearly trying to hold it back. Failing, but trying.

“Uh… yeah… sure,” he said, nodding solemnly. “That’s… exactly what’s happening.”

You leaned in a little closer, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “I think if they just… like… kick it more… maybe… he’ll score? Or something. Totally strategic.”

That did it. He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re… adorable when you pretend to know football.”

You froze.

Adorable?

Seriously?

You were trying to be chaotic. Weird. Mildly annoying. You were trying to make him question every decision that had led him to this moment. And instead, he was looking at you like you’d just handed him a puppy and a warm blanket.

“Uh… thanks,” you muttered, suddenly flustered. “I totally know what I’m talking about. Obviously.”

He winked, all smug and sweet at once. “Obviously.”

You turned back to the field, cheeks warm, heart doing something it absolutely shouldn’t be doing. This was not the plan. You were supposed to be giving him the ick. Making him regret this whole thing.

Instead, he was smiling like he actually liked you.

Perfect.

Your plan? Failing. Spectacularly.

────────────

DAY THREE

“This shit is not working!” you shouted, storming across the living room like a CEO about to fire her entire board. Your arms flailed, your voice echoed, and your pacing was so aggressive it was a miracle the floor didn’t file a complaint.

On the couch, Hanna and Carol lounged like they were watching a nature documentary. Hanna was even eating chips, legs tucked under her like this was just another Tuesday. Monsters. Absolute monsters.

“Yesterday was a disaster,” you groaned, pressing a dramatic hand to your forehead like a Victorian woman about to faint. “The football match? Horrible. It started horrible. First of all—he brought the idiots with him.”

“Powerpuff Girls,” Carol corrected, completely serious, not even looking up from her phone.

“Yes. Them.” You pointed like you were naming suspects in a murder trial. “And then I turn around and see you two talking to the idiots.”

Hanna raised a hand, calm as ever. “Correction: we were not talking to them. They were talking to us. Big difference.”

Carol nodded, still scrolling. “Yeah. Max said he liked my earrings.”

You stared at them like they’d just committed treason. “Jesus Christ.”

But you didn’t stop pacing. You couldn’t. Your brain was on fire, your plan was in shambles, and your friends were acting like this was a casual brunch recap.

“Doesn’t matter,” you muttered, throwing your hands in the air. “None of it matters. Then I try to give him the ick—again—and he just smiles. Smiles! Like I’m adorable or some shit.”

Hanna snorted, reaching for another chip. “Maybe he thinks you’re adorable.”

You froze mid-step, eyes narrowing.

That was not the point.

That was exactly the opposite of the point.

“No! Don’t even mention this,” you groaned, flopping onto the couch like your soul had left your body. You threw an arm over your eyes for dramatic effect, already spiraling. “I literally tried everything.”

Hanna raised an eyebrow, calm as ever. “Everything?”

“Yes!” you cried, sitting up just to gesture wildly. “I fake cried. Twice. I told him I don’t watch F1. Shit-talked Oscar—his teammate—in front of him! Nothing! He just smiled. Is he… is he immune to stupidity?”

Carol snorted from the other end of the couch. “He is stupidity.”

You blinked at her, thrown. “What?”

Carol shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The more you act stupid, the more he plays along. He likes it.”

You let out a groan so loud it could’ve cracked glass. You flopped back again, arms splayed like you were auditioning for a tragic stage play. “No. No. No. That is not supposed to happen. That’s cheating. He’s cheating the system.”

Hanna popped a chip in her mouth, completely unbothered. “Maybe the system’s broken.”

You opened your mouth, ready to launch into the next chapter of your meltdown—something about how the universe was clearly conspiring against you—when—

“Y/n.”

You froze mid-breath.

Hanna froze, chip halfway to her mouth.

Carol froze with a mouthful of pretzels, eyes wide.

The three of you turned to each other in perfect sync, sharing one identical look of pure, unfiltered horror.

“…Please tell me that was the TV,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

“We’re not watching TV,” Hanna whispered back, eyes locked on yours.

Then it came again—louder this time, unmistakable:

“Y/N! COME DOWN!”

Your body snapped toward the window like someone had yanked an invisible string. You crept over, heart pounding, and slowly peeled back the curtain.

And there he was.

Lando Norris.

Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands shoved in his pockets. Helmet dangling casually from one wrist. And next to him? A tiny electric scooter that looked like it belonged to a twelve-year-old. It was bright red, slightly scuffed, and absolutely not the kind of vehicle a humble mechanic would be zipping around Monaco on.

You stared.

He looked up and spotted you instantly, grinning like this was a romcom and you were about to run down the stairs into his arms.

You, meanwhile, were dying. Actively. Internally combusting.

“WHAT DOES HE WANT?! HOW DOES HE EVEN KNOW WHERE I LIVE?!” you whisper-shouted, pacing the living room like a cat that had just had three shots of espresso. Your hands were flying, your heart was racing, and your brain was doing somersaults. This was not part of the plan. This was not supposed to happen.

“AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!” Hanna shouted back from the couch, just as dramatic, throwing her arms in the air like she was in a soap opera.

Carol, of course, was completely calm. She shrugged, still chewing on a pretzel. “He probably followed you home.”

You spun around to glare at her. “CAROL.”

She blinked. “What? It’s Monaco. Everything’s five minutes apart.”

You groaned, threw your hands up, and marched over to the window. With a deep breath, you leaned halfway out, trying to look casual even though your soul was screaming.

“Lanny, babyy!” you called, voice high and sweet and fake. “What are you doing here?!”

And then you froze.

Lanny? What the hell had just come out of your mouth? You didn’t even know where that nickname came from. Maybe—hopefully—it would finally give him the ick. Maybe he’d turn around and scooter away forever.

But no. Of course not.

Because there he was. Lando Norris. Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands in his pockets, helmet dangling from one wrist, next to a tiny red scooter. It was 11 PM. He was smiling like this was a perfectly reasonable time to show up uninvited.

“I was going by,” he said, grinning up at you, “and I thought I could take you for a ride… and ice cream?”

You squinted at him, trying to figure out if he was serious. “At 11 PM?”

He shrugged, lifting the helmet slightly. “Yeah. Midnight gelato. Best time of day.”

You stared at him.

Well, of course you agreed.

This man was going to ruin your life. And somehow, you were starting to think you might let him.

The scooter ride had been… a lot. Wind in your face, your hair whipping around like it had a personal vendetta, and Lando narrating the entire journey like he was hosting a motorsport documentary. “This corner’s perfect for leaning,” he’d said at least three times, like that meant anything to a normal person. Meanwhile, you were just trying not to scream or fall off the back of his ridiculous little scooter.

Eventually, you pulled up outside a tiny gelato shop tucked between two quiet buildings, its windows glowing soft and golden like something out of a fairy tale. Or a fever dream. Honestly, it could go either way.

You hopped off, brushing your hair out of your face, hands on your hips. Your brain was already spinning with possibilities. You needed a new tactic. Something bold. Something unhinged. Something that would finally make him back away slowly and question all his life choices.

Marriage.

Yes. That was it. Commitment. The ultimate ick. Lando Norris hated that stuff, right? Weddings, forever, matching bathrobes—probably his worst nightmare. Right up there with McLaren strategy meetings and running out of hair product.

You turned to him, gelato in hand, and went for it.

“Lanny! Guess what!” you said, voice high and bright and full of fake joy. “I already planned our wedding!”

You even held your gelato up like it was a bouquet. Cringe level: maximum. You were proud of it.

He blinked at you. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to think, Yes. This is it. He’s going to run.

But then—he grinned.

“No way, love,” he said, eyes sparkling. “That’s perfect!”

You froze mid-bite, spoon halfway to your mouth.

Perfect?

This was your third date. Third. And he was already playing along like you’d just told him you booked the venue and he was picking the cake. No hesitation. No weird look. Just… full commitment to the bit.

You stared at him, completely thrown.

This man was not playing fair.

You inhaled sharply, steeling yourself. Fine. If marriage didn’t scare him, you’d just have to take it up a notch. Go bigger. Weirder. Push the chaos to its limits.

“So!” you chirped, looping your arm through his as you strolled toward a little table outside the gelato shop. “The wedding theme is… Disney princesses.”

Lando stumbled a little, catching himself with a quick step. “Princesses?”

“Mm-hm,” you said, taking an exaggerated lick of your gelato like it was a royal decree. “I’ll arrive in a giant pumpkin carriage pulled by actual white horses. Real ones. With little flower crowns. And you—” you paused for dramatic effect, “—you’ll be in a sparkly blue tux. Like Cinderella. But, you know, the man-version.”

Lando blinked at you, clearly trying to picture it. “A blue tux? With sparkles?”

You nodded, dead serious. “And glass slippers. Obviously.”

He stared at you for a beat too long. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The slow backing away. But instead—

He snorted.

The man snorted.

Then he smiled, wide and warm, like you’d just told him the most charming thing he’d ever heard. “If it makes you happy,” he said, eyes dancing, “I’ll wear two pairs.”

You froze, spoon halfway to your mouth.

Two pairs?

Oh my god.

Was he… enjoying this?

This was supposed to be the moment he cracked. The moment he realized you were too much, too weird, too extra. But instead, he was grinning like he was already halfway to the altar, glass slippers and all.

You stared at him, heart thudding, brain short-circuiting.

You stared at him, completely baffled. This was it. Time for the nuclear option. If this didn’t send him running, nothing would.

“And our honeymoon?” you said sweetly, like you hadn’t just declared emotional war.

He raised an eyebrow, playful. “Oh? Where are we going, Mrs. Norris?”

Mrs. Norris.

You nearly dropped your gelato. The spoon wobbled in your hand. Your brain short-circuited for a full second. That name should’ve made you gag. Instead, it made your stomach do something deeply inconvenient.

“Hawaii,” you said, recovering fast. “But not the pretty honeymoon part. The volcano part. I want us to take couple photos in front of lava. Like, actual lava. Bubbling. Dangerous. Symbolic.”

Lando paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The what is wrong with you look.

But no.

He nodded, completely serious. “Lava’s romantic. Warm lighting.”

You choked. “Warm lighting?!”

He just smiled, soft and easy, and scooped another spoonful of gelato—then held it out to you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he wasn’t supposed to be running for his life right now.

You stared at him, stunned. Melting faster than the gelato in your hand.

This was supposed to be sabotage. A slow, strategic unraveling. But instead, it was turning into something else entirely.

────────────

DAY FOUR

Somehow, Lando had found out you really liked art. Not just “likes pretty pictures” liked it, but the kind of like where you could spend hours in a gallery, quietly walking from one painting to the next, letting the colors and brushstrokes sink into your chest. You never told him that. Not directly. And yet, here you were—walking into a gallery with soft lighting and quiet music, your hand tucked into his like it belonged there.

It was thoughtful. Suspiciously thoughtful. Because Lando didn’t exactly scream “art guy.” His idea of creative expression started and ended with the design of his race helmets. And yet, he’d brought you here. To this place. With its white walls and whispered conversations and paintings that made your heart ache in the best way. You had no idea how he knew. It almost felt like he’d read a listicle about you. “Top 25 Things Y/n Loves.” If anyone else had done that, it would’ve been creepy. But when it was Lando? It was… weirdly flattering. Dangerous, even.

You walked through the gallery hand in hand, and it was soft in a way that made your chest feel tight. The kind of soft that made strangers smile at you. The kind of soft that felt like a photo someone would take and keep forever. But Lando? He stuck out like a sore thumb dipped in neon paint. He looked completely out of place—like a man trying to read a menu in a language he didn’t speak, hoping the pictures would help. His eyes darted from painting to painting, his head tilted like he was trying to understand what made them special. It was obvious he didn’t get it. But he was trying. For you.

And that? That was dangerously hot.

You stopped in front of a massive Monet. The colors were soft and glowing, like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from. Blues and greens and gentle reflections, water lilies floating like they were made of light. It made something shift in your chest. Something quiet and warm and a little overwhelming.

Lando squinted at the corner of the painting, leaning in slightly. “Wow… Monet, huh?”

You glanced at him, lips twitching. At least he could read.

But when you looked closer, you saw it—the way he was watching you, not the painting. Like he was trying to figure out what you saw in it. Like he wanted to understand, even if he didn’t.

You nodded, relieved to be on familiar ground. “Yes! One of the greats. Impressionism. Emotion. Atmosphere. He basically reinvented how people saw the world—how they painted light, movement, feeling—”

“I could totally do that myself,” Lando said.

You gasped so loudly it echoed off the gallery walls. An elderly couple turned around, startled. A security guard glanced over. Somewhere, you were sure Monet rolled in his grave.

“I’m serious,” Lando said, completely unfazed, hands on his hips like he was inspecting a construction site. “Give me five minutes, a sponge, and some paint, and—boom—same thing.”

Your hands flew to your chest like you’d just been personally attacked. “Are you comparing yourself to MONET?!”

He shrugged. Shrugged. Like he hadn’t just committed art blasphemy in public. “What? It’s just… blurry flowers.”

You stared at him, mouth open, heart pounding, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or drag him out by the collar. But then he looked at you with that stupid grin, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d said it just to get a rise out of you. And damn it, it was working.

“BLURRY—” you gasped, clutching your chest like you’d just been stabbed. “Blurrrrry FLOWERS?! Lando, that’s Water Lilies. That’s history. That’s emotion. That’s art.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just raised one eyebrow, calm and smug, like he was about to win a debate he hadn’t studied for. “Looks like flowers having an identity crisis to me.”

You stared at him, stunned. You could actually feel your soul leaving your body. Packing its bags. Booking a one-way flight. Waving goodbye.

“You can’t even draw a straight line, baby,” you snapped, turning to glare at him like he’d just insulted your entire bloodline.

He shrugged. Shrugged. With the kind of confidence only a man who had never been humbled by a blank canvas could pull off. “If I actually put effort into it, it’d be way better.”

Oh.

Oh, perfect.

A beautiful opportunity had just fallen into your lap. A chance for public humiliation. A dramatic scene. The kind of moment that would live in his memory forever, filed under reasons to never date Y/n again.

The ultimate ick delivery system.

Your plan?

Back on track.

And this time, you were going to make sure he regretted ever doubting Monet.

“Better?” you repeated, voice low and dangerous, eyes narrowing like you were about to put him on trial. “You think you could do better than Monet?”

Lando lifted one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, hands tucked into his pockets like this was a casual chat about breakfast options. “I mean… yeah? If I tried hard enough.”

You let out a laugh so loud it echoed through the gallery. Two old ladies turned around, scandalized. One of them clutched her pearls. The other narrowed her eyes like she was ready to defend Monet’s honor with her handbag.

Amazing. Perfect. A crowd.

Exactly what you needed.

“OH! OH REALLY?!” you cried, stepping back and throwing your arms wide like you were about to deliver a Shakespearean monologue. “YOU think you could paint something better than WATER LILIES?!”

Lando blinked at the sudden attention, clearly clocking the small audience now watching your meltdown like it was performance art. But instead of backing down, he just smiled, cool as ever. “Well, yeah. Not saying I will, just saying I could.”

You slapped your forehead with a dramatic groan, staggering back like his words had physically wounded you.

The old ladies gasped in unison.

A child nearby giggled, delighted.

And Lando?

Still standing there, smug and unbothered, like he hadn’t just committed artistic blasphemy in public.

“HE THINKS HE CAN OUT-PAINT MONET!” you shouted, voice echoing through the gallery as you pointed at Lando like he was a medieval criminal awaiting judgment. Heads turned. A security guard looked mildly alarmed. Somewhere in the distance, a docent paused mid-tour.

Lando just smiled, hands lifted in mock surrender, like he was being arrested for stealing hearts. “Okay, okay. Calm down, darlin’.”

Darlin’.

Oh. New nickname unlocked. But no. He wasn’t getting off that easy.

“No!” you snapped, arms crossing with dramatic flair. “No calming down. Do you even understand how insulting this is to me? I bring you to Monet—MONET—and you say… ‘blurry flowers’?!”

“I stand by it,” he said, completely calm, like he wasn’t actively committing art treason in front of witnesses.

You gasped, loud and theatrical, like you’d just been told your favorite childhood pet was a lie. “You know what?” you said, stepping closer, voice dropping into something serious and dangerous. “This is serious.”

Lando tilted his head, eyes soft and steady. “Serious?”

“SERIOUS,” you said, stepping closer like you were about to deliver life-changing news. You lowered your voice, slow and dramatic, like a doctor in a movie. “I think… we need couples therapy.”

There was a sharp gasp from the couple standing nearby. Someone behind you whispered, “No way…” like they were watching a soap opera unfold in real time.

But Lando?

He didn’t even blink.

He just nodded, calm as ever. “Alright,” he said, like you’d just suggested grabbing coffee. “If that’s what you want, yeah. We can totally do it.”

You stared at him, completely thrown. “I—what?”

“We can do couples therapy,” he repeated, voice gentle, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “If it’ll help you feel better.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your brain made that weird crashing sound, like an old computer freezing mid-task. You could almost hear the error message pop up in your head. System overload. Please restart.

“What—Lando, we’re not— I mean, it’s been—” You stopped yourself just in time. You were about to blow the whole thing. The fake relationship. The sabotage plan. The carefully crafted chaos.

But then he reached out, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. Soft. Steady. Like he meant it.

“Whatever you need, love,” he said, eyes warm. “I’m in.”

Your mouth fell open. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even think. Because what the actual fuck was happening? How was he not running? How was he not even confused?

Was he immune to everything? Or—worse—was he playing you at your own game?

Because if this was reverse psychology, it was working. And if it wasn’t… you were in serious trouble.

Your heart was doing something it absolutely should not be doing.

And your plan?

Yeah. It was falling apart in the most terrifying, wonderful way.

────────────

DAY FIVE

The therapist—poor, unsuspecting woman—looked between you and Lando with the exact expression of someone who had just realized they’d walked into a live minefield wearing flip-flops. Her smile was polite, but her eyes were already scanning for exits. She folded her hands gently in her lap, trying to keep things calm. “So,” she said, voice soft and careful, “what brings you two here today?”

You took a deep, dramatic breath, like you were about to deliver a monologue. Lando, meanwhile, sat beside you like he’d been preparing for this moment his entire life. One leg crossed over the other, completely relaxed, like this was just another casual stop on his calendar. He looked like the kind of man who thought therapy was a fun little bonding activity. You, on the other hand, were ready to burn the room down.

“Where do I begin?” you said, throwing your hands up like the weight of your fake relationship was too much to bear. “There’s a lot wrong.”

Lando nodded, serious as ever. “We’re very complex.”

You turned to glare at him. He just smiled back, soft and golden and infuriating, like a golden retriever who’d just chewed up your favorite shoes but still expected a cuddle. It was impossible to stay mad at him, which only made you more mad.

The therapist blinked, clearly trying to keep up. “Alright… maybe start with something specific?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Monet.”

Lando let out a quiet groan beside you, already sensing where this was going. “Oh, come on—”

“No,” you said, cutting him off, leaning forward like you were about to present evidence in a courtroom. “Because I need you to understand this. He pointed at Water Lilies—WATER. LILIES.—and called it ‘blurry flowers.’”

You could feel your heart rate rising just thinking about it again. The betrayal. The audacity. The complete lack of respect for one of the greatest artists in history. And Lando? He just sat there, looking mildly amused, like this was all part of some inside joke you hadn’t been let in on.

You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that he’d said it, or the fact that he still didn’t seem sorry.

And the therapist?

She looked like she was starting to regret her career choices.

Lando shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s objectively true. They were blurry.”

You slapped your hand over your face, dragging it down slowly like you were trying to physically hold in your soul before it escaped your body.

“And!” you said, voice rising again as you pointed at him like you were building a case in front of a jury. “He genuinely believes he could paint better than Monet if he—” you made air quotes with your fingers, “—‘put effort into it.’”

The therapist turned to Lando slowly, like she was bracing herself for whatever nonsense might come next. “Do you truly believe that?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought for a second. Then, with the confidence of a man who had never once been told no in his life, said, “…Yes?”

You gasped so hard it felt like your lungs had collapsed. “SEE?! He’s delusional!”

Lando reached over and patted your knee like you were the one who needed comforting. “It’s okay to be intimidated by my artistic potential.”

You stared at him, stunned. The therapist cleared her throat, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Right… okay… let’s maybe explore other areas of concern?”

“Oh, fantastic,” you said, sitting up straighter, ready for round two. “His friends.”

Lando perked up, suddenly alert. “What about my friends?”

“Everything,” you said, waving your hand like you were listing off crimes. “Max is terrifying. Charles is too beautiful—it’s offensive, honestly. And Oscar? Oscar looks like a man who hasn’t felt a single emotion since 2017.”

Lando choked on air, coughing as he tried to speak. “That’s so rude—”

“I’m not done,” you said, holding up a finger like a warning sign. “The real issue is that you’re basically in love with them. All of them. But mostly Oscar.”

The therapist blinked, then turned to Lando again, her voice cautious. “Are you… romantically involved with Oscar?”

Lando sputtered, eyes wide. “WHAT? No! He’s just my—he’s not even emotional enough for romance—”

“Ah!” you said, pointing at him like you’d just cracked the case wide open. “Defensiveness. Classic sign.”

The therapist, bless her, didn’t even flinch. She just nodded and scribbled something down in her notebook, probably under a heading like delusional couple, possibly unhinged.

Lando turned to you with a soft glare, the kind that said he was trying very hard not to laugh. “I am not in love with Oscar.”

The therapist turned to you next, her voice calm and curious. “And why do you feel he acts… ‘too in love’?”

You crossed your arms, settling into your seat like you were about to deliver a TED Talk. “Because,” you said, slow and serious, “he looks at me with the same face he looks at Oscar with. And that is not comforting.”

Lando groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “That is just my face.”

“Exactly,” you said, like you’d just won the argument.

The therapist nodded again, thoughtful. “And how does that make you feel?”

You opened your mouth, ready to launch into a dramatic answer about emotional neglect and facial ambiguity—

But Lando beat you to it.

“Very loved,” he said softly, “I hope.”

You froze.

Just for a second.

Because the way he said it—quiet, honest, like he meant it—hit you somewhere you weren’t expecting. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug. It was just… real.

And suddenly, all your fake complaints and dramatic gestures felt a little too close to something true.

You didn’t know what to say.

The therapist smiled like she was watching her favorite slow-burn romance unfold in real time. Like she was already planning to tell her coworkers about this session over lunch. Fantastic. Completely useless.

Your heart did a stupid little flip at the look on Lando’s face—soft, steady, like he meant every word he hadn’t even said yet. You crushed the feeling immediately. Sat on it. Smothered it. Set it on fire. This was not the time.

“ANYWAY,” you said, louder than necessary, trying to drag the conversation back to safer, more chaotic ground. “He also acts like he’s already in love with me. Which is weird. And suspicious. And wrong.”

Lando just shrugged, like you’d pointed out the weather. “Can’t help it.”

You nearly slipped off the damn chair.

The therapist turned to him with that warm, encouraging gaze that made you want to throw a pillow at her. “And Lando, how do you feel about what she’s saying?”

He didn’t pause. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t even blink.

“I love her,” he said, voice low and sure. “And I want her to believe it. There’s no one else. Especially not Oscar.”

You stared at him.

Because there was no smirk. No teasing glint in his eye. No wink to let you know he was still playing the game. Just… honesty. Like he’d peeled something open and handed it to you without asking if you wanted it.

The therapist, still clearly recovering from the “no one else except Oscar” revelation, folded her hands with the kind of calm that only made things feel more chaotic. She tilted her head, voice gentle, like she was asking something simple. Harmless.

“And… how long have you two been dating?”

You opened your mouth.

Lando opened his at the exact same time.

“Five days—” you said.

“Three months—” he said.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Even the potted plant in the corner seemed to lean away from the tension.

You turned to him so fast your neck cracked. “THREE MONTHS?!”

Lando blinked at you, wide-eyed and innocent, like he hadn’t just detonated a lie in the middle of a therapy session. “It feels like three months,” he said softly, with a little shrug. “Time moves differently when you’re in love.”

You stared at him, completely thrown. Your brain was trying to reboot, but the loading wheel was spinning uselessly. This man was lying. Boldly. Casually. With a straight face and a soft voice and a look that said I’d do it again.

The therapist, meanwhile, looked like she was watching the final scene of her favorite romance movie. She clasped her hands tighter, eyes practically glowing. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”

Beautiful?

Beautiful?!

What the actual fuck was this man’s plan?

Because if this was still fake, he was terrifyingly good at it.

And if it wasn’t…

You were in so much trouble.

© verstarris 2025

babs radio ! I’d love to dedicate this one to @zariacore in the honor of lando winning the 2025 championship 🩵. What a weekend. If you told me in 2022 he will fight for wdc instead of points, I’d laugh in your face… times change! Anyway, this is only part 1 of 2. I did not in fact start writing the other half🫣 but please be patient, two weeks before Christmas in school are pure hell lol.

He gave you that lopsided grin, the one that always sat just shy of confident when it was directed at you. “Hey. Dropping these off before Henderson scratches them. I swear he puts the tapes in the VCR with the same enthusiasm he has for summoning demodogs.” He lifted a paper bag full of rentals and offered it out.

You stepped aside to let him in, taking the bag but not before his fingers brushed yours. The contact sent a flick of warmth up your arm, not the dramatic kind that makes people gasp in books, but the kind that catches quietly under your ribs. You weren’t sure if he noticed, but his hand pulled away a little quicker than necessary.

Dustin shouted something from the back room, loud enough to rattle the vents. Steve huffed a laugh and nudged the door closed behind him as he walked into the living room. He kicked his shoes off like he’d done it a thousand times, because he had. This place had become familiar to him. You’d become familiar to him. And somehow that knowledge warmed you more than the afternoon sun slanting across the carpet.

He flopped onto the couch, elbows over the back, letting his head fall back dramatically. “I swear, every time I pick something up from Family Video, Kline shows up to yell about our shelving. Every time. Like I chose the shelving. Like I personally installed the shelving.” He peeked at you through the fall of his hair, the grin returning. “Anyway. I figured you might need something new to watch, unless Dustin has you trapped in one of his weird sci-fi marathons.”

You settled on the other end of the couch, cross-legged, the tapes set between you. “It’s not that weird,” you said softly, though the smile gave you away. “And you survived the marathons, too.”

“Barely.” He let out a dramatic sigh, then let the act falter as he turned to face you fully. His knee brushed yours in a way that felt almost accidental but never quite was when it came from him. He always hovered near you—not close enough to overwhelm, but close enough that you felt seen. You’d gotten used to it. Maybe too used to it.

There was something different in his face today, something you couldn’t place. Not nerves exactly, but something halfway between steady and uncertain. His gaze lingered on you longer than normal before shifting to the tapes in your lap. “You find anything good?”

Your fingers drifted over the covers without thinking. “Trying to. He mixed everything up again. I’m pretty sure one of these cases has two different movies shoved in it.”

“Classic Henderson,” Steve murmured, but he didn’t seem focused on the tapes anymore. His eyes had softened in a way that made your pulse stumble. He looked like he was about to say something—something real, something heavy enough that he hesitated. “Hey, I was actually gonna—”

Dustin barreled into the hallway, a crash of sound and limbs. “Steve! You’re here! Good, because I figured out what was wrong with the antenna, and you have to see it, it’s so sick—”

Steve deflated in an instant, head dropping back against the couch. The moment snapped like it had never been there at all. Dustin launched himself into the room, completely oblivious, waving a broken piece of metal dangerously close to Steve’s face.

Steve sat up with a tight smile, rubbing his hands over his jeans like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. You felt the shift, that soft invisible thread between you pulled taut before disappearing entirely. He shot you a glance—quick, almost apologetic—before catching whatever Dustin was waving at him. “Okay, okay, dude, relax before you impale me. What’d you do now?”

Dustin launched into an enthusiastic explanation, words tumbling over each other. Steve tried to look interested. Mostly, he looked like a man who’d been shoved out of a doorway he’d just worked up the courage to walk through.

You sat quietly beside him, listening to your brother ramble, but your attention kept drifting back to Steve. It was in the set of his shoulders, the unfinished words still lingering behind his eyes. He’d been trying to tell you something. And whatever it was, he wasn’t done trying.

You weren’t sure what would happen when he finally managed to get you alone long enough to say it. But for the first time in a long time, the thought didn’t scare you. It sent that same gentle warmth rising in your chest—the kind you didn’t quite know how to name yet, but couldn’t ignore anymore.

---

The ride home from the Wheelers’ had always been a cramped, loud, chaotic experience, mostly because Dustin treated the back seat like a moving laboratory. Tonight was no different—he’d tossed a backpack stuffed with papers, wires, and half-built gadgets across the seat before climbing in, muttering about how he needed to reorganize everything “for efficiency.” Steve had glanced at you in the driveway with a weary, amused smile that told you he already regretted offering the ride, but he’d unlocked the car anyway. He always did.

You slid into the passenger seat and buckled in while Dustin slammed the back door shut with enough force to make Steve wince. Once everyone was settled, Steve started the car, the headlights cutting through the warm, late-evening haze that hovered over the quiet street. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the summer air, and you rested your hands in your lap, feeling that comfortable, familiar tension settle between you and Steve—the kind that was never unpleasant, only warm and awkward in a way you’d grown used to.

He glanced over as he pulled away from the curb. “So. Did you guys have fun or did you suffer through another round of Wheeler Monopoly hell?”

The question was casual, but the look he slid you was not. It lingered, soft at the corners, a little nervous in the middle. You felt the weight of it press lightly beneath your ribs. “It wasn’t that bad,” you said quietly. “Dustin tried to cheat four times.”

“Hey!” Dustin snapped from the back seat. “Three times. The fourth doesn’t count because the rulebook didn’t specify—”

“It absolutely specified, dude,” Steve said, shaking his head. “It’s a published game. There are rules. You can’t just invent your own stock market mid-round.”

“I was innovating,” Dustin insisted, already rummaging for something in his bag.

Steve exhaled through a laugh and shot another glance your way. He always did that—threw his jokes toward the air, but aimed his eyes at you, as if checking whether you were smiling. And you were, even if you looked down to hide it.

The road curved toward your neighborhood, streetlamps drifting past in golden streaks. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Steve tap his fingers nervously on the wheel, like he was working himself up to something. His shoulders were tight, his jaw flexing softly the way it did when he was trying to gather courage without drawing attention.

After a moment of silence, he tried again. “Listen, I—” He cleared his throat. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Actually, not tell you, more like… ask you? Or maybe—”

Dustin leaned forward between the seats so suddenly that both you and Steve flinched. “Okay, so imagine this,” he said, breathless with excitement, waving a notebook near Steve’s face. “If I rewire the antenna and get the gain up by just, like, one decibel—”

“Dude, hold on,” Steve said, swatting the notebook away gently. He tried to keep his voice even, but you could hear the frustration simmering underneath. “I’m talking.”

“You weren’t saying anything important yet.”

“I was literally in the middle of talking!”

“To me,” Dustin corrected smugly. “You weren’t saying anything interesting to me.”

Steve inhaled slowly through his nose, gripping the wheel like it might keep him grounded. You bit the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing, because you could see the exact moment he abandoned his almost-confession and resigned himself to Dustin’s rambling.

“Just… go back to whatever you were doing back there,” Steve muttered.

“You mean saving science? Already on it.” Dustin retreated to the back seat and immediately started scribbling again.

Steve let out a long, slow breath, the kind he usually saved for demobat stories or Customer Service Nightmares at Family Video. He didn’t look at you yet. You didn’t look at him either. The interrupted moment hung between you, fragile and obvious.

When he finally risked a side glance, the faintest smile tugged at his mouth—a mix of embarrassment and something softer. “Anyway,” he said quietly, “I was just gonna ask if you, uh… had a good time tonight.”

He’d changed his wording at the last second. You heard it. You wondered if he knew you heard it. “I did,” you murmured, letting your gaze settle on him. “It was nice.”

That small smile of his grew a little, warming the dim car. He was about to say something else—you saw the breath he pulled in, the shift of his shoulders—but Dustin cut him off again. “Steve, turn left! You missed the shortcut!”

“It’s literally two minutes longer,” Steve snapped. “Two minutes! We’re talking blocks, man, not a cross-country trip.” You stifled another laugh. Steve shot you an exhausted, pleading look before turning onto the familiar street. When he parked outside your house, he put the car in park but didn’t immediately shut off the engine. His fingers tapped the wheel again, a restless rhythm. “Hey,” he tried once more, turning slightly in his seat. “I wanted to—”

“Steve, can you help me carry my stuff!?” Dustin bellowed as he launched himself out of the back seat, already grabbing for the door to your house. “I need both hands and probably yours too!”

Steve sagged back against his seat like someone had deflated him. He dragged a hand down his face, muttering something that sounded like a plea for mercy.

You reached for the door handle, hesitating for just a heartbeat. “You can tell me whatever it was later,” you said, voice soft enough that only he would hear.

His eyes found yours again. Whatever he’d been trying to say was still there, simmering just under the surface. A slow smile curved onto his lips, small but genuine. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Later.”

You stepped out of the car, the warm summer air brushing your face. Dustin yelled your name from the porch. Steve groaned, climbed out of the driver’s side, and shot you one last look before going to help your brother.

It wasn’t the confession he’d wanted to give you. But it was coming—you could feel it. And judging by the way he watched you walk toward the house, he wasn’t giving up yet.

---

Family Video was quiet in that late-afternoon way that made the fluorescent lights buzz louder than any customer ever could. The aisles were empty, the return bin was half-full, and Steve was leaning over the counter like a man whose soul had been wrestled out of his body. He kept folding and unfolding the same tape return slip, eyes unfocused, jaw set in that defeated angle that Robin recognized instantly. She flicked a pen cap at his shoulder. “Okay, what’s with the tragic slouch? Did someone rent all the good horror movies again, or are you just being dramatic for attention?”

Steve didn’t look up. He just made a noise that could’ve meant many things: frustration, embarrassment, existential collapse. Robin sighed, circled around the counter, and planted herself across from him with the posture of someone preparing for an interrogation. “Talk,” she demanded, snapping her fingers in front of his face.

He swatted her hand away. “Stop. I’m not a dog.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she muttered. “Now spill it. Your energy today is… weird. And not the usual ‘I’m pretty but tired’ weird. This is ‘something happened and I’m repressing it like a coward’ weird.”

Steve groaned, then let his forehead drop onto the counter with an audible thunk. “I tried to talk to her again.”

Robin perked up instantly. “Oh! Finally! Great! So what’d you say? Did you ask her out? Did you actually form a full sentence? Did you—”

“I didn’t get that far,” he mumbled into the countertop. “Dustin wouldn’t shut up.”

Robin blinked once. “Like… interrupting you?”

“Like climbing over the front seat of my car with a notebook to show me a sketch of an antenna while I was trying to confess my feelings.” Steve lifted his head, eyes hollow with dramatic suffering. “It was like being attacked by a hyperactive raccoon.”

Robin snorted so hard she almost choked. “God, that’s beautiful. Horrible. Hilarious. But mostly horrible.”

“Thank you for your support,” he said dryly.

“Oh, I’m supporting you,” she assured, tapping the counter rhythmically. “Just not your terrible strategy. You need to stop trying to talk to her when Dustin is within a three-mile radius. He’s like a tiny tornado with opinions.”

Steve pushed his hair back with both hands. “I know, I know. I just thought maybe he’d… I don’t know, fall asleep? Or get distracted? Or explode?”

“He’s Dustin,” Robin reminded him, eyebrows raised. “He gets more energized as the day goes on. By midnight he’s seconds away from achieving orbital lift.”

Steve sighed again and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed tight. “I just… I’m not good at this stuff, okay? She’s not like those other girls I used to date. I don’t want to rush it or freak her out.”

“That’s sweet,” Robin said. “But also incredibly stupid.”

He glared at her. “How is that stupid?”

“Because you’re overthinking it, dingus,” she said, flicking his forehead as punishment. “She already likes you.”

Steve froze, blinking. “She—she does?”

“Oh my god.” Robin pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. “You’re helpless. You’re actually helpless.”

“That’s not an answer!” he hissed.

Robin dropped her hands and stared him down, speaking slowly for maximum effect. “She. Likes. You.”

Steve stared back, a flush creeping up the side of his neck. “You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely do.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “You get all flustered and stupid around her, and she gets all quiet and wide-eyed around you. It’s like watching two baby deer try to merge onto a highway.”

Steve let out a despairing noise. “I can’t believe you compared me to a deer.”

“Oh, you’re both deer,” she insisted. “Deer in love. Pathetic. Adorable. Infuriatingly slow.”

He ran a hand over his face again, groaning. “I just… I want it to be the right moment. And every time it almost is—”

“Dustin blows it,” Robin finished. “Because that kid has zero awareness of anything except science and snacks.”

Steve laughed, but it was tired around the edges. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Robin planted her hands on her hips like she was about to deliver a lecture. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to ask her out. Soon. Not ‘eventually’ or ‘when the universe aligns.’ Soon. Before Dustin adopts you into his personal schedule for the week.”

“I’m working on it,” he insisted.

“No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re waiting for signs and moments and dramatic lighting. What you need to do is open your mouth and say, ‘Hey, I like you. Want to go out?’”

Steve looked deeply scandalized. “That’s—no, that’s too blunt. I can’t just say it like that.”

“Well, you definitely can’t say it while Henderson is crawling on the car seat like a feral goblin.”

“Okay, that’s fair.”

Robin leaned her elbows against the counter, eyeing him closely. “Be honest. Are you scared because she’s quiet?”

He hesitated before nodding once. “I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. She’s been through… a lot. We all have, but she… you know.”

Robin softened. “Yeah. I get it. But trust me, she’s not scared of you. She’s scared of… saying the wrong thing. Or being too much. Or not enough. You two speak in the same dialect.”

Steve’s breath stalled at that, chest tightening with something warm and nervous. “So… what do I do?”

“What I’ve been telling you from the start.” Robin shrugged, smirking. “Ask her out, dingus.”

The bell above the door chimed as a customer wandered in, and Robin gave Steve one last pointed look before heading into the aisle to help. Steve stayed behind the counter, resting both palms flat on its surface, grounding himself. He took a deep breath and whispered to no one, “Okay. Ask her out. I can do that. I can do that.”

But even as he said it, he already knew one thing for sure: if Dustin showed up again, this plan didn’t stand a chance. And somehow, that made him smile anyway.

---

The Henderson garage always smelled faintly like dust, motor oil, and whatever science experiment Dustin had last abandoned on the workbench. That afternoon, the air was warm enough that the open door let in a slow spill of sunlight, brightening the cluttered space in strips. You stood beside one of the folding tables, sorting through the mess of screws and wires Dustin had dumped out “for easier access,” which, in reality, only made everything harder to find.

Steve hovered nearby with a half-hearted attempt at organization. He picked up tools, put them down, nudged wires into a neater line, and occasionally wiped his palms on his jeans like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. You noticed the way he kept drifting closer, every few seconds glancing at the house as if waiting for an opening that hadn’t come yet.

Dustin had barreled inside moments earlier shouting something about a “crucial component” and promising to return quickly. Experience had taught you that “quickly” usually meant at least fifteen minutes. The sudden silence left the garage feeling strangely private, a pocket of quiet neither of you were used to sharing without your brother’s voice filling it.

Steve leaned a hip against the table, crossing his arms loosely. “You’d think for someone so obsessed with organization, he’d, I don’t know… actually organize things.”

A soft laugh slipped out of you before you could hide it. “He says he has a system.”

“Yeah, well, his system is ‘pile everything in the same place and pray.’”

You didn’t mean to meet his eyes, but when you did, the warmth there caught you off guard. He smiled—not the big, charming grin he saved for customers or jokes, but the smaller one he used when it was just you. Something quieter, something that made your stomach tug downward and your breath lift higher at the same time.

For a moment you thought he might look away. Instead he took a step closer, letting his fingers trail lightly over the table until they stopped near yours. He didn’t touch you, but the space between you shrank until it was impossible not to feel the gravity of him. “Hey,” he said softly, more serious now, “can I ask you something?”

Your pulse jumped. He didn’t try to hide the nerves this time—his voice was careful, his eyes steady but uncertain, like he was testing thin ice. You tucked a loose screw back into the tray just to have something to do, but you nodded. “Yeah. What is it?”

Steve drew in a slow breath, shoulders rising, then dropping. He shifted so he was standing directly across from you now, close enough that you felt his warmth even through the small distance. “I’ve been… trying to find the right moment to say this. Probably overthinking it. Definitely overthinking it,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But every time I try, something happens, and then I lose the nerve, and—”

He stopped, hands falling to his sides. His gaze flicked to your lips before returning to your eyes, almost apologetically, like the glance had slipped out by accident. “I really like—”

He didn’t get the rest out because Dustin slammed the back door open so hard it ricocheted off the wall with a loud crack. “Found it!” he shouted triumphantly.

Steve jolted back like someone had yanked him by the collar. You startled, the sound hitting you like a small explosion in the otherwise quiet garage.

Dustin sprinted inside with a fistful of random parts, not noticing the way Steve took two hasty steps backward or the way your breath had caught halfway up your throat. He launched straight into an explanation, words tumbling over each other at impossible speed.

“Okay, okay, okay, so remember last week when the signal strength dropped? I swear it wasn’t my fault, but I triple-checked, and it turns out the grounding was off by like a millimeter, but I fixed it, and then I realized if we attach this—this right here—” He shoved the piece of metal inches from Steve’s face. Steve blinked rapidly, stunned, trapped in the whirlwind of Dustin’s enthusiasm. “—then the whole thing works even better! Isn’t that awesome?”

“Yeah,” Steve croaked, the word paper-thin. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah, buddy. That’s—uh. Great.”

Dustin looked between the two of you, oblivious to the tension he’d vaporized. “Come on, we have to test it. Steve, you hold the end with the clamp. And don’t drop it this time.”

You watched as Dustin pulled Steve by the wrist toward the other table. Steve threw you a look over his shoulder—a silent, desperate I was so close—before letting himself be dragged into whatever experiment Dustin was constructing.

You swallowed, grounding yourself against the table as the adrenaline slowly ebbed. You replayed the moment in your mind, the warmth in his voice, the way he’d leaned in like he was finally ready to say the thing he’d been dancing around for weeks.

You didn’t need the rest to know what he’d meant. And even though the confession had shattered midair, it left a soft, glowing heat in your chest that didn’t disappear.

Steve shot you another look while Dustin explained the next step, his expression full of apology and frustration and wanting. He wasn’t done trying. And now, for the first time, you knew that for certain. Even if Dustin was determined to make it the longest confession in history.

---

The Wheelers’ basement was the kind of cramped, mismatched space that should’ve felt chaotic, yet somehow always managed to settle into its own kind of rhythm. Blankets draped over the back of the couch, half-finished board games littered the coffee table, and a small mountain of snacks threatened to avalanche off the folding card table by the wall. The worn carpet muffled footsteps, and the single lamp cast the whole room in a warm amber glow that made everyone look a little softer, a little more like themselves.

Mike sat cross-legged near the TV, fiddling with the dials like he was performing surgery. Will had his sketchpad propped on his knee, quietly drawing as he waited. Lucas and Max were arguing over whose movie pick was superior—which mostly meant Max was calling Lucas boring and Lucas insisting she had no taste. Eleven sat beside Max, combing her fingers through a bowl of M&M’s in strict color order. Nancy leaned against the far wall, arms crossed as she offered periodic commentary, half amused and half exhausted by the group’s indecision.

Robin stood behind the couch drumming her fingers along the backrest, eyes drifting toward you with the kind of knowing smirk that made you want to hide under a blanket. She’d been watching Steve all night like she was tracking wildlife behavior for a nature documentary.

And Steve—Steve had claimed the floor beside you the moment everyone settled. He hadn’t even pretended to consider another spot. He’d just dropped down next to you, close enough that your knees brushed whenever either of you shifted. Every now and then you felt the light press of his shoulder barely grazing yours, the warmth of him almost magnetic. He looked relaxed, but you’d known him long enough to recognize the tension coiled beneath the easy slouch. He wasn’t just sitting near you; he was waiting.

The chaos around you built into its usual storm of voices, and you let yourself sink into the noise until it felt like background static. You were comfortable like this—surrounded by people you trusted, tucked into a corner where nothing demanded too much of you. Steve must’ve sensed the way your shoulders unknotted, because he leaned in slightly, voice pitched softer than the rest. “Hey,” he murmured, letting the word drift just for you. “You holding up with all these maniacs fighting about cinema like it’s life or death?”

You smiled, looking down at your hands for a moment. “I’ve witnessed worse. Dustin tried to convince me Star Wars counts as a Thanksgiving movie.”

Steve snorted, head tipping just a little closer. “He tried that on me too. Henderson logic is a dangerous thing.”

The way he said it—soft and amused, with that small, private grin—made your cheeks warm. You felt it before you could control it, and you ducked your head slightly, pretending to focus on Max and Lucas arguing in the middle of the room. Max pointed her movie case at Lucas like a weapon. “This is a classic. You have no taste.”

Lucas folded his arms. “You say that about everything you like.”

“That’s because I’m right.”

Robin leaned closer to Nancy and muttered, “I’m taking bets on when this turns into a wrestling match.”

Steve laughed under his breath, then looked back at you. The basement noise faded as his attention settled directly on you, the air shifting in that fluttery way it always did when he got close. His knee nudged yours—gentle, deliberate. You looked up, and the moment your eyes met, something tender flickered across his face.

He angled toward you fully now, ignoring the group entirely. “Hey,” he said again, quieter this time, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to—”

“Oh my god.” Dustin’s voice ricocheted down the stairs like a missile.

Steve closed his eyes, shoulders slumping in a despair that bordered on spiritual defeat. You startled just slightly as Dustin burst into the basement carrying two bags of popcorn and a bowl of something that was probably too sticky to be allowed near the carpet.

“I got snacks!” Dustin declared triumphantly. “Mike, move over! Will, stop drawing sad trees! Everyone, I have news!”

Robin groaned. “Here we go.”

Nancy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Do we want to know?”

Dustin ignored everyone and marched directly toward you and Steve. “Okay, so, you’re all gonna think this is genius, because it is,” he announced, setting the popcorn in the middle of the floor like it was an offering to the gods. “I mixed extra sugar into the caramel corn so we can stay awake through Lucas’ boring movie pick.”

Lucas sputtered. “It’s not boring!”

Max kicked him lightly. “It’s very boring.”

Steve tried to inhale, tried to restart the thing he’d been about to say, but Dustin plopped down between the two of you before he could get a syllable out, wedging himself with a full-body flop. Steve’s head snapped toward the ceiling like he was pleading for divine help.

“Dude,” Steve said weakly, “I—I was literally talking—”

“Great, you can finish later,” Dustin chirped while shoving popcorn into Steve’s hands. “Right now we need someone to test if the caramel-to-corn ratio is perfect.”

Robin snickered from behind the couch. “That’s the face of a man in agony.” Steve shot her a death glare. Robin only winked.

You sat very still, aware of how drastically the moment had shifted. Steve’s knee no longer brushed yours. His shoulder was no longer angled toward you. His expression, however, still carried that raw, half-exposed something he’d tried so hard to reveal before the interruption.

He looked at you again, a brief, fragile glance over Dustin’s head—apology, longing, frustration, all tangled together. You smiled gently, a small reassurance even if the moment was lost. His chest eased, just a bit.

Dustin, oblivious, leaned back between you both. “Okay! So. Who’s ready for a triple-feature?!”

Mike groaned loud enough to shake dust from the ceiling. Eleven offered a polite but confused nod. Will kept drawing. Nancy debated walking out. Lucas and Max started another argument. Robin leaned over the couch, whispering something at Steve that made him mutter a threat with no real bite.

And you sat there, tucked between your friends and your brother, with Steve only inches away behind an accidental Dustin-shaped barricade.

Another moment ruined.

Another truth postponed.

But Steve caught your eye again, a small promise resting quietly behind the frustration. He wasn’t giving up. Not yet. Not at all.

And you found yourself hoping—maybe for the first time—that Dustin might eventually take a snack break long enough for everything to finally fall into place.

---

A Saturday afternoon at your place was usually a safe bet for quiet, especially when Dustin wasn’t home. He’d taken off earlier with Lucas and Mike, something about a “high-stakes campaign planning session,” which meant you finally had a few hours where the house wasn’t vibrating with teenage enthusiasm. Steve had stopped by under the guise of “checking on that toolbox he left in the garage,” even though you both knew he’d left it on purpose the last time he was here.

You were sitting beside him on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, a gentle buzz of nerves threading through your chest. He was closer than usual—not subtle about it, either. His knee brushed yours whenever he shifted, and he kept glancing over with this determined little crease between his brows. You could tell he’d spent all morning psyching himself up to try again.

He cleared his throat and leaned toward you, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he needed to keep them steady. “So I’ve been thinking,” he started, voice softer than the TV hum filling the room. “There’s something I’ve, uh… wanted to ask you. For a while.”

Your breath caught, your pulse fluttering. You met his eyes, and the look there—hesitant, hopeful, warm—made the room feel smaller. You felt him gather courage, felt something inside you answer it without needing words.

His knee bumped yours again, this time deliberate. “I just— when it’s us, like this… I feel—”

The front door slammed open so hard the hinges squealed. “There you are!” Max’s voice echoed down the hallway.

Steve’s shoulders sagged with the kind of dramatic despair that would’ve been funny if your heart hadn’t been thumping so hard a moment before. You both sat up straighter as Max stormed in, Eleven close behind her, both flushed from the walk and carrying enough urgency to power the whole house.

“Okay,” Max announced breathlessly, hands on her hips, “we need a ride.”

Eleven nodded with solemn intensity. “Very important.”

Steve blinked. “Why… why do you need a ride?”

“Because Robin said it was a good idea,” Max said, as if that answered everything.

You frowned. “Where is Robin?”

A beat later, Robin burst in through the still-open door, out of breath and dramatically pointing at the girls like an indictment. “They asked me first. But I don’t drive. And I told them that. Repeatedly.”

Eleven stepped forward with wide, pleading eyes. “Mall?”

Steve groaned into his hands. “Right now?”

Max crossed her arms, fully annoyed. “Yes, right now. We need new tape for Eleven’s headphones, a book I have to return, and Robin wants pretzels. Also, I’m bored.”

Robin raised a finger. “The pretzels are a necessary part of this trip. Not optional.”

Steve exhaled, long and pained, rubbing his face like fate had personally wronged him. You watched him, and even though frustration drew tight lines around his mouth, you saw the faint flicker of something else—desperation. Not for escape, but for the moment he’d been trying so hard to build. He’d almost done it this time. He had been right there, the words practically in the air between you when the cavalry burst in.

Max stepped closer. “Can you take us?”

You opened your mouth, but Steve sat up quickly, eyes wide. “Wait, she doesn’t have to. I can—”

“Nope,” Max interrupted. “We saw your car on the street. There’s a giant metal pipe sticking out the window and it looks like someone attacked your backseat with a screwdriver.”

Steve blanched. “That was Dustin’s… whatever. I told him not to—”

Eleven nodded solemnly. “It is broken.”

“It’s not broken,” Steve protested weakly, then looked at you with a kind of pleading horror. “Please don’t let them make you drive them. You don’t have to—”

Robin clapped her hands together. “You’re literally the only one here with a functioning car and a valid license.”

Max added, “also the only one we trust with directions.”

Eleven finished with, “Please? Please, please?”

Their combined staring was intense enough to melt steel. You sighed softly, looking at Steve with an apologetic tilt of your head. “It’s okay. I can take them.”

Steve’s mouth opened like he wanted to protest again, but something gentler ran through his expression. He softened, sitting back a little like he didn’t want to push. “Only if you want to,” he said quietly, voice low enough for just you.

“I don’t mind,” you said, even though part of you did—not the drive itself, but the interruption, the way the moment had slipped through your fingers again just when it felt like it might finally settle.

Max grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the door. “Yes! Thank you.”

Robin followed, muttering about soft pretzels and cinnamon sugar. Eleven smiled at you like you were the solution to every problem she’d ever had. You moved toward the doorway, keys in hand, but paused when you felt a gentle touch on your wrist. Steve had stepped after you, stopping you with light fingers that traced warmth across your skin. “Hey,” he murmured, eyes meeting yours with that same earnest something from earlier, “when you get back… can we finish that conversation?”

The question hit you softly, settling under your ribs in a place already warm for him. You nodded. “Yeah. We can.”

A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, not the charming one he used to flirt or joke, but something smaller, realer—something just for you.

Robin’s voice echoed from outside. “Let’s go, I’m starving!”

You stepped away from Steve and toward the chaos gathering around your car, but you looked back once. He stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, trying and failing to hide the way he was smiling. This time, you knew the moment wouldn’t slip away forever. It was waiting for you. So was he.

---

The mall on a Saturday was a maze of sound — laughter echoing off tile, music thumping faintly from different stores, the squeak of sneakers on polished floors, the chatter of people weaving around one another like they were all part of some vast busy hive. The second you stepped inside with Max, Eleven, and Robin, it felt like stepping into a warm wave of noise and movement. Max immediately scanned the storefronts like a general surveying a battlefield, Eleven stayed close to your side with quiet determination, and Robin pointed at the pretzel shop with the single-minded hunger of someone who had already been thinking about it for hours.

The girls moved quickly, practically dragging you along, their energy sweeping you forward before you even realized you were fully inside. The light overhead was bright, reflecting off the glossy floor, and you adjusted to it slowly, breathing in the smell of cinnamon sugar and perfume samples drifting from the nearby department store. Even with the crowd, the moment felt surprisingly calm—nothing like the monster-hunting days, nothing like the chaos of Dustin’s science experiments or the loud clusters of voices in the Wheeler basement. Just… the mall. Just a typical weekend afternoon.

Max took the lead, weaving down the walkway toward the bookstore. “This won’t take long,” she promised, even though her tone strongly suggested she planned to browse. “I just need to drop off the return, maybe look at the new releases, maybe check the comics—"

Robin groaned dramatically. “I’m going to starve before the pretzels. And then who’s gonna explain to Steve that you let me die of hunger in a suburban mall? He’ll never forgive you.”

Eleven blinked up at you. “She needs pretzels first,” she said with the same seriousness she used when discussing mind flayers.

You smiled because you knew it was hopeless to try changing their priorities. “Okay. Pretzels first, then the bookstore.”

Robin fist-pumped like she’d just won a war. “Yes. Justice prevails.”

You led the way toward the food court, letting the steady hum of conversation settle around you. Eleven walked close enough that her sleeve brushed yours every few steps, her eyes darting between the crowds with a watchfulness that came from experience, not fear. Max strode ahead, confident and unbothered, her ponytail swinging behind her with each purposeful movement.

When you reached the pretzel stand, Robin stepped forward eagerly. “Four pretzels,” she told the teenager behind the counter. “One cinnamon, one butter, one salted, and one mystery pick for Eleven.”

The kid blinked, confused. “Mystery pick?”

Robin waved broadly. “Dealer’s choice. Make it fun.” Max rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Eleven seemed excited by the idea, gaze fixed on the warming racks with awe.

You helped gather napkins and drinks while everyone else debated who got which pretzel, though Eleven’s mystery pretzel was so coated in cheese that Robin declared it a masterpiece of culinary chaos. You all found an empty table near the railing overlooking the lower floor, and the four of you sat down, the air filled with warmth and chatter that felt strangely comforting.

Max took a bite of her pretzel before pointing it at you. “So what were you and Steve talking about before we barged in?”

Robin inhaled sharply and kicked Max lightly under the table. “We don’t ask those questions.”

“But I just did,” Max said, completely unapologetic. “I’m curious.”

Eleven tilted her head. “You and Steve were sitting very close.”

Heat crept up the back of your neck, and you tried to hide it by taking a long sip of your drink. “We were just talking,” you said softly, though you felt the weight of the truth under your ribs. You were almost talking about something else—something bigger—and that weight felt warm in a way that wasn’t unpleasant at all.

Max watched you knowingly, like she was piecing together a puzzle she’d already solved. “Uh-huh. Sure. Talking.”

Robin sighed with the posture of someone carrying too much knowledge. “We’re not interrogating her. We’re here for snacks, not emotional espionage.”

You wanted to thank her, but before you could, Eleven leaned in with genuine curiosity. “Do you like him?”

Your breath caught, and the world seemed to soften—not collapse, not tighten, just… soften. The noise of the mall blurred into a distant hum, and your hands stilled around the napkin you were folding subconsciously.

Max kicked her under the table. “El! You can’t just ask!”

Eleven frowned. “Why not? If she likes him, she should say.” Robin groaned but didn’t disagree.

You set the napkin down slowly, heart thumping against your ribs in that quiet, fluttery way it always did whenever Steve said your name a little too gently or leaned just a little too close. “I… I don’t know,” you said, though that wasn’t the truth. You knew. You just weren’t used to saying it out loud. “Maybe.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Maybe yes?”

You exhaled, looking down at your hands. “Maybe… yes.”

Robin slapped her palms on the table and grinned like she’d been waiting for this revelation for months. “Finally. Emotional progress. Steve is going to combust when he hears that.”

You stared at her. “Robin!”

“What? He’s still alive. Mostly. Probably pacing in your living room right now practicing a speech.”

Eleven smiled brightly, lifting her pretzel. “I am happy,” she said, content and certain.

Max leaned back in her chair with smug satisfaction. “Called it.”

Despite the embarrassing warmth on your face, you felt something untangle inside you—something quiet, hopeful, and strangely steady. Saying it aloud didn’t feel as terrifying as you’d expected. If anything, it felt like you’d opened a small door that had been waiting for too long.

Robin nudged your foot under the table. “Finish your pretzel,” she said playfully. “We should get back soon. Wouldn’t want to keep loverboy waiting.”

You groaned, but a smile tugged at your lips anyway.

And across the mall, beyond the noise and the shining floors and the crowds moving in every direction, you found yourself thinking not about monsters or interruptions or whatever chaos awaited at home—but about Steve.

And the conversation he’d asked to finish.

---

Dustin had invited Lucas, Mike, and Will over with the promise of “the most important campaign decision of their lives,” which meant the basement was already cluttered with graph paper, dice, snack wrappers, and an unnecessary number of pencils. They were mid-argument about whether the party should take the mountain pass or the hidden forest trail when Steve wandered down the stairs, hands shoved in his pockets, pacing with a restless energy that immediately caught Dustin’s attention.

“Why are you down here?” Dustin asked, squinting at him suspiciously from behind his Dungeon Master screen. “Aren’t you supposed to be home? Or at work? Or not pacing around my basement like you’re trying to burn a hole into the carpet?”

Steve ignored him, and that alone was weird enough that Mike, Lucas, and Will exchanged glances. Steve never ignored Dustin. Not unless something had gone very, very wrong.

Steve raked a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. He crossed the room, turned around, crossed it again, muttering under his breath. “She said we’d talk later. Later. Which could mean anything. What if something happens? What if she changes her mind? What if—”

Will’s pencil rolled off the table as he slowly lowered it. Mike froze mid-chew with a pretzel rod sticking out of his mouth. Lucas leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. Dustin set his pencil down slowly, staring at Steve with an expression that drew gradually from confusion into dawning horror. “Why do you look like you’re waiting for the apocalypse?”

Steve stopped pacing. “I mean—it might be. For me.”

Mike slapped a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh. Lucas elbowed him hard. Will quietly slid his chair just a few inches farther away from the table.

Dustin rose from his seat like someone being pulled upward by invisible strings. His voice dropped to a deadly calm. “Steve. What did you do.”

Steve swallowed. “Okay, so don’t freak out—”

Instant freak-out. Dustin threw his hands up. “Why would you say that? Why would you say that unless there is something to freak out about?”

Will stood. Mike stood. Lucas stood. It was like watching prey animals rise together, ready to bolt.

Steve ran both hands down his face and groaned. “I didn’t do anything. I tried to do something. But, like… the universe hates me. Every time I get close, someone interrupts. Mostly you. Actually, almost always you.”

Dustin blinked twice. “Interrupts what?”

Steve held up a finger like he was about to explain something complicated. “Okay. Just listen. I wanted to talk to her—”

Will paled. Lucas’s eyes widened. Mike mouthed oh no under his breath.

“—because I really like—”

“No.” Dustin cut him off, both hands raised like he was physically blocking the words. “No. No, no, no. You’re not—you can’t—that’s my sister!” He said it like it was a curse, a prophecy, and a threat rolled into one.

Steve exhaled, bracing himself. “Yeah. I know. Believe me, I know. But I—”

Mike took a step toward the stairs. Lucas followed. Will whispered, “should we… leave?”

Mike nodded slowly. “We should leave.”

But Dustin wasn’t paying attention to anything except the tidal wave of emotion crashing over him. He advanced on Steve like a general ready to declare war. “You can’t like her!” Dustin yelled, jabbing a finger into Steve’s chest. “She’s my sister! There are rules!”

Steve threw up his hands. “What rules?”

“The unwritten ones!”

Lucas tugged Will toward the stairs. “Back away slowly.”

“Already doing that,” Will whispered, clutching his sketchbook to his chest.

Mike didn’t even whisper. “Steve, this is gonna be bad. Good luck,” he said before sprinting up the stairs and abandoning him entirely.

Dustin kept going, and Steve kept retreating until his back hit the wall. “You can’t—you can’t just date her! What if you break up? What if things get weird? What if she gets hurt? What if you hurt her? I can't—I can’t be stuck in the middle of that!” Steve opened his mouth to respond, but Dustin didn’t give him a chance. “And I swear—I swear— if you ever hurt her, I will kill you.”

Steve blinked. “Dustin, you can’t even reach my neck.”

“I’ll use a ladder!”

Steve threw his hands up. “Oh my god—listen! I would never hurt her. Ever. I like her. I’ve liked her. For a long time. Okay? That’s why I’m freaking out. That’s why I’m pacing. Because I’m terrified. Not of you—”

“Oh really?” Dustin snapped, crossing his arms.

“—but of her.”

Dustin paused. “Her?”

Steve nodded emphatically. “Yes! Do you remember the demogorgon? Because I do. I watched your sister take a baseball bat with nails in it and swing so hard the thing went flying. I have nightmares about that moment sometimes. She was feral.”

Dustin hesitated. “…okay, yeah, that was cool.”

“It was terrifying!”

“Also cool,” Dustin corrected, but the fire behind his words had dimmed. He stopped pacing, shoulders dropping slightly as the panic drained from his face. “She really was awesome that day.”

Steve softened, his voice calmer now. “I like her because she’s… her. And she deserves someone who actually pays attention. Someone who cares about her, and wants to make her feel safe, and doesn’t push her to be someone she’s not. I’m trying to be that person. But every time I try to tell her how I feel, you interrupt and drag me to test an antenna or fix a wire or—”

“That was important,” Dustin muttered weakly.

“It really wasn’t!”

Dustin went quiet. He looked at Steve, really looked at him, as if seeing him differently for the first time. The frantic defensiveness slowly melted into something begrudging, conflicted, but not outright hostile. After a long silence, Dustin let out a tired breath. “You really like her.”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. I really do.”

“And you’re not gonna screw it up.”

Steve shook his head. “Not if I can help it.”

Dustin pressed his lips together, thinking hard, weighing his loyalty to you against his loyalty to Steve. Eventually he let out a groan loud enough to shake dust from the ceiling. “Fine! Fine. But I swear, Harrington, if you hurt her—”

“I know,” Steve said quickly. “Ladder. Got it.”

Dustin pointed at him one last time. “And my point still stands!”

“Which point?”

“That she’s scarier than I’ll ever be.”

Steve actually laughed, shoulders relaxing for the first time in hours. “Yeah. She is.”

Dustin huffed, then turned toward the stairs. “I need a snack. And time to emotionally process this.”

From the top of the stairs, Mike’s voice drifted back down. “Is it safe to come back?”

“No!” Dustin shouted, slamming the door behind him.

And Steve let out a long, relieved breath—because the hardest part was over. Now all he had to do was actually talk to you.

---

You returned home before sunset, the sky outside tinted gold and pink as the heat of the day finally began to fade. The girls piled out of your car with arms full of pretzels, shopping bags, and the chaotic energy of teenagers loose in a mall. Max jogged ahead toward the front door, Eleven lingered close to you with a quiet smile, and Robin walked backward while lecturing both of them about “the importance of proper snack distribution in a household ecosystem.”

But the moment you stepped inside, the energy shifted. Something hung in the air—not tension, exactly, but a strange, anticipatory stillness. The lights in the living room were on. The TV was off. Steve was perched on the edge of the couch like he’d been waiting for hours and didn’t know what to do with his hands, his posture, or his entire existence.

Dustin stood beside him, arms crossed, nodding solemnly like he had just finished delivering a very long speech. All three girls froze mid-step.

Steve shot to his feet the second he saw you. “Hey. You’re back.”

You blinked, half smiling. “Yeah. We—"

“You,” Dustin interrupted loudly, pointing at Steve with one hand and at you with the other, “need to talk. Now. Immediately. Right now.”

You stared at him. “Dustin?”

Dustin nodded with the seriousness of a courtroom judge. “I’ve… reflected.” He placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “And I have decided that I am granting you two permission to have a conversation without interruptions.”

Robin’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Oh god. He found out, didn’t he.”

Max elbowed Eleven and whispered, “told you.”

Steve’s face turned the shade of someone who had been emotionally waterboarded all afternoon. “Reflected,” he muttered. “He screamed at me for twenty minutes.”

Dustin glared at him. “Emotional reflection is loud sometimes.”

Robin snorted. Max barely held in a laugh. Eleven leaned close and whispered, “he must’ve been very loud.”

Dustin cleared his throat theatrically and stepped forward like he was taking center stage. “Anyway,” he said, arms spreading with dramatic flair, “I am officially leaving the premises. As are the rest of you.” He pointed toward the door like a tiny general evacuating troops. “Go. All of you. Get out. I need this to happen so my sister stops looking at Steve like a kicked puppy and Steve stops pacing grooves into our floor.”

Your face went hot. “Dustin!”

“What?” he said. “It’s embarrassing. For both of you. Fix it.”

Steve groaned into his hands.

Max shrugged and headed for the hallway. “Come on. Let’s leave the awkward adults alone.”

Eleven nodded gravely. “Important moment.”

Robin gave Steve a long, slow, knowing smirk. “Don’t choke, dingus.”

And just like that, the girls disappeared down the hall. Dustin lingered one more second, squinting at Steve like a overprotective watchdog. “Remember,” he warned, “I will absolutely end you if—”

“I know!” Steve snapped. “Ladder. Got it.”

“Good.” Dustin huffed, then looked at you, softened, and squeezed your arm gently. “He’s nervous. Be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” you murmured.

Steve made a strangled noise. Dustin pointed at him one more time, then marched off after the others. And then there was silence. The house felt suddenly huge. The space between you and Steve felt even bigger. He let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked at you with a dozen emotions flickering across his face—fear, hope, determination, affection. “So,” he said, voice rough but warm, “we… finally have a minute.”

You stepped farther into the room, closing the door behind you. “We do.”

He didn’t sit. He didn’t pace. He stayed exactly where he was, like moving even a step might break whatever fragile, shimmering moment had finally landed in his hands. “Look,” he started, letting his arms fall to his sides, “I’ve been trying to tell you something for—actually, I don’t even know how long anymore. Weeks? Months? A while. And I kept messing it up. Or people kept messing it up. Mostly Henderson.”

You breathed out a soft laugh. “He does that.”

“He does,” Steve agreed. Then his expression shifted—softer now, more sure. “But I’m glad he’s not here right now. Because I… I don’t want to keep dancing around this.”

You looked up at him, and the way he stared back made your chest tighten with something warm and heavy and sweet.

He took a steady breath. “I like you,” he said simply, without theatrics or stumbling, every word shaped with sincerity. “I really, really like you. More than I meant to. More than I planned to. Definitely more than I told Dustin when he cornered me today.”

You blinked, startled. “He cornered you?”

“Oh yeah. Full interrogation mode. I thought he was gonna map out my emotional failings on a chalkboard.” He shook his head, then took another step toward you, closing the distance until he was right in front of you—close enough to feel the quiet warmth radiating between you.

Your breath caught.

Steve swallowed, voice dropping softer. “And I know you’re… you. You get quiet. And nervous. And sometimes I can’t tell what you’re thinking. But I’ve seen the way you look at me sometimes. The same way I probably look at you. And I just—I needed you to know. Even if it freaked you out. Even if it scared me to say it.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest, skipping unevenly as you tried to gather your voice. “It doesn’t freak me out.”

He smiled—small, startled, almost relieved. “No?”

You shook your head, letting your eyes meet his without dropping away this time. “I… like you too.”

The warmth that spread across his face was immediate—bright, soft, disbelieving in a way that made something inside you loosen and settle all at once. He let out a breath he had clearly been holding for far too long, his shoulders dropping as tension melted from them.

He reached for your hand slowly, giving you room to pull back. You didn’t. His fingers brushed yours, then curled around them gently—warm and steady, not asking for anything more than the space you chose to give. “I was really scared you’d say no,” he admitted quietly.

“I was scared you’d get tired of trying,” you whispered.

He laughed under his breath—a soft, breathless sound—and shook his head. “Not a chance.”

The moment stretched comfortably, a soft glow settling between you both like something that had been waiting a long time to finally land. Then, from down the hall, “is it safe yet!?” Dustin shouted.

Steve groaned, squeezing your hand. “He’s going to make this so complicated.”

You smiled—full, warm, a little shy but no longer afraid of the feeling settling inside your chest. “We’ll handle him.”

Steve grinned. “Yeah. We will.”

And this time, nothing interrupted the moment you shared—warm hands, quiet breath, and the certainty that this was only the beginning.

everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005

And okay, maybe—maybe—you’d thought about quitting. Maybe you’d had a few late-night fantasies about giving it all up and becoming a full-time gold digger. The classy kind, obviously. The kind who drank rosé on yachts and wore silk robes while pretending to care about crypto. It wasn’t the worst idea. You did live in Monaco, after all. Land of superyachts, supermodels, and super-rich men who thought “journalist” is just a cute way of saying “between jobs.” Honestly, if you were going to fail at something, at least you’d picked a scenic place to do it.

“I just need to write something life-changing. Then everything will be fine.” You leaned against the heater with all the drama of a woman on the brink, your back pressed to the window like you were starring in a very slow, very tragic film. You weren’t sure if you were trying to convince your coworkers or yourself. Probably both.

“Right,” Carol said, not even glancing up from her laptop. “And do you actually know what that is, or are we just manifesting now?”

“Well… no,” you admitted, with the kind of shrug that said please don’t ask follow-up questions. At least you were being honest. Sort of.

Across the room, Hanna looked up from her coffee. She was probably the smartest person in the office, which was both comforting and deeply annoying. She studied you for a second, her expression unreadable—somewhere between pity and amusement, with just a dash of judgment for flavor.

“I watched a movie the other night,” she said, her voice slow and deliberate, like she was trying to decide if this was worth sharing. “And it actually had a plot that might work. For an article, I mean.”

Your ears perked up the second Hanna spoke. “Wait… what is it?” you asked, straightening up like a detective who’d just caught the scent of a lead. You didn’t mean to sound so desperate, but honestly, you were one more rejection email away from pitching a story about the emotional lives of houseplants.

“How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days,” Hanna said, her voice lilting with that particular brand of smugness that only came from knowing she was about to drop something good.

Carol perked up immediately. “Oh my god, I love that movie!”

You blinked. Once. Twice. A third time for good measure. Was this a cultural reference you were supposed to know? Judging by the way both of them were looking at you—with matching expressions of mild horror and secondhand embarrassment—you had, in fact, missed something. Something big.

You tried to play it cool, nodding like you were totally on board. “Right. That one. Classic.” You had no idea what you were agreeing to.

Hanna didn’t buy it. She leaned forward, eyes glinting with something that looked suspiciously like mischief. “So, the girl has to find a guy,” she said slowly, drawing it out like she was telling a ghost story. “And then she has to do everything—everything—in her power to make him dump her. In ten days.”

You stared at her. “That’s… the plot?”

“That’s the plot,” she confirmed, clearly delighted by your confusion. “And it’s perfect.”

You weren’t sure what she meant by perfect, but your brain was already racing. Ten days. A doomed relationship. A built-in deadline. It was ridiculous. It was chaotic. It was… kind of brilliant.

And also, probably, a terrible idea.

But then again, what did you have to lose?

“So… you’re telling me I have to find some poor soul and make him dump me in ten days?” you asked, the words sounding ridiculous even as they left your mouth. It felt like the kind of thing you’d say as a joke at brunch, not something you’d actually consider doing. And yet—your brain was already buzzing, flipping through mental flashcards of eligible men and increasingly unhinged ways to drive them away.

“Exactly!” Hanna said, her eyes lighting up like she’d just invented the concept of journalism itself. “But make it Monaco. Find a billionaire, an athlete, someone with a yacht and a god complex. Go wild.”

Carol nodded solemnly, like she was blessing a sacred quest. “Yeah, like… traumatize someone rich. For journalism. Totally fair. Do you know the insane stuff these people do for money? You’d be doing the world a favor.”

You tried to keep a straight face, but a laugh slipped out anyway. The idea was unhinged. Unethical, probably. Definitely unprofessional. But also? It had legs. It had chaos. It had the kind of messy, clickbait-y energy that editors loved and readers devoured. And more than that—it sounded fun. Stupid, reckless fun. The kind you hadn’t had in ages.

You could already picture it: the awkward dates, the fake meltdowns, the slow unraveling of some poor, unsuspecting man’s patience. It was terrible. It was brilliant. It was exactly the kind of disaster you needed.

And if it just so happened to be the thing that saved your career? Even better.

“But who exactly is supposed to be my victim? Do we have any tributes?” you asked, glancing between the girls like you were about to host a very glamorous, very morally questionable Hunger Games. Honestly, in Monaco, the options were endless. The city was practically crawling with eligible men who had more money than sense and a deeply concerning relationship with their own reflections.

“Jannik Sinner!” Carol said immediately, like she’d been waiting her whole life to shout his name. “What does he play? Tennis? Whatever. He’s hot.”

You wrinkled your nose. Jannik was objectively attractive, sure, but he gave off the kind of energy that screamed protein shakes and motivational podcasts. Probably the type to say things like “rise and grind” without irony. Not your vibe.

Hanna tapped her pen against her notebook, eyes narrowed in thought. “What about the orange guy who drives fast cars? Piastri. Oscar. He’s cute.”

You tilted your head, considering it for half a second before shaking it. Also not your type. Too polite. Too clean-cut. He looked like the kind of guy who’d apologize for sneezing too loud. You needed someone cockier. Someone who could handle a little chaos. Someone who wouldn’t immediately crumble the second you fake-cried in a restaurant or brought up your imaginary Pinterest wedding board.

No, you needed someone who could take a hit. Someone who thought he was untouchable.

“I need to think it through,” you said, pausing just long enough to make it sound like a life-or-death decision. “But don’t worry—I’ll let you know the moment I choose my victim.”

You said it with a grin, but your mind was already racing. Monaco was full of possibilities—sleek suits, smug smiles, men who’d never been told no in their lives. It was practically a buffet of bad decisions. All you had to do was pick one and ruin his ten days of life. For journalism, of course.

Totally ethical. Totally fine.

Probably.

────────────

What happened when you mixed alcohol with four Formula 1 drivers—especially Lando Norris?

Bad decisions. The kind that started with expensive cocktails and ended with someone losing a shoe, a phone, or their dignity. Sometimes all three.

They were tucked into a velvet booth in the corner of the lounge, half-hidden by low lighting and the thump of bass-heavy music. Their table was cluttered with half-empty glasses and a bottle of something that probably cost more than most people’s rent. Oscar, Max, and Charles were deep in conversation, laughing about something that involved a yacht, a seagull, and a very unfortunate misunderstanding in Ibiza.

Lando, though, wasn’t listening. He was staring across the room, eyes fixed on the dance floor like he was watching a live documentary on human chaos. A group of girls had climbed onto the tables, dancing like they were auditioning for a music video—heels off, hair wild, dresses clinging to skin that shimmered with sweat and glitter. It was a lot. Like, a lot.

He blinked slowly, lips parted in mild horror. The kind of look you’d give if you walked into your hotel room and found a raccoon going through your minibar. He wasn’t judging, exactly. More… confused. Concerned. Maybe a little afraid.

“What are you staring at, man?” Oscar asked, leaning over to follow his gaze.

Lando pointed, eyes still wide. “Those girls. Do you see them? They have no dignity.”

Max snorted so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “You’re talking about dignity? You, Lando?”

Lando turned to him, offended. “Hey! I have dignity. Do I look like I’m up there shaking my almost bare ass to the music? No. Exactly.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “Should I remind you what you did after your Monaco win?”

Lando opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could already feel the memory creeping in—champagne-soaked, shirtless, standing on a table with a traffic cone on his head, yelling something about being the king of the world. Okay, maybe not his finest moment.

“That was different,” he muttered, taking a long sip of his drink. “That was… celebratory.”

Max grinned. “Sure, mate. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Lando rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. He hated how well they knew him. Hated it even more that they were right.

“That’s not even the point,” Lando said, letting out a dramatic sigh as he slumped back in his seat. “My point is—it’s actually so hard to find a girlfriend who isn’t a gold digger.”

He knew how it sounded. Rich, famous, young. Boo-hoo, right? But still. It was a real problem. Everyone around him seemed to have someone. Real relationships. People to text goodnight. People to come home to. And then there was him—third-wheeling his way through life, pretending he didn’t care.

“Right, because you’re the only one who’s single here,” Max said, grinning like he’d just caught Lando in a lie. “Even Oscar has a girlfriend.”

“Sorry?” Oscar blinked, confused. “We’ve been together since high school, Max.”

Max rolled his eyes, like that somehow made it worse. “Exactly my point. You’re the last one standing. We need to find someone for you.”

He clapped Lando on the back like he was doing him a favor, but Lando just groaned and took another sip of his drink. The idea of someone “finding” him a girlfriend felt like ordering love off a menu. And yet… maybe Max wasn’t wrong. Maybe it was time to try something new.

“Let’s make it more interesting,” Charles said, leaning back in his chair with a grin that made Lando’s stomach twist. “A bet.”

Oh no. Absolutely not. This was how chaos started. This was how group chats exploded and friendships got temporarily ruined. Lando had seen this look before—Charles was about to say something reckless, and once he did, there’d be no going back.

“A bet?” Lando repeated slowly, already feeling his shoulders tense. “Why does that sound like you’re about to say something ridiculous?”

“Because he is,” Oscar muttered, sipping his drink like he’d already accepted the disaster as inevitable.

Max perked up instantly, eyes wide and excited, like someone had just said the magic word. “Ooooh, I love bets! What are we betting on? Lando’s dignity? Because that’s already gone.”

Lando shot him a look, deadpan. “Very funny,” he said, voice flat and dripping with sarcasm. But deep down, he knew Max wasn’t entirely wrong. His dignity had taken a few hits lately. Mostly self-inflicted.

Charles ignored them all, clearly enjoying himself. He leaned forward, hands spread like he was presenting a TED Talk. “Lando, you need a girlfriend. We all know it. So…” He paused for dramatic effect. “You have ten days to pull a girl.”

Lando blinked. “Uh… okay. And the catch?”

Charles smiled like he’d just invented the concept of suffering. “No money. No fame. No cars. No F1 clout. Just… pure personality.”

Lando choked on his drink.

Pure personality? That was basically all the stuff he didn’t use. His whole charm package was built on fast cars, expensive watches, and being Lando Norris. Strip that away and what was left? A guy who made bad jokes, forgot birthdays, and still didn’t know how to fold a fitted sheet. He wasn’t even sure he had a personality outside of racing and nonchalant Instagram captions.

He looked around the table, hoping someone would jump in and shut this down. But Max was already nodding like this was the best idea he’d ever heard. Oscar looked mildly entertained. And Charles? Charles was practically glowing with evil joy.

Lando sighed, sinking deeper into his seat. This was going to be a disaster.

But part of him—some reckless, competitive part—kind of wanted to try.

Lando narrowed his eyes, already suspicious. “Okay… but what do I get out of this?”

He didn’t trust that look on Charles’s face. It was the same look he’d had before convincing Max to race a golf cart through a hotel lobby. The same look that had ended with a very awkward call from PR. Lando wasn’t about to walk into something stupid without at least knowing what was on the table.

Charles smirked, clearly enjoying the moment. “Oh, something big. Something worth your time.”

Oscar leaned in, lowering his voice like they were planning a heist. “A brand-new car. Your choice. Top model. Think of it as… motivation.”

Lando blinked. Then blinked again. A car? A new car? His brain immediately started spinning through possibilities—sleek lines, custom interiors, that new car smell. He already had a garage full of toys, sure, but this would be different. This would be earned. Won. A trophy with wheels.

He leaned back in his seat, trying to look casual, but his eyes were already gleaming. “Okay… now you’ve got my attention.”

Charles raised a brow, clearly not done. “Don’t get too cocky. You still have to actually… do it.”

Lando grinned, the kind of grin that usually got him into trouble. “Oh, don’t worry. I will. And when I do, that car is mine.”

“And who’s supposed to be the lucky girl?” Lando asked, scanning the club with a mix of curiosity and dread.

There were plenty of options—if you counted sequins, fake tans, and women who could smell wealth from across the room. The place was packed with designer heels and glossy lips, all circling like sharks in glitter. It was loud, chaotic, and exactly the kind of scene Lando usually tried to avoid unless he was already tipsy or being dragged in by Max.

Charles pointed toward the dance floor, where a blonde was holding court in the middle of a glittery circle. She moved like she knew everyone was watching, hips swaying, hair flipping, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “The blonde over there? I think her name is Magui or something like that.”

Lando squinted, trying to place her. She looked familiar in that Monaco way—like someone who’d probably dated three footballers, a tennis player, and maybe a prince. “Mate, she looks like she’s already dated half the athletes in here… and would probably make me sign a nondisclosure agreement before the first drink.”

He shook his head, already bored. “Pass.”

He wanted someone different. Someone who didn’t treat flirting like a business transaction. Someone who didn’t already know his net worth before he said hello.

“And what about her?” Oscar asked, nodding toward the bar.

Lando turned his head, following Oscar’s gaze—and then he saw you.

You were perched on a barstool, one leg crossed over the other, deep in conversation with a friend. There was something about the way you sat—relaxed, like you belonged there but didn’t need anyone to notice. You weren’t dressed like the usual Monaco crowd. No glittering diamonds, no designer logos screaming for attention. Just a simple outfit, effortless and cool, like you’d thrown it on without a second thought. And your expression? Calm. Unbothered. Like the chaos of the club didn’t touch you. Like you were in your own little world and perfectly happy to stay there.

Lando tilted his head, studying you. You didn’t look like someone who cared about fast cars or famous faces. You weren’t glancing around the room, hoping to be seen. You weren’t trying too hard. You weren’t trying at all.

And that? That was rare.

His lips curled into a slow, intrigued smile. Something about you felt like a challenge. Not the kind he could win with a wink and a flashy watch. The kind that might actually take effort. Honesty. Personality. Whatever that meant.

“Perfect,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

And just like that, the game was on.

────────────

With a few hours to kill before work, you figured you might as well be productive. Or at least pretend to be. So you parked yourself in a quiet café, ordered something overpriced and frothy, and settled in by the window with your laptop open and your eyes doing anything but working. You told yourself you were brainstorming. Researching. Casually scouting for your potential victim. You had ten days, after all. No time to waste.

Unfortunately, the selection was… bleak.

Too old. Too young. Too married. Too into themselves. One guy looked promising until he took a phone call and started yelling at someone named “Mum” about crypto. Another had a man bun and a tattoo of a lion on his neck, which felt like a red flag wrapped in a cliché. And then—Charles Leclerc. Sitting two tables away, laughing with someone you assumed was his girlfriend. Taken. Obviously. And thank God, honestly. The last thing you needed was a swarm of Ferrari fans in your DMs accusing you of ruining his focus.

You were just about ready to give up. Your coffee had gone cold, your cursor blinked mockingly on a blank document, and your brain was spiraling into that familiar pit of “what am I even doing with my life?” You stirred your drink like it might reveal the answers at the bottom, already preparing to pack up and call it a failed mission.

And then—someone stepped into your peripheral vision.

You didn’t look up right away. You were too busy wallowing. But then a voice cut through the low hum of conversation, casual and familiar in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

And nearly died on the spot.

Lando Norris.

Standing right there, like the universe had just dropped him into your lap with a wink and a challenge. He looked annoyingly good—messy curls, easy smile, hands shoved into the pockets of a hoodie that probably cost more than your rent. He didn’t look like a celebrity right now. He looked like a guy who’d wandered in off the street, maybe to grab a coffee or flirt with the barista. But you knew better.

Your heart did something weird in your chest. Not because you were starstruck—please, you were a professional. Mostly. But because this was it. The moment. The setup.

Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.

The universe had officially outdone itself.

Because standing in front of you was a man who was, quite frankly, perfect for the job. He checked every single box on your very short, very specific list:

1. Famous.

2. Attractive.

3. Almost definitely dumb enough to fall for whatever psychological warfare your article required.

Your brain lit up like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Oh. Oh. This was it. This was him. Your ten-day victim had just walked straight into your life, no effort required. You didn’t even have to chase him down—he came to you. Like a lamb to the slaughter. Or, more accurately, like a golden retriever to a squeaky toy.

“Hi,” you said sweetly, already spinning the first few lines of your article in your head. The headline was practically writing itself.

Of course, you had to play it cool. You had to pretend you had absolutely no idea who he was. Not the guy you’d written five separate articles about. Not the guy with a garage full of sixteen cars you could list from memory. Not the guy whose face had been on your Twitter feed more times than your own.

No. You were going full amnesia. Blank slate. Just a girl, sitting in a café, definitely not plotting emotional sabotage.

“I saw you yesterday in the club. What a coincidence,” he said, voice a little too high, a little too nervous for someone who regularly drove a rocket ship at 300 kilometers an hour.

You raised a single eyebrow. He saw you?

Interesting.

He seemed to realize how that sounded because he immediately panicked. “I mean—uh—may I sit with you?”

And just like that, your suspicions were confirmed.

Oh yeah. He was the one.

So it had begun.

Your challenge: make Lando Norris dump you in ten days.

You watched him settle into the chair across from you, all casual charm and nervous energy. It was almost too easy. He looked relaxed, but you could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—the way he scanned your face like he was trying to figure out if you were safe, or secretly filming him for TikTok.

“What’s your name, cutie?” you asked, voice syrupy sweet. The word cutie tasted weird coming out of your mouth, but you leaned into it anyway. You cringed internally—asking for his name when you knew every single gossip headline about him felt borderline criminal. You’d written about his dating history. His car collection. His skincare routine. You could probably recite his net worth in three currencies.

Still… you were curious. Would he lie? Would he play it cool, pretend to be someone else? Or would he go full Lando Norris, Monaco’s golden playboy, the city’s most sought-after souvenir?

“Lando,” he said.

Wow.

So he was actually telling the truth. No fake name. No mysterious alter ego. Just Lando. Bold move. And maybe also a little dumb. Perfect.

“That’s nice, Larry.”

He blinked. “It’s… Lando.”

You smiled innocently. “That’s what I said.”

He paused, eyebrows pulling together just slightly. Confused. Not alarmed, not offended—just trying to figure out if you were messing with him or genuinely bad with names. A regular Monaco man would’ve already made an excuse and bolted. But he stayed. That was promising.

“And what’s your name?” he asked, still trying to play it cool.

“I’m Y/n,” you said, offering him a soft smile that you hoped read as warm and just a little curious. At the same time, your eyes flicked toward the rest of the café, scanning the space like you were expecting someone to jump out from behind the espresso machine with a hidden camera. Was this a setup? Was he scouting the place? Spying? The whole thing felt too easy, too convenient. You’d barely started your mission and already the universe had dropped Monaco’s most eligible bachelor into your lap.

“So… you saw me at the club, huh?” you asked, keeping your tone light, like it was just a passing comment. Of course you knew he had. You’d been there with Hanna, sipping overpriced cocktails and pretending not to notice the swarm of athletes and influencers orbiting the VIP section. You’d clocked him immediately—messy curls, easy smile, the kind of presence that made people turn their heads without even knowing why. But you’d played it cool. You always did.

“Um… yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. His voice was softer now, a little unsure. “I was with my friends, and you… caught my attention. But you were with a friend, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

You tilted your head slightly, pretending to think. Caught his attention? That was… unexpected. You tried to guess which friend he’d been with—Oscar? Max? Carlos? Probably one of the three.

But what really surprised you was how polite he was. No cheesy pickup line. No smug grin. Just a little awkward, a little nervous, and honestly? Kind of sweet. You’d heard the rumors—Lando Norris, playboy of the paddock, heartbreaker with a grin. But this version? This slightly fidgety, maybe-too-honest guy sitting across from you?

You could work with this.

You could definitely work with this.

As much as you wanted to keep the conversation going—keep watching him fidget with his sleeves and stumble over his words like a boy who wasn’t used to being nervous—time was not on your side. Hanna and Carol would absolutely murder you if you were late to work again. And honestly, you were already pushing it.

“Anyway, I should get going. Y’know… work,” you said, slipping your laptop into your bag and trying to sound like a normal person with a normal job and not someone actively plotting emotional sabotage for a living.

But then—

“Wanna go out for dinner or lunch sometime?” Lando asked, voice hopeful, like he wasn’t sure if he was reading the moment right.

You froze.

Oh.

This was suspiciously easy. Like, too easy. You hadn’t even done anything yet. No fake tears, no chaotic energy, no weird stories about your ex-boyfriend’s ghost haunting your apartment. And here he was, asking you out like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’d love that,” you said, keeping your tone light, breezy. Inside, your brain was doing backflips. You could already hear Hanna and Carol screaming when you told them.

“Perfect,” he said, smiling now, more confident. “So… tomorrow, 6 p.m.? Here?”

You blinked. Here? Same café? That was bold. And kind of adorable. He was either really into you or really bad at dating. Maybe both.

“Deal,” you said, trying to sound casual, like this wasn’t the exact outcome you’d been hoping for. Like you weren’t already planning your outfit and your first sabotage move.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, gave him one last smile, and walked out the door with your heart racing and your mission officially in motion.

You burst into the office like a storm, practically tripping over your own feet as you threw your bag onto your chair without even bothering to sit. Your heart was still racing, your thoughts spinning, and you couldn’t hold it in for one more second.

“You are not going to believe what just happened to me!” you shouted, loud enough that someone in the hallway probably heard.

Hanna and Carol looked up from their desks, already exchanging that familiar look—the one that said here we go again. Hanna raised an eyebrow, and Carol tilted her head, both waiting for whatever chaos you were about to unload.

“Hm?” Hanna asked, calm but curious.

You started pacing, arms flailing a little as you tried to find the words. “Okay, so I was sitting in the café, right? Just doing my usual thing—pretending to work, sipping coffee, maybe scouting for the guy—and then boom. Out of nowhere. The universe just drops Lando. Fucking. Norris. right into my lap.”

Hanna gasped like she’d just been slapped. “You’re kidding!”

Carol’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She blinked, stunned, like her brain was still buffering.

You nodded, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “I swear. He walked right up to me. Sat down. Started talking. And the best part?” You paused for dramatic effect, letting the tension build. “I literally did nothing. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t even try. I was just sitting there, spiraling about my life, and he came to me.”

Carol finally found her voice. “Wait—what does that even mean?”

You dropped into your chair, still buzzing. “It means he invited me to dinner. Tomorrow. Six p.m. Same café.”

Hanna let out a shriek that echoed off the walls. Carol covered her mouth like she’d just witnessed a miracle. You leaned back, heart pounding, mind already racing through outfits and sabotage strategies.

This was it. The mission had officially begun.

────────────

DAY ONE

Dinner was at six.

You arrived at 6:07—just late enough to be annoying, but not late enough to be unforgivable. It was a calculated move. A soft push. You wanted him just a little off balance, just enough to wonder if you were the kind of person who always ran late or if you were testing him. Either way, it worked.

Lando was already there, sitting at the table with his fingers wrapped around a glass he hadn’t touched. He was spinning it slowly, staring at the condensation like it held answers. He looked nervous. Not panicked, but definitely unsure. Like a kid trying to act normal in front of the cool teacher. You loved that. You loved a man already on edge.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said brightly, sliding into your seat like you hadn’t just made a dramatic entrance. “My cat threw up on my shoes.”

You didn’t have a cat. You didn’t even like cats. But if tonight was about sabotage, you were going to start strong. Lies, confusion, chaos—your holy trinity.

Lando blinked, clearly trying to process. “Oh—uh, I hope they’re okay?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Shoes or cat?”

“…Both?” he guessed, voice soft.

Cute. He was trying. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way he kept glancing at you like he was checking to see if you were real. He wasn’t smooth, not yet. But he was polite. Sweet, even. And that made it better. You didn’t want a player. You wanted someone who’d fall hard and fast and then wonder what the hell happened.

The waiter came, and you ordered something expensive—something with ingredients you couldn’t pronounce and a price tag that made Lando’s eyebrows twitch. You watched him carefully, waiting for the reaction. He didn’t say anything, just nodded and ordered something simple. Interesting. He wasn’t going to challenge you. Not yet.

And then came your moment.

The first crack. The first twist.

You leaned forward, smile soft, voice sweet. Time to plant the seed.

Then came the inevitable question. The one that always showed up early, no matter how much small talk you tried to stretch out.

“So… what do you do? For work?”

You watched him closely as he answered. His eyes flickered, just for a second, like he was searching for the right words—or maybe the safest lie.

“I’m a… mechanic,” he said.

You blinked. Mechanic? Really?

You raised an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm. “A… mechanic? Here in Monaco?”

He nodded, stiffly. “Yeah… cars. Fixing cars.”

He looked like you’d just asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon. His shoulders were tense, his voice too careful. Like he was trying to sell a story he hadn’t rehearsed enough.

You leaned back in your chair, pretending to think it over. Mechanic. In Monaco. Sure. Because that made perfect sense. You knew what kind of cars he drove—cars that cost more than your entire apartment building. And now he wanted you to believe he spent his days elbow-deep in engine grease?

Something didn’t add up.

But you didn’t call him out. Not yet. You just smiled, nodded slowly, and filed the lie away for later.

Because if he was going to play pretend… well, two could play that game.

“Enough talking about me,” Lando said, waving his hand like he’d just cracked some kind of code. “I want to talk about you.”

Uh-oh.

You smiled, but inside, you groaned. Of course he wasn’t that interesting. You’d already figured that out. He was charming, sure, and a little nervous, which was cute—but the moment he called himself a mechanic, you knew you were dealing with someone who wasn’t exactly built for deep conversation. Still, you had to play nice. You were supposed to be sweet. Mysterious. Just weird enough to keep him guessing.

So you rolled your eyes—internally, of course, because externally you had to look polite and engaged—and braced yourself for whatever awkward questions were coming next. This was the part where he’d ask something basic, like where you were from or what you did for work, and you’d have to lie through your teeth without blinking.

“So… what do you do?” Lando asked, leaning forward a little, his elbows resting on the table, eyes wide with what looked like actual curiosity.

You blinked, caught off guard. He sounded so sincere. Like he really wanted to know. Like he wasn’t just asking to be polite or to fill the silence. You hadn’t expected that. You thought he’d be more self-absorbed, more interested in talking about himself, or at least flexing a little. But no—he was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

You gave a small shrug, pretending to think hard. “Uh… I, um… I specialize in… finding lost socks.”

His eyebrows lifted, just a little. “Lost… socks?”

You nodded, keeping your face serious. “Yeah. People’s socks. It’s very niche. Very demanding. You’d be surprised how emotional people get about it. Some socks never come back. It’s tragic, really.”

You watched him closely, waiting for the confusion to settle in. Waiting for the polite smile to crack, for the awkward silence to stretch too long. This was supposed to be weird. Off-putting. You were trying to throw him off, to make him question your sanity just enough to regret asking.

But instead, Lando’s lips twitched. Then curled into a smile. “That’s… actually kind of cute.”

You blinked.

Cute?

You were trying to annoy him, for crying out loud. You were trying to be strange and mildly concerning. And somehow, he’d taken your fake sock-finding career and turned it into something adorable. Like you were a quirky rom-com lead instead of a woman actively plotting her own romantic downfall.

This was going to be harder than you thought.

“So… do you have any hobbies? Or… weird talents?” you asked, leaning forward just a little, pretending to be genuinely curious. You tilted your head, smiled softly, and gave him space to answer. It was a test, really. You wanted to see what kind of lie he’d come up with next.

Lando hesitated. You could see the gears turning in his head, trying to land on something believable but still interesting. Finally, he shrugged. “Uh… I’m really into, um… pottery.”

You blinked.

Pottery.

Sure. That made total sense for someone whose actual life involved screaming engines, million-dollar cars, and a fanbase that could probably crash your Wi-Fi. You stared at him for a second, trying to picture it—Lando Norris in an apron, gently shaping clay with his hands, surrounded by half-finished mugs and lopsided bowls. It was… oddly charming. And also completely ridiculous.

“Pottery, huh?” you said, smiling like you weren’t internally laughing. “You know… you kind of remind me of someone.”

He tilted his head, clearly bracing for whatever you were about to say. His shoulders tensed just slightly, like he was preparing for impact. “Oh? Who?”

You grinned, letting the moment stretch. “I don’t know… someone fast, maybe… drives cars professionally? Something like that?”

His eyebrows shot up, panic flickering across his face. “Fast… drives cars? No, no, I… I just ride bicycles sometimes. Very competitive bicyclist.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was trying so hard. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way his voice got higher, like he was clinging to the lie with both hands. It was almost sweet. Almost.

But mostly? It was hilarious.

You were just about to go in for the kill. Just one little question. One tiny, innocent syllable that would’ve cracked the whole thing wide open.

“Are you, by any chance, L—”

But before you could finish, he jumped in, fast and a little too loud.

“Are you into F1, perhaps?”

You blinked.

Excuse you?

Where had that come from?

Your brain scrambled to catch up. Why would he ask that? Was this some kind of reverse psychology? Was he trying to throw you off? Or maybe he was testing you—trying to see if you’d slip up, if you already knew who he was. Did he think you were stupid? Or worse, a fan pretending not to be?

Your lips curled into a slow, suspicious smile. Two could play this game.

“F1?” you repeated, like you were trying to remember what that even stood for. “Ooh, fancy sport,” you said, waving your hand in the air like you were shooing away a mosquito. “Those guys go like—” you leaned in and made the most ridiculous zooming noise you could muster, “vroooom.”

He snorted. Actually snorted. The sound was half laugh, half surprise, and it made your stomach do something it absolutely should not have done.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Something like that.”

You shrugged, keeping your expression casual. “I don’t really follow it,” you lied, smooth as silk. “Not my thing. Too many rules, too much noise, too many men who think they’re hot shit just because they can turn left at high speed.”

He laughed again, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. And maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was wondering if you were serious or just messing with him. You hoped it was both. You wanted him confused. Off balance. Unsure of where he stood.

Because if he was going to lie, then so were you.

And you were better at it.

“Should I be interested in it?” you asked, tilting your head just slightly, letting your voice go soft and curious. You were playing innocent now, like you hadn’t just spent the last five minutes trashing the very thing that made him famous. You’d called it loud, ridiculous, full of egos—and somehow, he was still sitting across from you. Still smiling. Still trying.

Miracle.

Lando Norris was famously allergic to commitment. That much you knew. Commitment, honesty, basic emotional presence—pick one. He wasn’t known for sticking around. And yet… here he was. Not bolting. Not making excuses. Just sitting there, sipping his drink, looking at you like you were the most fascinating person in the room.

“Pff, no,” he said, waving his hand like F1 was a mosquito buzzing near his ear. “It’s a shit sport. Is it even a sport? I mean—everyone can drive a car.”

You stared at him.

He said that with his whole chest. No hesitation. No irony. Just pure, unfiltered disgust. And he was supposed to be one of the faces of the sport. You had to fight the urge to laugh. It was too good. Too ridiculous. You couldn’t have scripted it better.

“So you hate F1?” you asked, keeping your expression soft and sweet, like you were genuinely concerned. Inside, you were cackling.

“Hate,” he repeated, voice flat, eyes serious.

You let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “Good. Because I’ve never watched a single race.”

Lie. Massive lie. You’d watched every race. You’d written about half of them. You could probably quote his post-race interviews word for word. But tonight? You were just a girl who thought F1 was a bunch of guys turning left really fast.

And somehow… he was still into it.

You leaned back in your chair, squinting at him like you were trying to solve a puzzle. There was something about him—something in the way he smiled, all relaxed and smug, elbows resting on the table like he had nothing to hide. He looked far too confident for someone who should probably be sweating under the weight of his own lies.

“But still…” you said slowly, letting the words stretch, “you’re so familiar to me.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “From your dreams, probably.”

Smooth. Annoyingly smooth.

You smirked back, refusing to let him win the moment. You were supposed to be the one in control here. The one pulling strings. But he was playing along a little too well.

“No—joke,” he said, leaning in slightly. “I mean, a lot of people mistake me for some Landon who cheated on Wizard Liz.”

You blinked.

Wait. What?

No way. No way he actually knew about that bizarre internet mess. That was deep TikTok drama. The kind of thing you only knew if you spent way too much time online, scrolling through chaotic storytimes and conspiracy threads at 2 a.m. And yet… he said it so casually. Like it was common knowledge. Like he’d been following the whole thing, too.

“Yeah… I think that’s it,” you said, nodding thoughtfully, pretending it all made perfect sense. “You’ve got that same energy. Real Landon vibes.”

He laughed, and you took another sip of your drink, hiding your grin behind the glass. You weren’t sure if he was messing with you or just weirdly well-informed. Either way, it was working. You were supposed to be throwing him off—but somehow, he kept surprising you.

And you kind of loved it.

You let out a dramatic sigh, swirling your glass just a little too hard, watching the liquid slosh dangerously close to the rim. And then—oops. In the most “accidental” way possible, you tipped it forward, sending a neat splash of red wine straight onto Lando’s crisp white shirt. It was a perfect hit. Right across the chest. A slow, blooming stain that spread like a watercolor painting. You gasped, loud and theatrical, already grabbing your napkin and flinging it at him like it might somehow undo the damage.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” you cried, pushing back your chair with a screech and jumping to your feet. You clutched your hands to your face, eyes wide, voice cracking like you were on the verge of tears. “I ruined your shirt! I can’t believe me!”

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and bolted toward the door, fake sniffles bubbling up in your throat, your heart pounding—not from guilt, but from the thrill of it. This was it. The first real move. The first real test. You imagined the chaos of the next ten days unfolding like a movie montage—awkward moments, weird lies, emotional sabotage. You were already halfway to the exit, ready to disappear in a cloud of fake shame, when—

You felt a hand close gently around your arm.

“Hey, hey—stop,” Lando said, his voice low and calm, not even a little annoyed. He pulled you back, not hard, just enough to make you pause. “It’s okay. Really. Don’t cry.”

You turned, blinking up at him, caught off guard. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t flustered. He wasn’t even looking at the wine stain. He was looking at you, like he actually cared. Like he believed you were upset and wanted to make it better.

Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to get annoyed. Embarrassed. Maybe even storm out. But instead, he was being… kind. Gentle. The exact opposite of what you’d planned for.

Just as you were about to protest—maybe tease him a little more, maybe push the conversation into slightly weirder territory—he tilted his head, eyes sparkling with something that looked dangerously close to hope.

“Hey… so, random and funny thing,” Lando said, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to play it cool. “I, uh… accidentally bought two tickets to the Monaco vs PSG match. Would you… maybe want to come with me?”

You blinked.

Accidentally bought two? Sure. Totally believable. Because people just accidentally buy extra tickets to one of the biggest football matches in the country. You stared at him for a second, trying to decide if he was bluffing or just bad at lying. Either way, it didn’t matter. The offer was real. The moment was real. And it was falling into your lap like the universe had skipped ahead in your ten-day plan and decided to speed-run the romance part.

Part of you wanted to scream. This was too easy. You hadn’t even pulled out the weird stories or the fake emotional breakdowns yet. And already he was inviting you to a second date. A public one. With crowds and noise and cameras. You could practically hear Hanna and Carol losing their minds.

But the other part of you—the part that knew how to play this game—kept your face calm, your voice breezy.

“Uh… sure,” you said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I guess I could… watch a football match. Why not?”

He lit up. Like you’d just handed him the moon. His grin was wide and boyish and way too sincere for someone who was supposed to be emotionally unavailable.

“Perfect! Tomorrow, then,” he said. “You’ll love it. It’s… actually really fun.”

You nodded, sipping your drink slowly, pretending to think about it like you hadn’t already started planning your outfit and your next sabotage move.

────────────

DAY TWO

The truth was… Lando had actually bought five tickets. Not two. Five. One for you, one for himself, and three for the chaos committee—Max, Oscar, and Charles. The plan was simple: they’d sit a few rows back, close enough to watch the match, but mostly there to keep an eye on things. On you. On him. On whatever this was turning into.

Now the four of them were outside the Stade Louis II, leaning against a low wall, the sun dipping low behind the stands. The air buzzed with the usual pre-match energy—fans shouting, vendors yelling, the smell of beer and hot dogs drifting through the air. But Lando barely noticed any of it. His head was still spinning from the night before.

“So…” Charles started, his voice full of mischief, “how was the date?”

Lando groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Somewhere between horrible and amazing.”

It was the only way he could describe it. The whole thing had been a mess—an actual mess. The lies he’d thrown out? Completely unplanned. He’d panicked. Said the first thing that came to mind. Mechanic. Pottery. Bicycles. He wasn’t even sure what story he’d told by the end of it. It was all a blur of fake jobs and weird jokes and you looking at him like you knew exactly what he was doing and were choosing not to say anything.

“Why’s that?” Max asked, grinning like he already knew the answer.

Lando shook his head, still half in disbelief. “She has no idea who I am,” he said. “Told her I’m… a mechanic.”

Oscar choked on his drink. Charles burst out laughing. Max just stared at him, eyebrows raised, clearly impressed.

Lando sighed, staring out at the stadium. “I don’t even know why I said it. She asked what I did and I just… panicked. It came out before I could stop it.”

And the worst part? You’d believed him. Or at least, you’d pretended to. You’d nodded like it made perfect sense, like you hadn’t already guessed something was off. And then you’d gone and made up your own job—something about finding lost socks—and he still wasn’t sure if you were joking or just completely unhinged.

But you’d said yes to football. You were coming tonight. And that meant something, didn’t it?

Lando leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, a small shake of his head giving away just how much he was still processing. “And also… she told me she’s never watched an F1 race,” he said, almost like he still couldn’t believe it. “So she probably doesn’t know any of you. Honestly, it’s safer than I thought.”

Max let out a loud laugh, tossing a peanut into his mouth like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week. “Oh, please. Everyone knows my name.”

“Yeah,” Charles cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Because of how fucking arrogant you are.”

Max didn’t miss a beat. “And you’re known by everyone thanks to your seven-year-long Ferrari depression,” he shot back, grinning.

Charles scoffed, but didn’t deny it.

Oscar groaned, rubbing his temples like he was the only adult in the room. “Can you two please be quiet? You sound like an old married couple.” He turned to Lando, eyes narrowing with interest. “I want to hear more about her.”

Lando hesitated for a second, then let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Her name’s Y/n,” he said, voice softer now. “She’s… a bit weird. Like, really weird. But mostly cute.”

He didn’t mean it as an insult. If anything, it was the opposite. There was something about the way you said things—so confidently, so casually—that threw him off in the best way. You didn’t try to impress him. You didn’t ask for anything. You just sat there, sipping your drink, making up stories about lost socks. And somehow, that had been the most fun he’d had in ages.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Weird how?”

Lando just shook his head, still smiling. “You kind of have to see it to get it.”

“You look like you’ve been daydreaming about her,” Max said, nudging Lando with his elbow and grinning like he already knew the answer. “Does Lando Norris have a crush?”

Lando scoffed, too fast, too loud. “Gosh, no,” he said, waving a hand like he was brushing the whole idea away. “It’s not like that.”

It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It was just the car. The thrill of knowing he could still pull someone without the name, the fame, the noise. Just him. Just a guy with a fake job and a half-baked lie and somehow, she’d still said yes. That was all it was. A little ego boost. A reminder that he didn’t need the spotlight to be interesting. That he could still be wanted without the helmet and the cameras.

“I just want the car,” he added, more firmly this time. Like saying it again would make it true.

Max raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying a word of it. “Uh-huh. Sure, mate. Totally just the car.”

“Lando,” Oscar said slowly, narrowing his eyes like he was piecing together a mystery on a whiteboard, “you like her.”

Lando’s head snapped up. “I don’t,” he said, way too fast. Too sharp. The kind of answer that only made it more obvious.

Oscar raised his eyebrows, clearly not buying it. Charles didn’t even look up from his drink. He just took a slow sip and added, “You do. You get that face.”

Lando frowned. “What face?”

“That face you make when Max starts talking about his sim results,” Oscar said, deadpan.

Max gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been personally attacked. “My sim results are important.”

Charles didn’t even blink. “No one’s arguing that, Max,” he said, still focused on Lando. “The concept of Lando Norris liking girl who doesn’t know who he is…insane.”

Lando opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because what was he supposed to say? That he didn’t care? That it was all part of some weird game? That he was just having fun?

Except… he wasn’t sure anymore.

You’d gotten under his skin faster than he expected. And now, with the boys looking at him like they’d already figured it out, he felt like the only one still pretending.

Lando opened his mouth, ready to deny it again—ready to insist, for the hundredth time, that he didn’t like you, that this was just a game, just a bit of fun—but then Oscar’s eyes went wide, like he’d just seen a ghost.

“Uh, guys? Incoming.”

Lando turned.

And there you were.

Walking toward the stadium entrance, eyes scanning the crowd, your steps steady but your expression just a little uncertain. And then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—you spotted them. Him. And you started walking straight toward them.

“Shit.”

Lando shot to his feet so fast Max actually blinked. His heart was suddenly racing, his palms weirdly sweaty, and he had no idea why he felt like he was about to be caught doing something illegal.

“Okay—be normal,” he muttered under his breath, eyes darting between his friends. “Stop smiling like that, you look stupid. Oscar, stop waving at her. Max—Max, stop breathing loudly. And for the love of God, don’t mention anything F1.”

“I’m literally just EXISTING,” Max hissed, offended.

Too late. You were already there.

You were walking straight toward them, and your heart was pounding. Not just fluttering—leaping. Like it had launched itself into your throat and was now trying to escape through your mouth. Because there they were. Not just Lando, but Oscar Piastri. Charles Leclerc. And Max motherfucking Verstappen.

Holy. Shit.

He brought them with him?

You tried to keep your face calm, but your brain was screaming. Max was hotter in real life. Stupidly hot. It was actually rude. And Charles? Even prettier than the internet made him out to be. Oscar looked like he’d just stepped out of a Netflix teen drama. And they were all just… there. Standing around like this was normal. Like this wasn’t the most surreal moment of your life.

And Lando—poor, clueless Lando—was standing in the middle of it all, looking like he was trying not to panic. He had no idea. No idea that Carol and Hanna were just a few steps behind you, phones already out, documenting every single detail. Every glance. Every awkward smile. Every second of this ridiculous, perfect disaster.

This was it.

The article was writing itself.

You turned on the sparkle like it was a performance, digging deep into your emotional catalog for the most over-the-top, painfully sweet smile you could manage. It was the kind of smile that belonged in a cheesy soap opera or a reality show reunion—big, bright, and completely fake. You practically skipped the last few steps toward him, arms already outstretched like you were running into the arms of a long-lost lover.

“Babyyy!!” you shrieked, throwing yourself at Lando like you hadn’t seen him in a decade. Like you’d survived a war, a shipwreck, and a dramatic love triangle just to be here now, in his arms.

For a second, his soul visibly left his body. You saw it in his eyes—the pure panic, the moment of hesitation, the silent scream. Max’s eyebrows shot into another dimension. Oscar made a choking sound even though he hadn’t been eating or drinking anything. Charles just stared, wide-eyed, like he was watching a car crash in slow motion and couldn’t look away.

And then—somehow—Lando played along.

He caught you, steadied you, and wrapped an arm around your back like this was something he did every day. Like you hadn’t just given him the biggest ick known to mankind. Like this wasn’t the most unhinged greeting he’d ever received in public. He held you like it was normal. Like it was fine.

“Hey, love,” he said, his voice cracking just a little at the edges, like it was trying to hold itself together with duct tape and hope. “Good to see you.”

You almost broke character. Almost. Because the fact that he was committing to this? That he was actually going along with it? It was ridiculous. It was stupid. It was kind of… adorable.

You pulled back just enough to cup his cheeks in both hands, tilting his face toward yours like you were about to burst into tears from joy. “Lan-Lan,” you said, dragging out the nickname with as much drama as you could, “I missed you sooo much.”

You didn’t even have to look to know Max was cringing. You could feel it radiating off him like heat. Oscar had turned away, probably to keep from laughing. Charles looked like he was one sarcastic comment away from collapsing to the ground.

And Lando—sweet, poor, flustered Lando—somehow kept smiling. Barely. His eyes were wide, his jaw tight, but he didn’t let go.

“Yeah,” he wheezed, patting your arm like he wasn’t sure if you were going to kiss him or stage a public proposal. “Missed you too.”

You beamed at him, heart pounding with the thrill of it all.

You turned your attention to the trio standing just behind Lando, letting your gaze sweep over them slowly, like you were sizing up a suspicious group of teenagers loitering outside a convenience store. Their expressions were… well, interesting, to say the least. Somewhere between startled and deeply uncomfortable. Like they’d just been caught doing something illegal and weren’t sure if they should run or smile.

“You brought your little friends with you?” you asked sweetly, voice dripping with mock horror. You clutched your chest like you were genuinely scandalized. “Lando, I thought this was our special day.”

All three of them froze.

Their eyes went wide, like you’d just accused them of a federal crime. Max looked like he was calculating how fast he could disappear. Charles blinked once—slow, suspicious, like he was trying to figure out if you were dangerous or just deeply unwell. Oscar looked like he wanted to melt into the pavement.

“Um… yeah,” Lando said, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly regretting every decision that had led to this moment. “But they won’t bother us much. They’ll sit somewhere else.”

You raised an eyebrow, giving the trio a long, slow once-over. These were the famous F1 drivers? The legends? The icons? Honestly, they looked less like elite athletes and more like a trio of overgrown Powerpuff Girls—one brooding, one smug, one already emotionally exhausted.

“Well, yeah,” Lando added awkwardly, gesturing toward them like he was introducing a school project group he didn’t pick. “This is Oscar, Charles, and Max.”

The boys did not look thrilled. Not even a little.

Max crossed his arms, jaw tight, clearly plotting revenge in real time. Charles gave you the slowest blink you’d ever seen, like he was trying to process your entire existence in one go. Oscar just shook his head, muttering under his breath, “This is going to be a disaster.”

“Let’s go, Lando,” you said, grabbing his arm like you’d done it a hundred times before and tugging him toward the stadium entrance. No hesitation, no looking back. Just full steam ahead into the next phase of chaos.

Behind you, Max’s voice rang out, loud and delighted. “Have fun, lovebirds!” he called, waving like a maniac, clearly enjoying every second of this trainwreck.

You leaned in close to Lando as you walked, lowering your voice just enough to make it feel like a secret. “Ugh… Oscar,” you whispered, wrinkling your nose. “Seriously. He looks like he hasn’t felt a single emotion in his life. Creepy, right?”

You expected him to flinch. To pull away. To get weird about it. You were talking trash about his best mate, after all. This was supposed to be the moment he started to question you. To feel the ick. To wonder what he was doing here.

But instead—he laughed.

A real laugh. Not forced. Not polite. Just a soft, surprised huff of amusement that made his shoulders shake a little.

“Yeah… he’s a little scary, isn’t he?” Lando said, grinning as he shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from emotionless men in black.”

You blinked at him, thrown off for a second. That wasn’t the reaction you were expecting. Not even close. You’d meant it as a jab. A little test. Something to make him uncomfortable. But he’d just… rolled with it. Turned it into a joke. Matched your energy without missing a beat.

And now you were stuck somewhere between mild annoyance and reluctant admiration. Because damn it, he was quick. And charming. And apparently not as easy to rattle as you’d hoped.

You and Lando found your seats—surprisingly good ones. Padded cushions, perfect view, close enough to see the players’ expressions but far enough to avoid beer spills. It made sense, really. Lando was absolutely terrible at pretending not to be rich. He could say “I’m just a mechanic” all he wanted, but the man booked seats like he had a black card and a personal assistant.

You settled in, smoothing your jacket, crossing your legs just so. You took a slow sip of your drink, letting the moment settle. The sun was warm, the crowd buzzing, and Lando was next to you, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. For a second, everything felt weirdly… calm.

Then you glanced over your shoulder.

And froze.

A few rows behind you—just far enough to pretend it was a coincidence, just close enough to ruin your life—sat Carol and Hanna. Your best friends. Your co-conspirators. Your chaos committee. Phones already out, eyes locked on you like hawks. You could practically feel the group chat exploding in real time.

And right next to them?

The Powerpuff Girls.

Max, Oscar, and Charles. All three of them. Sitting there like they were just regular guys, not international celebrities with faces you’d seen on billboards and magazine covers. Max looked like he was already bored. Oscar had his arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd like a security guard. Charles was sipping something fizzy, legs crossed, sunglasses on, giving off the energy of a man who had seen things and was not impressed.

Of course.

Because coincidence wasn’t just real—it was a vindictive little bitch with a flair for drama.

You turned back around slowly, heart pounding, brain already racing through backup plans. This was supposed to be a controlled environment. A simple, low-stakes outing. But now the stakes were sky-high, and the audience was stacked with people who knew exactly what you were doing.

You turned back to Lando slowly, narrowing your eyes like you were about to interrogate him under a spotlight. He was trying to look relaxed, legs stretched out, hands in his lap—but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly against his thigh.

“So tell me,” you said, leaning in just enough to make him nervous, “where exactly did a mechanic get the money for seats like these?”

He froze for half a second. Blinked. And then, like a switch had flipped, he pasted on the most painfully casual smile you’d ever seen. It was the kind of smile that screamed I’m lying and I know it but I’m hoping you’re too polite to call me out.

“Uh—well—they were on sale,” he said, voice cracking just a little at the end. “And, you know… anything to charm a girl like you.”

You stared at him.

Right. And you were the Queen of England.

He cleared his throat, clearly scrambling now, and gestured around with a little flourish that looked like it had escaped before he could stop it. “And besides,” he added, trying to sound breezy, “you’re in Monaco, love. Every seat here is nice.”

You raised an eyebrow, sipping your drink slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him sweat. Sure. Keep lying, little mechanic boy. Keep digging that hole.

Because the more he tried to sell the story, the more obvious it became that he had no idea how to lie properly. And honestly? It was kind of endearing. In a deeply chaotic, wildly suspicious, how-is-this-your-plan kind of way.

You straightened in your seat, trying to look like you were deeply analyzing the game—like you were one of those people who said things like “high press” and actually meant it. You nodded slowly, seriously, as if you were watching a chess match instead of a bunch of men chasing a ball.

“Ah… yes, yes,” you said, voice low and thoughtful. “So… if he passes here, then—oh! And look! The defense… they’re, um… not very… aggressive?”

Lando turned to look at you, blinking once. You could see the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he was clearly trying to hold it back. Failing, but trying.

“Uh… yeah… sure,” he said, nodding solemnly. “That’s… exactly what’s happening.”

You leaned in a little closer, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “I think if they just… like… kick it more… maybe… he’ll score? Or something. Totally strategic.”

That did it. He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re… adorable when you pretend to know football.”

You froze.

Adorable?

Seriously?

You were trying to be chaotic. Weird. Mildly annoying. You were trying to make him question every decision that had led him to this moment. And instead, he was looking at you like you’d just handed him a puppy and a warm blanket.

“Uh… thanks,” you muttered, suddenly flustered. “I totally know what I’m talking about. Obviously.”

He winked, all smug and sweet at once. “Obviously.”

You turned back to the field, cheeks warm, heart doing something it absolutely shouldn’t be doing. This was not the plan. You were supposed to be giving him the ick. Making him regret this whole thing.

Instead, he was smiling like he actually liked you.

Perfect.

Your plan? Failing. Spectacularly.

────────────

DAY THREE

“This shit is not working!” you shouted, storming across the living room like a CEO about to fire her entire board. Your arms flailed, your voice echoed, and your pacing was so aggressive it was a miracle the floor didn’t file a complaint.

On the couch, Hanna and Carol lounged like they were watching a nature documentary. Hanna was even eating chips, legs tucked under her like this was just another Tuesday. Monsters. Absolute monsters.

“Yesterday was a disaster,” you groaned, pressing a dramatic hand to your forehead like a Victorian woman about to faint. “The football match? Horrible. It started horrible. First of all—he brought the idiots with him.”

“Powerpuff Girls,” Carol corrected, completely serious, not even looking up from her phone.

“Yes. Them.” You pointed like you were naming suspects in a murder trial. “And then I turn around and see you two talking to the idiots.”

Hanna raised a hand, calm as ever. “Correction: we were not talking to them. They were talking to us. Big difference.”

Carol nodded, still scrolling. “Yeah. Max said he liked my earrings.”

You stared at them like they’d just committed treason. “Jesus Christ.”

But you didn’t stop pacing. You couldn’t. Your brain was on fire, your plan was in shambles, and your friends were acting like this was a casual brunch recap.

“Doesn’t matter,” you muttered, throwing your hands in the air. “None of it matters. Then I try to give him the ick—again—and he just smiles. Smiles! Like I’m adorable or some shit.”

Hanna snorted, reaching for another chip. “Maybe he thinks you’re adorable.”

You froze mid-step, eyes narrowing.

That was not the point.

That was exactly the opposite of the point.

“No! Don’t even mention this,” you groaned, flopping onto the couch like your soul had left your body. You threw an arm over your eyes for dramatic effect, already spiraling. “I literally tried everything.”

Hanna raised an eyebrow, calm as ever. “Everything?”

“Yes!” you cried, sitting up just to gesture wildly. “I fake cried. Twice. I told him I don’t watch F1. Shit-talked Oscar—his teammate—in front of him! Nothing! He just smiled. Is he… is he immune to stupidity?”

Carol snorted from the other end of the couch. “He is stupidity.”

You blinked at her, thrown. “What?”

Carol shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The more you act stupid, the more he plays along. He likes it.”

You let out a groan so loud it could’ve cracked glass. You flopped back again, arms splayed like you were auditioning for a tragic stage play. “No. No. No. That is not supposed to happen. That’s cheating. He’s cheating the system.”

Hanna popped a chip in her mouth, completely unbothered. “Maybe the system’s broken.”

You opened your mouth, ready to launch into the next chapter of your meltdown—something about how the universe was clearly conspiring against you—when—

“Y/n.”

You froze mid-breath.

Hanna froze, chip halfway to her mouth.

Carol froze with a mouthful of pretzels, eyes wide.

The three of you turned to each other in perfect sync, sharing one identical look of pure, unfiltered horror.

“…Please tell me that was the TV,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

“We’re not watching TV,” Hanna whispered back, eyes locked on yours.

Then it came again—louder this time, unmistakable:

“Y/N! COME DOWN!”

Your body snapped toward the window like someone had yanked an invisible string. You crept over, heart pounding, and slowly peeled back the curtain.

And there he was.

Lando Norris.

Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands shoved in his pockets. Helmet dangling casually from one wrist. And next to him? A tiny electric scooter that looked like it belonged to a twelve-year-old. It was bright red, slightly scuffed, and absolutely not the kind of vehicle a humble mechanic would be zipping around Monaco on.

You stared.

He looked up and spotted you instantly, grinning like this was a romcom and you were about to run down the stairs into his arms.

You, meanwhile, were dying. Actively. Internally combusting.

“WHAT DOES HE WANT?! HOW DOES HE EVEN KNOW WHERE I LIVE?!” you whisper-shouted, pacing the living room like a cat that had just had three shots of espresso. Your hands were flying, your heart was racing, and your brain was doing somersaults. This was not part of the plan. This was not supposed to happen.

“AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!” Hanna shouted back from the couch, just as dramatic, throwing her arms in the air like she was in a soap opera.

Carol, of course, was completely calm. She shrugged, still chewing on a pretzel. “He probably followed you home.”

You spun around to glare at her. “CAROL.”

She blinked. “What? It’s Monaco. Everything’s five minutes apart.”

You groaned, threw your hands up, and marched over to the window. With a deep breath, you leaned halfway out, trying to look casual even though your soul was screaming.

“Lanny, babyy!” you called, voice high and sweet and fake. “What are you doing here?!”

And then you froze.

Lanny? What the hell had just come out of your mouth? You didn’t even know where that nickname came from. Maybe—hopefully—it would finally give him the ick. Maybe he’d turn around and scooter away forever.

But no. Of course not.

Because there he was. Lando Norris. Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands in his pockets, helmet dangling from one wrist, next to a tiny red scooter. It was 11 PM. He was smiling like this was a perfectly reasonable time to show up uninvited.

“I was going by,” he said, grinning up at you, “and I thought I could take you for a ride… and ice cream?”

You squinted at him, trying to figure out if he was serious. “At 11 PM?”

He shrugged, lifting the helmet slightly. “Yeah. Midnight gelato. Best time of day.”

You stared at him.

Well, of course you agreed.

This man was going to ruin your life. And somehow, you were starting to think you might let him.

The scooter ride had been… a lot. Wind in your face, your hair whipping around like it had a personal vendetta, and Lando narrating the entire journey like he was hosting a motorsport documentary. “This corner’s perfect for leaning,” he’d said at least three times, like that meant anything to a normal person. Meanwhile, you were just trying not to scream or fall off the back of his ridiculous little scooter.

Eventually, you pulled up outside a tiny gelato shop tucked between two quiet buildings, its windows glowing soft and golden like something out of a fairy tale. Or a fever dream. Honestly, it could go either way.

You hopped off, brushing your hair out of your face, hands on your hips. Your brain was already spinning with possibilities. You needed a new tactic. Something bold. Something unhinged. Something that would finally make him back away slowly and question all his life choices.

Marriage.

Yes. That was it. Commitment. The ultimate ick. Lando Norris hated that stuff, right? Weddings, forever, matching bathrobes—probably his worst nightmare. Right up there with McLaren strategy meetings and running out of hair product.

You turned to him, gelato in hand, and went for it.

“Lanny! Guess what!” you said, voice high and bright and full of fake joy. “I already planned our wedding!”

You even held your gelato up like it was a bouquet. Cringe level: maximum. You were proud of it.

He blinked at you. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to think, Yes. This is it. He’s going to run.

But then—he grinned.

“No way, love,” he said, eyes sparkling. “That’s perfect!”

You froze mid-bite, spoon halfway to your mouth.

Perfect?

This was your third date. Third. And he was already playing along like you’d just told him you booked the venue and he was picking the cake. No hesitation. No weird look. Just… full commitment to the bit.

You stared at him, completely thrown.

This man was not playing fair.

You inhaled sharply, steeling yourself. Fine. If marriage didn’t scare him, you’d just have to take it up a notch. Go bigger. Weirder. Push the chaos to its limits.

“So!” you chirped, looping your arm through his as you strolled toward a little table outside the gelato shop. “The wedding theme is… Disney princesses.”

Lando stumbled a little, catching himself with a quick step. “Princesses?”

“Mm-hm,” you said, taking an exaggerated lick of your gelato like it was a royal decree. “I’ll arrive in a giant pumpkin carriage pulled by actual white horses. Real ones. With little flower crowns. And you—” you paused for dramatic effect, “—you’ll be in a sparkly blue tux. Like Cinderella. But, you know, the man-version.”

Lando blinked at you, clearly trying to picture it. “A blue tux? With sparkles?”

You nodded, dead serious. “And glass slippers. Obviously.”

He stared at you for a beat too long. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The slow backing away. But instead—

He snorted.

The man snorted.

Then he smiled, wide and warm, like you’d just told him the most charming thing he’d ever heard. “If it makes you happy,” he said, eyes dancing, “I’ll wear two pairs.”

You froze, spoon halfway to your mouth.

Two pairs?

Oh my god.

Was he… enjoying this?

This was supposed to be the moment he cracked. The moment he realized you were too much, too weird, too extra. But instead, he was grinning like he was already halfway to the altar, glass slippers and all.

You stared at him, heart thudding, brain short-circuiting.

You stared at him, completely baffled. This was it. Time for the nuclear option. If this didn’t send him running, nothing would.

“And our honeymoon?” you said sweetly, like you hadn’t just declared emotional war.

He raised an eyebrow, playful. “Oh? Where are we going, Mrs. Norris?”

Mrs. Norris.

You nearly dropped your gelato. The spoon wobbled in your hand. Your brain short-circuited for a full second. That name should’ve made you gag. Instead, it made your stomach do something deeply inconvenient.

“Hawaii,” you said, recovering fast. “But not the pretty honeymoon part. The volcano part. I want us to take couple photos in front of lava. Like, actual lava. Bubbling. Dangerous. Symbolic.”

Lando paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The what is wrong with you look.

But no.

He nodded, completely serious. “Lava’s romantic. Warm lighting.”

You choked. “Warm lighting?!”

He just smiled, soft and easy, and scooped another spoonful of gelato—then held it out to you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he wasn’t supposed to be running for his life right now.

You stared at him, stunned. Melting faster than the gelato in your hand.

This was supposed to be sabotage. A slow, strategic unraveling. But instead, it was turning into something else entirely.

────────────

DAY FOUR

Somehow, Lando had found out you really liked art. Not just “likes pretty pictures” liked it, but the kind of like where you could spend hours in a gallery, quietly walking from one painting to the next, letting the colors and brushstrokes sink into your chest. You never told him that. Not directly. And yet, here you were—walking into a gallery with soft lighting and quiet music, your hand tucked into his like it belonged there.

It was thoughtful. Suspiciously thoughtful. Because Lando didn’t exactly scream “art guy.” His idea of creative expression started and ended with the design of his race helmets. And yet, he’d brought you here. To this place. With its white walls and whispered conversations and paintings that made your heart ache in the best way. You had no idea how he knew. It almost felt like he’d read a listicle about you. “Top 25 Things Y/n Loves.” If anyone else had done that, it would’ve been creepy. But when it was Lando? It was… weirdly flattering. Dangerous, even.

You walked through the gallery hand in hand, and it was soft in a way that made your chest feel tight. The kind of soft that made strangers smile at you. The kind of soft that felt like a photo someone would take and keep forever. But Lando? He stuck out like a sore thumb dipped in neon paint. He looked completely out of place—like a man trying to read a menu in a language he didn’t speak, hoping the pictures would help. His eyes darted from painting to painting, his head tilted like he was trying to understand what made them special. It was obvious he didn’t get it. But he was trying. For you.

And that? That was dangerously hot.

You stopped in front of a massive Monet. The colors were soft and glowing, like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from. Blues and greens and gentle reflections, water lilies floating like they were made of light. It made something shift in your chest. Something quiet and warm and a little overwhelming.

Lando squinted at the corner of the painting, leaning in slightly. “Wow… Monet, huh?”

You glanced at him, lips twitching. At least he could read.

But when you looked closer, you saw it—the way he was watching you, not the painting. Like he was trying to figure out what you saw in it. Like he wanted to understand, even if he didn’t.

You nodded, relieved to be on familiar ground. “Yes! One of the greats. Impressionism. Emotion. Atmosphere. He basically reinvented how people saw the world—how they painted light, movement, feeling—”

“I could totally do that myself,” Lando said.

You gasped so loudly it echoed off the gallery walls. An elderly couple turned around, startled. A security guard glanced over. Somewhere, you were sure Monet rolled in his grave.

“I’m serious,” Lando said, completely unfazed, hands on his hips like he was inspecting a construction site. “Give me five minutes, a sponge, and some paint, and—boom—same thing.”

Your hands flew to your chest like you’d just been personally attacked. “Are you comparing yourself to MONET?!”

He shrugged. Shrugged. Like he hadn’t just committed art blasphemy in public. “What? It’s just… blurry flowers.”

You stared at him, mouth open, heart pounding, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or drag him out by the collar. But then he looked at you with that stupid grin, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d said it just to get a rise out of you. And damn it, it was working.

“BLURRY—” you gasped, clutching your chest like you’d just been stabbed. “Blurrrrry FLOWERS?! Lando, that’s Water Lilies. That’s history. That’s emotion. That’s art.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just raised one eyebrow, calm and smug, like he was about to win a debate he hadn’t studied for. “Looks like flowers having an identity crisis to me.”

You stared at him, stunned. You could actually feel your soul leaving your body. Packing its bags. Booking a one-way flight. Waving goodbye.

“You can’t even draw a straight line, baby,” you snapped, turning to glare at him like he’d just insulted your entire bloodline.

He shrugged. Shrugged. With the kind of confidence only a man who had never been humbled by a blank canvas could pull off. “If I actually put effort into it, it’d be way better.”

Oh.

Oh, perfect.

A beautiful opportunity had just fallen into your lap. A chance for public humiliation. A dramatic scene. The kind of moment that would live in his memory forever, filed under reasons to never date Y/n again.

The ultimate ick delivery system.

Your plan?

Back on track.

And this time, you were going to make sure he regretted ever doubting Monet.

“Better?” you repeated, voice low and dangerous, eyes narrowing like you were about to put him on trial. “You think you could do better than Monet?”

Lando lifted one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, hands tucked into his pockets like this was a casual chat about breakfast options. “I mean… yeah? If I tried hard enough.”

You let out a laugh so loud it echoed through the gallery. Two old ladies turned around, scandalized. One of them clutched her pearls. The other narrowed her eyes like she was ready to defend Monet’s honor with her handbag.

Amazing. Perfect. A crowd.

Exactly what you needed.

“OH! OH REALLY?!” you cried, stepping back and throwing your arms wide like you were about to deliver a Shakespearean monologue. “YOU think you could paint something better than WATER LILIES?!”

Lando blinked at the sudden attention, clearly clocking the small audience now watching your meltdown like it was performance art. But instead of backing down, he just smiled, cool as ever. “Well, yeah. Not saying I will, just saying I could.”

You slapped your forehead with a dramatic groan, staggering back like his words had physically wounded you.

The old ladies gasped in unison.

A child nearby giggled, delighted.

And Lando?

Still standing there, smug and unbothered, like he hadn’t just committed artistic blasphemy in public.

“HE THINKS HE CAN OUT-PAINT MONET!” you shouted, voice echoing through the gallery as you pointed at Lando like he was a medieval criminal awaiting judgment. Heads turned. A security guard looked mildly alarmed. Somewhere in the distance, a docent paused mid-tour.

Lando just smiled, hands lifted in mock surrender, like he was being arrested for stealing hearts. “Okay, okay. Calm down, darlin’.”

Darlin’.

Oh. New nickname unlocked. But no. He wasn’t getting off that easy.

“No!” you snapped, arms crossing with dramatic flair. “No calming down. Do you even understand how insulting this is to me? I bring you to Monet—MONET—and you say… ‘blurry flowers’?!”

“I stand by it,” he said, completely calm, like he wasn’t actively committing art treason in front of witnesses.

You gasped, loud and theatrical, like you’d just been told your favorite childhood pet was a lie. “You know what?” you said, stepping closer, voice dropping into something serious and dangerous. “This is serious.”

Lando tilted his head, eyes soft and steady. “Serious?”

“SERIOUS,” you said, stepping closer like you were about to deliver life-changing news. You lowered your voice, slow and dramatic, like a doctor in a movie. “I think… we need couples therapy.”

There was a sharp gasp from the couple standing nearby. Someone behind you whispered, “No way…” like they were watching a soap opera unfold in real time.

But Lando?

He didn’t even blink.

He just nodded, calm as ever. “Alright,” he said, like you’d just suggested grabbing coffee. “If that’s what you want, yeah. We can totally do it.”

You stared at him, completely thrown. “I—what?”

“We can do couples therapy,” he repeated, voice gentle, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “If it’ll help you feel better.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your brain made that weird crashing sound, like an old computer freezing mid-task. You could almost hear the error message pop up in your head. System overload. Please restart.

“What—Lando, we’re not— I mean, it’s been—” You stopped yourself just in time. You were about to blow the whole thing. The fake relationship. The sabotage plan. The carefully crafted chaos.

But then he reached out, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. Soft. Steady. Like he meant it.

“Whatever you need, love,” he said, eyes warm. “I’m in.”

Your mouth fell open. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even think. Because what the actual fuck was happening? How was he not running? How was he not even confused?

Was he immune to everything? Or—worse—was he playing you at your own game?

Because if this was reverse psychology, it was working. And if it wasn’t… you were in serious trouble.

Your heart was doing something it absolutely should not be doing.

And your plan?

Yeah. It was falling apart in the most terrifying, wonderful way.

────────────

DAY FIVE

The therapist—poor, unsuspecting woman—looked between you and Lando with the exact expression of someone who had just realized they’d walked into a live minefield wearing flip-flops. Her smile was polite, but her eyes were already scanning for exits. She folded her hands gently in her lap, trying to keep things calm. “So,” she said, voice soft and careful, “what brings you two here today?”

You took a deep, dramatic breath, like you were about to deliver a monologue. Lando, meanwhile, sat beside you like he’d been preparing for this moment his entire life. One leg crossed over the other, completely relaxed, like this was just another casual stop on his calendar. He looked like the kind of man who thought therapy was a fun little bonding activity. You, on the other hand, were ready to burn the room down.

“Where do I begin?” you said, throwing your hands up like the weight of your fake relationship was too much to bear. “There’s a lot wrong.”

Lando nodded, serious as ever. “We’re very complex.”

You turned to glare at him. He just smiled back, soft and golden and infuriating, like a golden retriever who’d just chewed up your favorite shoes but still expected a cuddle. It was impossible to stay mad at him, which only made you more mad.

The therapist blinked, clearly trying to keep up. “Alright… maybe start with something specific?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Monet.”

Lando let out a quiet groan beside you, already sensing where this was going. “Oh, come on—”

“No,” you said, cutting him off, leaning forward like you were about to present evidence in a courtroom. “Because I need you to understand this. He pointed at Water Lilies—WATER. LILIES.—and called it ‘blurry flowers.’”

You could feel your heart rate rising just thinking about it again. The betrayal. The audacity. The complete lack of respect for one of the greatest artists in history. And Lando? He just sat there, looking mildly amused, like this was all part of some inside joke you hadn’t been let in on.

You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that he’d said it, or the fact that he still didn’t seem sorry.

And the therapist?

She looked like she was starting to regret her career choices.

Lando shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s objectively true. They were blurry.”

You slapped your hand over your face, dragging it down slowly like you were trying to physically hold in your soul before it escaped your body.

“And!” you said, voice rising again as you pointed at him like you were building a case in front of a jury. “He genuinely believes he could paint better than Monet if he—” you made air quotes with your fingers, “—‘put effort into it.’”

The therapist turned to Lando slowly, like she was bracing herself for whatever nonsense might come next. “Do you truly believe that?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought for a second. Then, with the confidence of a man who had never once been told no in his life, said, “…Yes?”

You gasped so hard it felt like your lungs had collapsed. “SEE?! He’s delusional!”

Lando reached over and patted your knee like you were the one who needed comforting. “It’s okay to be intimidated by my artistic potential.”

You stared at him, stunned. The therapist cleared her throat, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Right… okay… let’s maybe explore other areas of concern?”

“Oh, fantastic,” you said, sitting up straighter, ready for round two. “His friends.”

Lando perked up, suddenly alert. “What about my friends?”

“Everything,” you said, waving your hand like you were listing off crimes. “Max is terrifying. Charles is too beautiful—it’s offensive, honestly. And Oscar? Oscar looks like a man who hasn’t felt a single emotion since 2017.”

Lando choked on air, coughing as he tried to speak. “That’s so rude—”

“I’m not done,” you said, holding up a finger like a warning sign. “The real issue is that you’re basically in love with them. All of them. But mostly Oscar.”

The therapist blinked, then turned to Lando again, her voice cautious. “Are you… romantically involved with Oscar?”

Lando sputtered, eyes wide. “WHAT? No! He’s just my—he’s not even emotional enough for romance—”

“Ah!” you said, pointing at him like you’d just cracked the case wide open. “Defensiveness. Classic sign.”

The therapist, bless her, didn’t even flinch. She just nodded and scribbled something down in her notebook, probably under a heading like delusional couple, possibly unhinged.

Lando turned to you with a soft glare, the kind that said he was trying very hard not to laugh. “I am not in love with Oscar.”

The therapist turned to you next, her voice calm and curious. “And why do you feel he acts… ‘too in love’?”

You crossed your arms, settling into your seat like you were about to deliver a TED Talk. “Because,” you said, slow and serious, “he looks at me with the same face he looks at Oscar with. And that is not comforting.”

Lando groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “That is just my face.”

“Exactly,” you said, like you’d just won the argument.

The therapist nodded again, thoughtful. “And how does that make you feel?”

You opened your mouth, ready to launch into a dramatic answer about emotional neglect and facial ambiguity—

But Lando beat you to it.

“Very loved,” he said softly, “I hope.”

You froze.

Just for a second.

Because the way he said it—quiet, honest, like he meant it—hit you somewhere you weren’t expecting. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug. It was just… real.

And suddenly, all your fake complaints and dramatic gestures felt a little too close to something true.

You didn’t know what to say.

The therapist smiled like she was watching her favorite slow-burn romance unfold in real time. Like she was already planning to tell her coworkers about this session over lunch. Fantastic. Completely useless.

Your heart did a stupid little flip at the look on Lando’s face—soft, steady, like he meant every word he hadn’t even said yet. You crushed the feeling immediately. Sat on it. Smothered it. Set it on fire. This was not the time.

“ANYWAY,” you said, louder than necessary, trying to drag the conversation back to safer, more chaotic ground. “He also acts like he’s already in love with me. Which is weird. And suspicious. And wrong.”

Lando just shrugged, like you’d pointed out the weather. “Can’t help it.”

You nearly slipped off the damn chair.

The therapist turned to him with that warm, encouraging gaze that made you want to throw a pillow at her. “And Lando, how do you feel about what she’s saying?”

He didn’t pause. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t even blink.

“I love her,” he said, voice low and sure. “And I want her to believe it. There’s no one else. Especially not Oscar.”

You stared at him.

Because there was no smirk. No teasing glint in his eye. No wink to let you know he was still playing the game. Just… honesty. Like he’d peeled something open and handed it to you without asking if you wanted it.

The therapist, still clearly recovering from the “no one else except Oscar” revelation, folded her hands with the kind of calm that only made things feel more chaotic. She tilted her head, voice gentle, like she was asking something simple. Harmless.

“And… how long have you two been dating?”

You opened your mouth.

Lando opened his at the exact same time.

“Five days—” you said.

“Three months—” he said.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Even the potted plant in the corner seemed to lean away from the tension.

You turned to him so fast your neck cracked. “THREE MONTHS?!”

Lando blinked at you, wide-eyed and innocent, like he hadn’t just detonated a lie in the middle of a therapy session. “It feels like three months,” he said softly, with a little shrug. “Time moves differently when you’re in love.”

You stared at him, completely thrown. Your brain was trying to reboot, but the loading wheel was spinning uselessly. This man was lying. Boldly. Casually. With a straight face and a soft voice and a look that said I’d do it again.

The therapist, meanwhile, looked like she was watching the final scene of her favorite romance movie. She clasped her hands tighter, eyes practically glowing. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”

Beautiful?

Beautiful?!

What the actual fuck was this man’s plan?

Because if this was still fake, he was terrifyingly good at it.

And if it wasn’t…

You were in so much trouble.

© verstarris 2025

babs radio ! I’d love to dedicate this one to @zariacore in the honor of lando winning the 2025 championship 🩵. What a weekend. If you told me in 2022 he will fight for wdc instead of points, I’d laugh in your face… times change! Anyway, this is only part 1 of 2. I did not in fact start writing the other half🫣 but please be patient, two weeks before Christmas in school are pure hell lol.

You were ranked sixth in the world now. People smiled when they said it, like it was something to be proud of—and it was, you knew that. But your eyes always drifted to the names above yours, to the top five, to the players who seemed just out of reach. It was right there, close enough to taste, and yet every time you stretched for it, it slipped through your fingers like a damn mist.

You’d made it to the Australian Open. That should’ve felt like a win. But as you stood there, sweat drying on your skin, your muscles tight and your thoughts heavier than they should be, all you could think about was how much it had taken to get here. How much it still cost. And how long you could keep pretending that none of it mattered.

There wasn’t supposed to be space for doubt here. Not with Max. Not when you were training with your mixed doubles partner—the one person who was supposed to match your pace, your drive, your hunger to win. On paper, it made sense. Two top-ranked players, both sharp, both relentless. It should have been easy. It should have worked.

But lately, training with him felt less like a partnership and more like something you had to survive. He kept hitting balls at you with that same ruthless precision, never easing up, never checking in. Normally, you could keep up without thinking. Today, though, your timing was off. Your legs felt heavy. Your body wasn’t listening the way it used to.

“You’re late on it,” Max said, his voice flat, eyes already on the next shot.

Like you didn’t already know.

You exhaled slowly, biting back the sting in your chest. “Thanks for the reminder,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you bent to pick up another ball. The words came out sharper than you meant them to, but you didn’t take them back. You were too tired to pretend it didn’t bother you.

He looked at you then—just for a second. His expression was tight, unreadable, the kind of glance that didn’t ask questions or offer anything close to concern. Just a flicker of irritation, like your mistake had thrown off his rhythm. Like you were a problem to work around, not a person trying to hold it together.

“Again,” he said, already tossing the next ball into the air.

You didn’t argue. You adjusted your grip, shifted your stance, and forced your body to move faster. Your knee screamed in protest the moment you pushed off, a sharp, familiar pain that you’d learned to ignore. You chased the shot anyway, stretched too far, and barely managed to flick the ball back over the net.

Max sighed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was enough. Just enough to land like a slap, quiet and cutting.

“Keep up,” he muttered, already turning his back, like the drill was more important than you were. Like you weren’t standing there, trying not to fall apart.

You swallowed hard, the words burning at the back of your throat. But you didn’t say them. You just nodded, even though he wasn’t looking. Even though it didn’t matter. Quitting wasn’t an option. Slowing down wasn’t either. You told yourself you could handle it. That you’d get through this. That you always did.

Even if it was getting harder to believe.

After a few more shots, Max stopped. No warning, no signal—just stopped. The balls rolled to a quiet halt at your feet, and the silence that followed felt heavier than the drill ever had. It wasn’t just the end of a session. It felt like something else. Like he’d made a decision. Like he’d given up—not just on the practice, but maybe on the partnership. Maybe on you.

He finally turned to face you, his expression unreadable. “Look, Y/n,” he said, voice clipped. “The Open starts tomorrow. You need to get your shit together.”

Your chest tightened, but you kept your voice steady, even though it cost you. “Yeah. I’m trying, Max.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t nod. Didn’t soften. He just grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and stood there for a beat too long. Then he said, “Good,” like it was final. Like that was all there was left to say.

And then he walked off the court, leaving you standing there alone, staring at the baseline, your racket hanging loosely at your side. The ache in your knee pulsed in time with your heartbeat, but it was the quiet that hurt more. You’d been trying. You were always trying. But somewhere along the way, it had stopped being enough—and you didn’t know when that happened. Or how to fix it.

“Y/n!”

You turned at the sound of your name, and there she was—Lily. Your doubles partner, your best friend, the one person who could still make you smile without trying. Just seeing her standing there, sun in her hair and concern in her eyes, made something in your chest loosen. That was the thing about Lily. She didn’t need to ask if something was wrong. She already knew.

She walked over and handed you a water bottle, shaking her head with a small, crooked grin. “You look awful.”

You let out a tired laugh, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I feel like that too,” you said, taking the bottle and pressing it to your forehead before unscrewing the cap.

Lily didn’t say anything right away. She just watched you, her expression softening as she took in the slump of your shoulders, the way you were holding your weight off your left leg. “What happened?” she asked gently. “Is it about Max?”

You shrugged, trying to sound casual, like it didn’t matter. “Just him being grumpy, as usual. Nothing serious.”

“You can’t take him seriously. You know that,” Lily said, shaking her head like it was obvious, like Max’s mood didn’t still cling to your skin.

You didn’t answer. Just stared down at the court, jaw tight, the silence between you stretching a little too long.

Lily didn’t push. She never did. Instead, she shifted gears, her voice lighter. “Come on. Oscar’s on Court Four,” she said, her eyes brightening as she mentioned him—her boyfriend, her mixed doubles partner, the one person who always seemed to make her laugh, even on the worst days. At least someone had figured out how to make it work.

You glanced up. “With… Norris?”

The name came out sharp, bitter on your tongue. Lando Norris. Just saying it made your shoulders tense.

That man was everything you couldn’t stand. Ranked fourth in the world. Always smirking. Always talking. Loud, cocky, flirty—and somehow, impossibly, good. The kind of good that made it hard to ignore him, no matter how much you wanted to.

You grimaced, the thought of sharing a court with him making your chest tighten. But Lily didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did and just didn’t care. She reached for your arm and tugged gently, already pulling you toward the other courts.

“Come on,” she said again, smiling like she knew something you didn’t. “It’ll be fun.”

You weren’t so sure.

You followed her anyway, even though every step felt heavier than the last. Training had wrung you out, left your limbs sluggish and your knee aching with that familiar, stubborn throb. It wasn’t sharp enough to stop you—never was—but it lingered, a quiet reminder of everything you’d pushed through to get here. Walking toward Court Four felt like walking straight into something you weren’t ready for. Something you didn’t want to face, but couldn’t avoid either.

You sank onto the edge of the stands, letting your bag drop beside you with a dull thud. Your eyes drifted to the court before you could stop them. Oscar and Lando were already mid-rally, moving like they shared a brain. Their rhythm was easy, practiced. The kind of chemistry that didn’t need words. Every shot was clean, every return precise. It looked effortless. Like they’d been doing this forever.

Your gaze caught on Lando for a moment too long. His curls were damp with sweat, pushed back from his forehead, his movements sharp and sure. He looked like he belonged out there—confident, focused, completely in control. You clicked your tongue softly and looked away, annoyed at yourself. Idiot.

They noticed you then. Both of them paused, rackets dropping slightly as they turned. Lando’s eyes found yours instantly, like they always did. Like he’d been waiting. You rolled your eyes, slow and deliberate, making sure he saw it.

“Hey, baby!” Lily called out, her voice bright as she waved at Oscar, completely unfazed by the tension simmering beside you.

Oscar lit up the moment he spotted Lily, lifting a hand in greeting before jogging over to the stands. He looked so at ease—sweat-slicked and flushed from the rally, but smiling like the world hadn’t asked anything of him today. Like he hadn’t just spent an hour under the sun, chasing points. That kind of ease made something twist in your chest, sharp and quiet. You didn’t want to name it.

Lando followed behind him, slower, spinning his racket in one hand like it was second nature. He stopped a few steps from the bench, his eyes flicking over you in quick, practiced glances—your stiff posture, the way you leaned ever so slightly off your left leg, the tension in your jaw. He didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t have to. You could feel the weight of his attention, and it made your skin prickle.

“Didn’t think you’d come watch,” he said, voice light, almost teasing.

You didn’t bother softening your tone. “Trust me, I didn’t plan to.”

Oscar chuckled under his breath, clearly unfazed. “Nice to see you too.”

Lando’s smile tugged wider, just enough to be annoying. “Rough session?”

You met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “I’m fine.”

It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. But it wasn’t the truth either. And from the way Lando’s eyes lingered on yours, you had a feeling he knew that.

Lando leaned against the fence, casually tossing a ball from one hand to the other. The sun caught the edge of his , casting a flicker of light across the court. “So,” he said, voice light, almost lazy, “Open starts tomorrow. Last meeting with the coaches, final schedule, all that fun stuff.”

You tilted your head slightly, keeping your tone as even as you could manage. “Yeah. I know. Don’t need another reminder.”

He didn’t flinch. Just kept that same maddening smirk on his face. “Just making conversation,” he said, like it was nothing. “I’d hate for you to forget.”

Your jaw tightened. The way he said it—like he was amused, like he knew exactly how to get under your skin—made your pulse tick faster. “I can handle it,” you said, arms folding across your chest. “Unlike some people, I don’t need constant coaching tips to function.”

He raised an eyebrow, the ball still spinning lazily in his hand. “Oh? I didn’t realize you were the only one capable of surviving a Grand Slam.”

You opened your mouth, the retort already forming—sharp, fast, something that would land clean and cut deep. He’d done this too many times. Pushed just far enough to make you snap. And maybe that was the point.

But before the words could leave your mouth, Lily’s voice cut through the tension—sharp, bright, and unmistakably hers.

“Enough,” she said, stepping between you with a look that was half exasperation, half amusement. “We’re here to watch, not start a war. Save the drama for the court.”

You and Lando both froze, glancing at her like kids caught misbehaving. Her eyes were wide, but there was steel behind them—serious now, even if her tone still carried that familiar edge of teasing. She looked between you, arms crossed. “Seriously. You two look ridiculous. Stop glaring at each other like you’re about to throw rackets. The tournament hasn’t even started yet.”

You muttered something under your breath—something unkind, probably—but the heat in your chest had already started to cool. Lily had a way of doing that. Of stepping in just before you said something you couldn’t take back. You leaned back on the bench, jaw still tight, but your hands unclenched. For now, at least, you could sit still and watch instead of letting the frustration boil over.

Even if Lando was still standing there, smirking like he’d won something.

────────────

There were only thirty minutes left until the final meeting with the coaches and the tournament organizers. You stood near the edge of the room, eyes scanning the crowd, searching for one familiar face. But Toto wasn’t there. No clipboard in hand, no calm voice cutting through the noise, no steady presence to anchor you. Your stomach tightened. He was never late. And that kind of silence didn’t feel like a good sign.

Without thinking, you turned and made your way down the hallway, pushing open the door to his office with more force than necessary. “Toto?” you called, stepping inside.

But it wasn’t him.

It was Kimi.

You blinked, caught off guard. Kimi—Toto’s son. The boy who used to sit on the sidelines with toy cars while you learned how to serve. The one who used to fall asleep in the stands with his head on your shoulder, juice box still in hand. He was taller now, older, but still Kimi. Still the kid who felt like your little brother.

“Kimi!” you shouted, a grin breaking across your face as you jogged over and pulled him into a tight hug. “What the fuck!”

He laughed, hugging you back without hesitation. “I thought you said you couldn’t make it!” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him.

“Plans changed,” he said with a grin. “I couldn’t miss my big sister playing at a Grand Slam.”

You laughed again, the sound lighter than it had been all day. You squeezed him once more, holding on for a second longer than you needed to. Somehow, just seeing him—his familiar face, his easy smile—made the pressure in your chest ease. Not all the way. But enough to breathe again.

“I’m so glad you came,” you said, and you meant it—but your mind was already drifting, scanning the room again. “Do you know where Toto is?”

Kimi shrugged, leaning back against the desk. “He said he’d be back in five minutes. That was a while ago, though. Haven’t seen him since.”

You let out a long sigh and dragged a hand down your face, the weight of the day pressing harder against your shoulders. Of course. The final meeting with the coaches and the tournament organizers was about to start, and the one person you needed most—your anchor, your constant—was nowhere to be found. Just your luck.

“Anyway,” Kimi said, nudging your arm with his elbow, trying to pull you back to the present. “How’s Australia treating you so far?”

You snorted. “Horrible,” you muttered. “It’s too hot. Lily and Oscar are being disgustingly cute, and Max is acting weirder than usual.”

Kimi grinned, arms folding across his chest like he’d been expecting that answer. “That’s why I’m here,” he said, eyes warm. “To make it better.”

You laughed, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. It wasn’t much, but it was real.

The door creaked open behind you, and you turned just in time to see Toto step inside. His face was unreadable—calm, composed, but set in that way you’d come to recognize over the years. The kind of look he wore when something was wrong and he hadn’t figured out how to say it yet. Your stomach dropped before he even spoke.

“Kimi,” he said, voice low but steady, “can you give us a minute?”

Kimi hesitated, glancing between the two of you. His brow furrowed, like he didn’t want to leave, like he could feel the shift in the air too. But after a beat, he nodded. He gave you one last look—quiet, reassuring, the kind that said I’m still here—before slipping out and closing the door behind him.

Toto crossed the room and sank into the chair across from you as you sat down too. He didn’t waste time. Just leaned forward, eyes fixed on yours.

“We’ve got a problem, kid,” he said.

And just like that, the room felt smaller. Heavier. Like the walls had moved in a little closer, waiting to hear what came next.

“What is it, Toto?” you asked, the words catching in your throat as a knot began to form in your stomach.

Something was off. You could feel it in the way he looked at you—steady, serious, like he was bracing for impact. And suddenly, you were too.

He didn’t waste time. “Max doesn’t want to play with you anymore.”

The words hit harder than you expected. For a second, you just sat there, blinking, like maybe you’d misheard him. Like maybe if you stayed quiet long enough, he’d take it back.

But he didn’t.

What the fuck.

Everything you’d been working toward—the endless drills, the long hours on court, the pressure you’d carried like a second skin—suddenly felt like it had been for nothing. Max, the one person who was supposed to be in this with you, had walked away before the match even started. Just like that.

You sank back in your chair, hands gripping the edge like it might keep you grounded. But your chest was tight, your thoughts spinning too fast to catch. Anger flared first, hot and sharp. Then disbelief. Then something colder, heavier—exhaustion that settled deep in your bones.

“What?” you said again, the word sharper this time, cutting through the silence like glass. As if saying it out loud might change something. As if it might make this feel less real.

But it didn’t.

“He and Horner told the ITF he can’t play with you anymore,” Toto said, his voice low, steady in that way that only made it worse. He let out a slow breath, like he hated saying it out loud. “No explanation beyond that.”

You stared at him, the words echoing in your head, refusing to settle. So that was it. That’s why Max had been so off yesterday—the clipped tone, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes, the drills that felt more like punishment than practice. It hadn’t just been a bad day. It had been a warning. You just hadn’t seen it.

Your stomach twisted. “What the fuck,” you muttered, dragging a hand through your hair, fingers catching in the tangles. “Is it because of my knee? Or—” your voice sharpened, rising with the heat in your chest, “—because he couldn’t handle playing with someone just as good as him?”

The words hung in the air, bitter and raw. You didn’t know which answer would hurt more.

Toto shook his head slowly, his expression unreadable. “You know how he is.”

“No,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to. “No, I don’t, Toto. Not at all.”

Your voice cracked at the edges, tight with disbelief. “I’ve trained. I’ve pushed through every session, every drill. I’ve done everything he asked—everything—and he just walks away? Just like that?”

Toto didn’t flinch. His voice stayed calm, steady in the way it always was when everything else felt like it was falling apart. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he said, firm. “This isn’t on you. Sometimes people—”

“Sometimes people?” you cut in, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “He’s my partner. He’s supposed to show up. He’s supposed to work with me, not—” your voice caught, your throat tightening, “—not bail when it gets hard.”

You dropped your head into your hands, pressing your palms against your face like you could hold it all in. The anger, the confusion, the ache in your chest that had nothing to do with your knee. It wasn’t just about the tournament. It was about trust. About being left behind by someone who was supposed to be in this with you.

And now, you were alone.

“Look, kid, we have to go to the meeting,” Toto said, already reaching for his jacket. “The ITF will definitely bring it up.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. The last thing you wanted was to sit in a room full of officials and coaches, all of them dissecting what had just happened—your partner’s betrayal dressed up as a scheduling change, a strategic shift, a footnote in someone else’s press release. You could already feel their eyes on you, waiting to see how you’d react. Waiting to see if you’d crack.

“But Toto—”

“No arguments,” he cut in, his voice firm but not unkind. “We’ll find someone for you. Or you play singles and women’s doubles. That’s still a full load.” He paused, meeting your eyes. “Not everyone has to play all three categories.”

But that wasn’t you.

You weren’t here to do the bare minimum. You weren’t here to coast. You were known for showing up in every bracket, every match, every damn point. You and Lily were ranked number one in women’s doubles. You’d clawed your way to the top of singles. And mixed doubles? That was supposed to be the final piece. The one you’d been grinding for. Giving it up wasn’t just a change in schedule—it was surrender. And surrender had never been part of your game.

If Max didn’t want to be your partner? Fine. You didn’t want him either.

You wouldn’t beg. Not for a spot. Not for a second chance. And definitely not for someone who didn’t even have the decency to say it to your face. He could walk away. You’d find another way forward.

Or you’d win without him.

You followed Toto down the hall, each step heavier than the last. The glass-paneled doors of the meeting room loomed ahead, silhouettes shifting behind them—coaches, officials, players. The hum of low voices filtered through the glass, a quiet storm already in motion. Your stomach twisted.

Inside, the room was a square of tension and strategy. Lando and Oscar sat with their coach, Zak, deep in conversation. Across from them, Max and Horner had already taken their seats, their expressions unreadable. Lily was there too, waiting for you and Toto, her posture relaxed but her eyes tracking everything.

As you slid into your seat beside her, she leaned in just enough for her voice to reach you. “What took you so long?” she murmured, offering a small, knowing smile.

“Business,” you said, keeping your tone even, your face unreadable.

Your gaze swept the table, instinctively searching for the cracks. Lando’s eyes found yours almost immediately—sharp, steady, like he was trying to read something off your skin. You met his stare for a beat, then rolled your eyes, slow and deliberate. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how close you were to unraveling.

Max didn’t even glance your way.

He sat stiffly, arms crossed, gaze fixed on some distant point on the table. Like you weren’t even there. Like none of this mattered. And somehow, that burned more than anything he could’ve said.

The room held its breath.

For a moment, no one spoke. Just the quiet rustle of papers, the creak of a chair shifting, the low hum of tension pressing in from all sides. It was the kind of silence that made your skin prickle, your nerves coil tighter with every second it stretched.

Then, finally, an ITF official cleared his throat. “Let’s begin,” he said, voice clipped and professional. “Today’s focus is the upcoming Australian Open. We’ll review schedules, training adjustments, and—” his eyes flicked toward you, just for a beat, “—mixed doubles pairings.”

Your stomach dropped.

There it was. The thing you’d been dreading. The thing everyone in the room knew was coming. You straightened in your seat, spine stiff, jaw set. You kept your face neutral, your hands still, even though every part of you wanted to get up and walk out. Run, maybe. Anything but sit here and let them talk about you like a problem to be solved.

Across the table, Lando shifted in his chair, slow and deliberate. His gaze never left yours. There was something in it—sharp, unreadable. Not quite smug, not quite concerned. Just… watching. Measuring. You felt the familiar flicker of irritation rise in your chest, tangled with something else. Something quieter. Something you didn’t want to name.

Max didn’t look at you. Not once.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, jaw locked tight. His silence was louder than anything he could’ve said. You didn’t need words to feel the wall he’d built between you—cold, final, impenetrable.

The meeting began with the usual rhythm of formality—schedules, regulations, court assignments. The kind of logistical noise that could lull you into a daze if you let it. ITF officials took turns reading from their notes, outlining start times, warm-up slots, dress codes. The words blurred at the edges, a steady drone of structure and protocol.

Beside you, Toto leaned in every so often to murmur reminders—small things, practical things—but your mind kept drifting. To Max, silent and distant across the table. To Lando, still watching you like he was waiting for something. To the quiet truth that tomorrow, every person in this room would be watching your next move.

Then the tone shifted.

“Let’s move on to women’s doubles,” one of the officials said, tapping a finger against the chart projected on the screen.

The room stilled, just slightly. Eyes flicked toward the display.

“Here we have the rankings,” another added, gesturing toward the list.

Your name appeared at the top. And right beside it: Lily Zneimer.

“Y/l/n and Zneimer,” the official announced, voice even but unmistakably clear. “Ranked number one in women’s doubles. The pair has demonstrated exceptional synergy and dominance throughout the past season. They are expected to perform at the highest level.”

You felt the words land in the room like a quiet drumbeat. Not boastful. Not dramatic. Just fact.

You turned your head slightly, catching Lily’s eye. Her smile was small, tight at the corners, but proud. The kind of smile that said we earned this. The kind that made you want to reach under the table and squeeze her hand, just to say I know. I feel it too.

Even here, surrounded by the best of the best, the words carried weight.

You were the best.

And no one could take that from you.

The praise for you and Lily still lingered in the air, a faint echo of something steady and earned. But it didn’t last.

One of the ITF officials cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the quiet. “And now, on to mixed doubles,” he said, his voice noticeably tighter. “There’s an issue we need to address regarding pairings.”

Your stomach dropped like a stone.

Beside you, Toto went still, his posture sharpening in that subtle way that told you he already knew what was coming. Across the table, Max shifted—arms crossed, jaw set, his gaze fixed on the far wall like it held something more interesting than the fallout he’d just detonated.

You didn’t need him to look at you. You could feel the tension radiating off him, the cold wall he’d built between you. It was already there yesterday, in the clipped words and the silence between drills. You just hadn’t wanted to believe it.

Lando noticed it too. You could see it in the way his eyes flicked between you and Max, sharp and calculating. Like he was watching a match unfold before the first serve had even been hit.

The official continued, reading from the paper in front of him like it was just another line item on the agenda. “Max Verstappen has informed the ITF that he will not be participating in mixed doubles with Y/n Y/l/n. No further explanation has been provided.”

The words landed like a slap.

Lando’s gaze snapped to you, unreadable. Oscar’s followed, his brow furrowed. And Lily—Lily turned to you with wide eyes, her voice barely above a whisper. “What?”

Before you could speak, one of the officials cut in, his voice brisk. “Mr. Wolff, have you started looking for a replacement?”

Toto didn’t flinch. “We’re exploring options, yes,” he said, calm as ever. “But you need to understand—we’re not just filling a slot. We have to find someone worthy to play alongside Y/n.”

Your jaw tightened at the word worthy. It wasn’t meant as a slight, not from Toto. He was defending you, holding the line. But still, the word scraped something raw. Like your value needed to be justified. Like you were a risk now, a question mark.

You stayed quiet, letting Toto’s steadiness anchor you. If he hadn’t been there, you might’ve said something you couldn’t take back.

The official didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr. Wolff,” he said, his tone turning sharp, almost smug. “We’ll find the perfect match for Miss Y/n.”

Your hands curled into fists beneath the table.

Perfect match, you thought, the words sour in your mouth. As if Max had been perfect. As if this wasn’t a mess of his making. As if you were the one who needed fixing.

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to stay still. The insult was subtle, but it landed all the same. You weren’t the one who walked away. You weren’t the one who quit.

But now you were the one being discussed like a problem to solve.

The official cleared his throat again, the sound slicing through the room like a blade. “We’ll continue discussing logistics,” he said, tone clipped, “but please remember: we need all players ready and committed by tomorrow’s first practice session.”

He turned his gaze toward you and Toto, eyes steady, voice firm. “Miss Y/n, Mr. Wolff, a replacement for mixed doubles must be confirmed before then.”

The words landed with finality, like a door clicking shut.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, spine straight, hands folded tightly in your lap. The pressure was familiar—this was the sport, after all—but today it felt different. He wasn’t just talking about logistics. He was talking about your future. Your reputation. Your ability to adapt, to survive, to prove that you weren’t the one who broke the partnership.

────────────

The next day, you stepped onto the court with Lily, racket in hand, and for the first time in what felt like forever, something inside you loosened. Just a little. The weight in your chest didn’t vanish, but it shifted—less like a stone, more like something you could carry.

The sun hung high overhead, warm but not punishing, casting long shadows across the court. The ball moved between you in a steady rhythm—clean, sharp, familiar. Back and forth, like breath. Like memory. The world narrowed to just the two of you, the thud of sneakers on clay, the soft grunt of effort, the satisfying pop of the ball off your strings. No Max. No ITF. No headlines or whispers or meetings. Just this.

“Nice shot!” Lily called, laughing as you sent a cross-court winner skimming past her reach. She jogged after the ball, scooping it up with practiced ease and tossing it back without missing a beat.

“You’re lucky I’m letting you win today,” you said, grinning as you twirled your racket in your hand.

“You wish,” she shot back, eyes gleaming. Then she returned the next ball with a speed that made your legs scramble and your breath catch.

And for a while—an hour, maybe two—you weren’t thinking about the mess waiting outside the court. You weren’t thinking about Max’s silence or the way the ITF official had said perfect match like it was a threat. You were just here. With Lily. Your partner. Your friend. Laughing, sweating, pushing each other to move faster, hit harder, stay present.

You both paused at the baseline, breath catching in your chests, sweat cooling on your skin. Lily tossed you a bottle of water with a flick of her wrist, her eyes narrowing just slightly as she watched you.

“So,” she said, voice light but laced with curiosity, “about mixed doubles… who would you want to play with if Max is out?”

You took a long sip, letting the water cool your throat while your mind spun. The question was simple enough, but the answer wasn’t. Not anymore. Anyone else felt like a gamble—an unknown rhythm, a new language you’d have to learn mid-match. And after everything, you weren’t sure how much more risk you could take.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, leaning on your racket. “It has to be someone I can actually work with. Someone who won’t make everything harder than it already is.”

Lily raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Oh, come on. There’s got to be someone out there who’s good—and maybe even tolerable.”

You let out a dry laugh, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Tolerable? That narrows the list down to zero.”

She grinned. “What about Sainz?”

Carlos Sainz. You blinked. The image of him flashed in your mind—perfect hair, perfect smile, that infuriatingly smooth confidence.

“Definitely not,” you said, shaking your head. “He looks like he spends more time on his hair than his serve.”

Lily burst out laughing, tossing the ball lightly toward you. “Fair. Noted. No Sainz.”

You caught the ball with one hand, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. For a moment, the weight of everything else faded. Just a little.

Before you could answer Lily, a shadow fell across the edge of the court. You turned to see Toto standing there, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“Y/n,” he said, voice low and clipped. “I need to talk to you. Now.”

You frowned, the shift in his tone enough to make your pulse skip. You set your racket down slowly, brushing the sweat from your brow. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away. Just tilted his head toward the far side of the court, away from Lily, away from the easy rhythm you’d just found again. “Come with me,” he said. “It’s important.”

That word—important—landed like a stone in your gut. When Toto said it like that, it never meant something small. Never meant something you could brush off.

You glanced at Lily, and she gave you a quiet nod, her expression soft with understanding. No questions. Just support.

You followed Toto without a word, each step across the court making your chest feel tighter, your breath a little shallower. The sun felt hotter now, the air heavier.

You followed Toto through the maze of courts and corridors, the noise of bouncing balls and shouted drills fading behind you. He didn’t speak, didn’t look back, just kept walking with that purposeful stride that always meant something was coming. Something big.

He stopped near a shaded corner of the facility, tucked behind a row of benches and a half-empty water cooler. It was quiet here—too quiet. The kind of quiet that made your skin prickle.

His face gave nothing away.

“So?” you asked, trying to sound steady, though your foot tapped against the concrete, betraying you.

“I have news,” he said, voice low and even.

You swallowed, the tension in your chest winding tighter. “Good or bad?”

Toto looked at you for a long beat, unreadable. “Depends,” he said finally.

And just like that, your pulse kicked up, sharp and fast. Because when Toto said depends, it never meant simple.

“So, basically, the ITF found you a partner,” Toto said, his voice even, like this was just another update. Nothing special. Nothing explosive.

For a second, your heart lifted. That sounded like good news. A solution. A way forward. Maybe this whole mess was finally turning around.

“Who?” you asked, eyes flicking up, hope creeping in before you could stop it.

“Lando.”

Your brain stalled.

Your jaw actually dropped, like in a bad movie. “Norris?!” you blurted, too loud, too fast. It felt like the words had been yanked out of you before you could catch them. No. No way. This had to be some kind of fever dream. Any second now, you’d wake up in your hotel bed, drenched in sweat, heart racing, and laugh at how ridiculous it all was.

But Toto didn’t blink. “Lando Norris,” he said again, calm as ever, like he was telling you the weather.

You just stared at him, frozen. Your thoughts were a mess—half-formed, tangled, loud. Of all the people. Him? The cocky, smug, insufferably talented top-four player who never missed a chance to get under your skin? The one who always had something to say, always with that smirk, always acting like he knew better?

You could barely stand him on a good day. And now you were supposed to play with him?

Your mind spun, trying to make sense of it. Trying to find the part where this made any kind of sense. But it didn’t. It just didn’t.

“No. No, no,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. Panic rose fast and hot in your chest, tightening everything. “I’d rather die than play with him.”

Toto didn’t flinch. “And the best part?” he said, voice flat. There wasn’t even a hint of amusement in his face.

You let out a single, sharp laugh—dry, disbelieving. “What? It can’t possibly get worse than this.”

He didn’t blink. “Zak and Lando already confirmed it.”

You stared at him, your breath catching.

“They’re waiting for your confirmation,” he added, calm as ever.

Your mind reeled. What the fuck.

This wasn’t just a hypothetical. This wasn’t a joke or a bluff or some cruel twist of fate waiting to be undone. It was real. Lando—Lando—had said yes. Zak too. They’d already agreed. And now it was on you.

You felt the ground shift beneath you, the weight of it all pressing down. You weren’t just being asked to tolerate him. You were being asked to trust him. To share the court. To rebuild something with someone who’d spent the last year getting under your skin every chance he got.

“No, Toto. I won’t confirm.”

The words came out fast, sharp, before you could stop them. Your voice was too loud, too final, but you didn’t take it back. You couldn’t. As soon as you said it, your body seemed to catch up with everything you’d been holding in. Your knee throbbed. Your shoulders ached. Even your head pulsed with a dull, relentless pressure. Like your body had finally decided it was done carrying the weight of all this—of Max, of the meetings, of the expectations pressing in from every side.

“Find me someone else,” you said, quieter now, but no less certain. Even though deep down, you already knew. There wasn’t anyone else. Not really. But saying it out loud would make it real, and you weren’t ready for that. Not yet.

Toto exhaled, and for the first time, the edge of frustration cracked through his calm. “I can’t, kid,” he said, voice low. “There is no one better than him.”

You flinched, the words landing harder than you expected. “Yes, there is,” you snapped. “What about Leclerc? Sainz?” You could still hear Lily’s voice from earlier, teasing, hopeful.

But Toto just shook his head. “Leclerc’s already paired with Mleux. And Sainz doesn’t play mixed doubles. Never has.”

And just like that, the list was gone. The excuses ran out. The silence that followed was thick and heavy, like the air before a storm.

You looked away, jaw clenched, throat tight. Because the truth was settling in now, slow and unwelcome.

It was Lando… or no one.

And you weren’t sure which was worse.

“Toto, this won’t work,” you said, shaking your head, voice low and frayed at the edges. “We hate each other.”

He didn’t flinch. Just looked at you with that steady, unshakable calm he always carried, like nothing you said could surprise him. “Y/n,” he said, “you don’t need to love each other.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound catching in your throat. “We can barely stand being in the same room.”

Toto didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. He just let the silence stretch for a moment before answering, voice quiet but certain. “You’re both the greatest,” he said. “That’s what the ITF sees. Not your arguments. Not your egos. Your results.”

You swallowed hard, the truth of it landing like a weight in your chest. Because that was the part that stung the most—he was right. On paper, it made perfect sense. Two top players. Two names that carried weight. Two people who knew how to win.

“They don’t care how you feel,” Toto added, softer now. “They care about what you produce on court.”

You closed your eyes, just for a second. Long enough to feel the exhaustion settle in your bones. It wasn’t just about Max or Lando anymore. It was everything. The pressure. The expectations. The constant need to prove yourself, to hold it all together, to pretend like none of it touched you. But it did. And it was catching up.

“What if I say no?” you asked, your voice low but sharp, like you were daring him to give you a way out. “What if I decline the partnership?”

Toto didn’t even blink. “You’ll be disqualified from the Grand Slam.”

The word slammed into you. “WHAT?!” It tore out of you before you could stop it, loud and raw and full of disbelief.

But even as it echoed in the quiet space between you, you already knew. Of course they’d do this. Of course the ITF would back you into a corner, smiling politely while they took away your choices one by one. They didn’t want your comfort. They wanted your compliance. Walk away, and you’d lose everything you’d worked for. Stay, and you’d have to do it with him.

“That’s what the ITF told me,” Toto said, softer now. “That’s why Lando already confirmed. He didn’t have a choice either.”

The fight drained out of you all at once, like someone had pulled the plug. The anger, the panic—it all gave way to something heavier. Something quieter.

So this wasn’t arrogance. This wasn’t Lando going behind your back or trying to one-up you. He hadn’t chosen this any more than you had. He was stuck too. Just like you.

Now you couldn’t even hate him for it.

“Y/n,” Toto said, his voice firm, steady, and final. “Either you put your ego aside and play this Grand Slam with Norris—prove to Max that you can win without him—or you get disqualified completely.”

You didn’t respond right away. You just stared at him, the words sinking in like slow poison. They didn’t hit all at once. They settled, heavy and cold, curling around your ribs and tightening your chest until it was hard to breathe.

“It’s all or nothing,” he added, softer now, but no less certain.

And just like that, every exit you’d been clinging to vanished. All the ways you’d tried to delay, to deflect, to pretend there might be another option—they were gone. There was no middle ground. No loophole. No one coming to save you from this choice.

You looked down at your hands, still trembling faintly from the morning’s practice. Callused fingers, taped knuckles, wrists that had carried more weight than they should’ve. You’d built your whole life with these hands. Match by match. Win by win. Loss by loss. And now, they were shaking.

You looked up at Toto. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t disappointed. He was just… steady. Concern flickered behind his eyes, but it didn’t soften the truth. He was here to help you stand, but he wasn’t going to carry you.

Winning without Max Verstappen. Winning with Lando Norris.

You let out a breath, shaky and uneven, like your body was trying to make space for the decision already forming in your chest. This wasn’t just about tennis anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. This was about pride. About survival. About proving—to Max, to the ITF, to yourself—that you were still standing. That you could still fight.

And somewhere deep down, you realized the choice had already been made.

“Fine,” you said at last, lifting your head. The word came out steady, clear, even though your insides still felt like they were shaking. “Tell the ITF I’ll do it. I confirm.”

For a moment, Toto didn’t speak. He just looked at you, something shifting in his expression—less relief, more recognition. Like he saw the cost of what you’d just agreed to. Like he knew exactly how much it had taken to say it out loud.

His voice was quiet when it came. “That’s my girl.”

────────────

You stayed on the court after Lily left, even though the sun was starting to dip and the shadows were stretching long across the baseline. She and Oscar had plans—dinner, a movie, something that sounded like a life untouched by chaos. You waved her off with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes and told her you’d be fine. A lie, but an easy one. One she didn’t press.

You weren’t supposed to be alone for long anyway. Zak, Lando, and Toto were on their way. A meeting, they’d said. A conversation about your “future partnership.” The phrase alone made your jaw clench. You could think of a hundred better ways to spend a Monday afternoon than waiting for the guy you could barely stand.

So you stayed busy.

You picked up a ball and hit it across the court. Then another. And another. No rallies. No rhythm. Just you and the silence and the sting in your arm as each shot landed harder than the last. Your breath came faster. Your muscles burned. But you didn’t stop.

Anger bled into every swing. Not just at Max, or the ITF, or Lando. At the whole damn situation. At how unfair it all felt. You were ranked sixth in the world. Sixth. And still, somehow, you were the one being forced to prove yourself. To adapt.

And now you were supposed to play mixed doubles with someone who lived comfortably in the top five. Someone who made it all look effortless. Someone you’d spent your whole career trying to catch—and never quite reaching.

The thought lodged in your chest like a splinter. No matter how many hours you trained, how many sacrifices you made, it always felt like you were one step behind him. Always chasing. Always just short.

Your knee twinged as you lunged for another shot. You ignored it. Hit harder.

If this was what it took to prove you belonged—next to him, not beneath him—then fine.

You’d burn yourself out trying.

Better that than letting anyone think you weren’t enough.

“You should take a break,” a voice said, low and familiar.

You didn’t need to turn around. You knew that voice. Kimi.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, keeping your eyes on the court, your grip tightening around the racket. You tried to make your voice sound firm, unshakable. But even to your own ears, it rang hollow.

“You say that a lot,” he said, stepping closer. His tone wasn’t sharp, just steady. Observant. His gaze moved over you—your stiff shoulders, the way your weight shifted to protect your knee, the tension you couldn’t quite hide.

You clenched your jaw. “Because I am fine. Don’t read too much into it.”

Kimi didn’t flinch. “That’s what you said last year,” he said gently. “And the year before that.”

You let out a breath, sharp and frustrated. “Things are different this time.”

“Are they?” he asked, voice calm, even. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks the same. You’re not just angry about Max. Or the ITF. You’re still carrying that injury. Still pushing through it like it’s not there. Still trying to outrun something that’s already inside you.”

You looked away, blinking hard. Because he was right. And hearing it out loud made something twist in your chest. You hated how much it stung. Hated how much it felt like truth.

Kimi crouched down a little, bringing himself to your eye level. He didn’t touch you, didn’t crowd you. Just looked at you with that quiet steadiness of his. “You’re good,” he said. “You’re strong. One of the best I’ve ever seen. But even the strongest players need to breathe. You don’t have to prove everything all at once.”

You stared at the ground, your fingers clenched around the racket handle like it was the only thing keeping you upright. You didn’t know if you wanted to yell at him or lean into his words and let them hold you up.

“Just… think about it,” he said softly, rising to his feet. “Before you meet them.”

You watched him walk away, and couldn’t help the thought that slipped in, uninvited and sharp.

He sounded just like Toto.

You stood there for a moment after Kimi left, the court stretching out around you, suddenly too wide, too quiet. The silence pressed in, broken only by the steady thud of your heartbeat and the echo of his words in your head. Take a break. As if it was that simple. As if stopping didn’t feel like surrender. Like letting go of the only thing holding you together.

You bent down, picked up a ball, and served it hard. Too hard. It clipped the net and rolled back toward you, slow and mocking. You stared at it, chest rising and falling faster than it should have. Your knee pulsed with pain—a sharp, familiar warning you’d been ignoring all afternoon.

You dropped onto the bench, elbows on your knees, racket dangling from your fingers. For a moment, you let your head fall forward, eyes closed. Just a breath. Just a pause. The anger that had carried you through the day began to slip away, leaving something heavier in its place. Not rage. Not even frustration.

Fear.

Fear that Max had been right to walk away. Fear that this new pairing—this forced partnership with Lando—wasn’t a second chance, but a spotlight. One that would show everyone just how far you’d fallen. How much you were still hurting. How much you were still trying to pretend you weren’t.

You glanced at your phone. 6:56 p.m.

Time to go.

You wiped the sweat from your face with a towel, grabbed your bag, and started walking. Out of the facility, down the quiet path toward the café where Toto, Zak, and Lando would be waiting.

The café wasn’t far—just a short walk from the courts, tucked behind a row of hedges like a secret only the players knew. It was the kind of place where people pretended, for an hour or two, that their lives weren’t ruled by rankings and press conferences and the weight of expectation. Just coffee, quiet, and the illusion of normal.

You pushed the door open and stepped into the cool hush of the room. The air smelled like espresso and something sweet, and the low hum of conversation wrapped around you. Relief and dread twisted together in your chest, tight and tangled.

They were already there.

Toto saw you first. He lifted a hand in a small, steady wave—reassuring, grounding. Zak sat beside him, posture easy but eyes sharp, already reading you like a stat sheet. And then there was Lando.

Leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, cap turned backwards like always. He looked relaxed. Effortless. Like this wasn’t a meeting about a forced partnership or a career-defining gamble. Like he hadn’t been dragged into the same mess you had.

Of course he looked fine.

You hesitated for half a second, then crossed the room and dropped your bag beside the empty chair across from him. You didn’t sit. Didn’t look at him. Just stood there, letting the silence stretch a little too long.

“Sorry,” you said finally, voice flat. “Training ran late.”

Lando’s mouth twitched, just barely. “Yeah. I can tell.”

You turned then, sharp and fast, eyes narrowing. The look you gave him was a warning—don’t.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but his gaze didn’t waver. Still watching you. Still too calm. Still too curious.

“I’m glad you came,” Zak said, turning toward you with that smooth, practiced tone of his.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Zak Brown. The most infuriating man on the planet—second only to the player sitting across from you. There had always been something about him that rubbed you the wrong way. Maybe it was the way he smiled like he already knew the outcome. Or maybe it was the fact that, years ago, he’d told Toto you were too “unruly” to manage. You’d been seventeen. Fiery. Determined. And apparently, too much.

You kept your expression neutral, fingers tightening around the strap of your racket bag like it might anchor you to the floor. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much this still grated.

“Thanks,” you said, voice even, polite. Controlled. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Zak smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was the kind of smile that said he was already five steps ahead, already moving the pieces into place. “Good,” he said. “Let’s talk about this partnership, shall we?”

You nodded once, slowly, and finally took your seat. The chair felt too stiff. The air too still. Across from you, Lando hadn’t said a word.

Toto leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his voice low and steady. “Let’s be clear,” he said, eyes flicking between you and Lando. “This partnership isn’t about liking each other. It’s about results. The ITF made the call. Now it’s our job to make it work.”

You didn’t look up. Just stared at your hands, fingers curled tight around the strap of your racket bag like it might hold you together. “I get it,” you said quietly. The words came out flat, thin. Even you could hear how hollow they sounded.

Across from you, Lando shifted in his seat. You didn’t have to look to know he was watching you. You could feel it—like a weight pressing against your skin.

“Funny,” he said, voice light, almost amused. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “I highly doubt that.”

He didn’t flinch. Just tilted his head slightly, that faint smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. Like this was all a game to him. Like none of it mattered.

Zak raised a hand before either of you could say more, his voice cutting clean through the tension. “Enough,” he said, sharp but calm. “We’re not here to rehash old drama. We’re here to make a plan—practice schedules, match strategy, communication on court. Every detail matters if you two want to win.”

You leaned back in your chair, jaw tight, heart still pounding. You weren’t sure what was worse—Lando’s smirk, or the fact that Zak was right.

Toto leaned back slightly, his voice calm but clipped. “We don’t have much time. You play singles tomorrow. There won’t be much time. You need to train together in the meantime.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound sharp in your throat. “Oh, yes. Waited for that my whole life.”

Across the table, Lando’s smirk bloomed before he even opened his mouth. “Excuse me?” he said, voice light and needling. “That sounded suspiciously like complaining.”

You snapped your head toward him, eyes narrowing. “Well, it is complaining,” you said, the words landing hard. “I didn’t spend years clawing my way up the rankings just to be forced into a partnership with someone I can’t even stand.”

Lando leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, his expression shifting from amused to something sharper. “Oh, come on. You act like I begged for this. The ITF picked me. I didn’t pick you.”

“That makes it worse!” you shot back, heat rising in your chest. “I didn’t ask for Max to walk away either, but here we are!”

He raised an eyebrow, tone cooling. “So what?” he said. “You’re mad at me for being good at my job?”

You shot him a look that could’ve burned through concrete. “I’m mad?” you repeated, voice rising. “You’re cocky, infuriating, and you walk around like the world owes you something.”

Lando didn’t flinch. If anything, his smirk deepened, like he was enjoying this far more than he should. “That’s rich coming from you,” he said, eyebrow arching. “Don’t act like you’re some saint, Y/n. You’ve got an ego the size of Australia.”

Your hand slammed down on the table before you could stop yourself, the sound sharp and sudden. Zak flinched. “Better an ego than being a pain in everyone’s ass every time you show up,” you snapped, heat rising in your chest.

Lando leaned back in his chair, arms folding behind his head like he had all the time in the world. “Pain in the ass, huh?” he said, grin widening. “You’ve clearly spent a lot of time thinking about me.”

You leaned forward, eyes blazing. “I’ve spent way too much time thinking about you already,” you shot back, the words landing harder than you meant them to.

The silence that followed was thick and electric, both of you breathing hard, neither willing to back down.

Toto cleared his throat, voice low but firm. “Enough,” he said, cutting through the tension like a blade. “If you two can’t start with some professionalism, this partnership won’t survive a single training session.”

“Training starts in fifteen minutes,” Toto said, standing up. Zak followed him out without a word, leaving you and Lando alone.

You didn’t move. Neither did Lando. You just stared at each other, locked in a silent standoff, the air between you charged and unyielding.

Zak exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is going to be… interesting,” he muttered.

The silence that followed was thick—awkward and bitter, stretching too long to ignore. You shifted in your chair, arms crossing tightly over your chest, gaze fixed on the table. You refused to look at him. Not yet.

Lando leaned back, the edge in his posture softening. His smirk faded, replaced by something quieter. “Look,” he said, voice lower now, less sharp. “I didn’t want this either. I didn’t ask to be your partner.”

Your arms tightened around yourself, a reflex you couldn’t stop. “Glad we’re being honest,” you said, the words clipped, brittle.

He let out a breath, then shrugged. “But… I did save us both from getting disqualified. So… you’re welcome, I guess.”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Thanks for that,” you said, the sarcasm barely masking the exhaustion underneath.

It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t even peace.

But it was something.

A crack in the wall, maybe.

Fifteen minutes later, the court was already a disaster.

“You call that a forehand?!” Lando shouted across the net, his voice echoing through the empty stands. A teasing smirk tugged at his lips as the ball zipped past you, just out of reach.

You spun around, breathless, glaring. “It’s fine! You just aim like a toddler!”

He laughed—loud, unbothered, infuriating. “Fine? That’s hilarious!” He tossed another ball into the air and hit it with ridiculous ease. “Seriously, Y/n, do you even know which way to swing that thing?”

“Shut up!” you snapped, stepping into the next shot and yanking it back over the net with more force than necessary. The ball cracked against the baseline, but you barely registered it. Your pulse was too loud in your ears.

Toto’s voice boomed from the sidelines. “Enough! Both of you!”

Zak’s voice followed, sharper, clipped. “Focus. This isn’t a playground—it’s training.”

You and Lando froze, still breathing hard, still glaring across the net at each other.

And yet, neither of you moved to apologize.

You and Lando barely registered the shouting from the sidelines. Too caught up in your own storm, too busy hurling balls across the net like weapons, swinging with more spite than strategy, arguing over every single point like it mattered more than the match itself.

“Your backhand is worse!” Lando shouted, his voice echoing across the court.

You didn’t miss a beat. “You wish you could even touch mine!”

He scoffed, sending another ball flying your way. “In your dreams!”

You lunged, returned it with a sharp crack. “Only when they’re nightmares!”

Toto’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip. “Stop shouting!” he barked, marching toward the net, his patience clearly fraying. “You’ll wear yourselves out before the first match!”

Toto’s whistle cut through the chaos like a blade. The ball skidded to a stop between you and Lando, the silence that followed almost louder than the shouting had been.

“Enough,” Toto said, rubbing his temples like he could physically press the headache away. “We’ll deal with the attitude later.”

You scoffed under your breath, turning away. Lando muttered something low and sharp that you didn’t quite catch—but you didn’t need to. You could feel the heat still radiating between you.

Toto pointed between you both, his voice firm. “Tomorrow, you each play singles. Y/n, your match is first. After that—no excuses. You train together again.”

Zak crossed his arms, his tone clipped. “And not just drills.”

Toto nodded. “You’ll train against Oscar and Lily.”

That made you look up.

Lily and Oscar. Calm, in sync, terrifyingly efficient. They moved like they shared a brain, like they’d been playing together since birth. Watching them was like watching choreography—fluid, precise, unshakable.

“They’re one of the best doubles pairs here,” Toto continued. “If you want to survive mixed doubles, you’ll learn from them. Communication. Movement. Trust.”

Lando let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “So we get destroyed on purpose.”

“Exactly,” Toto said, not missing a beat. “And you’ll thank me later.”

You didn’t respond. Neither did Lando.

But for the first time all day, neither of you had anything to argue about.

────────────

You sat alone in the locker room, the silence pressing in around you like a second skin. The hum of the stadium was distant, muffled by thick walls and the weight of your own thoughts. Your elbows rested on your thighs, head in your hands, leg bouncing restlessly. You hadn’t moved in minutes. Maybe longer.

The Australian Open. The one that always slipped away. You’d won everything else—Wimbledon, the US Open, Roland Garros. But Melbourne had always found a way to break your rhythm. A bad draw. A rolled ankle. A match point that vanished in the heat. It had become a ghost you couldn’t shake. And now, here you were again. Minutes from walking out. Minutes from trying—again—to rewrite the ending.

You told yourself this time would be different. You were stronger now. Sharper. You’d survived heartbreak, injury, Max leaving, the ITF’s games. You were still standing. That had to count for something.

Still, your chest felt tight. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

A soft knock broke through the quiet.

“Come in,” you said, voice low, not bothering to lift your head.

The door creaked open. “Just checking on you,” came a voice you knew by heart.

Kimi.

Of course it was him.

He didn’t ask if you were okay. He never did. He just knew. Always had. Like he could feel it in the air when you needed someone to show up.

Kimi stepped closer, his presence calm and steady in the way it always was. “You got this,” he said simply.

And somehow, that meant more than any speech ever could. Because if there was anyone who still believed in you—truly, without conditions—it was Kimi. He didn’t need you to win to believe in you. He just did.

You looked up at him, your voice soft. “Thanks, Kimi. I hope so.”

He gave a small nod, then added, “Lily couldn’t make it. She’s got training. But she told me to tell you she’s wishing you luck.”

You tried to smile. “I’ll see her after the match,” you said, but the words felt thinner than you meant them to. The thought of training with Lando later, of facing Lily and Oscar on the other side of the court—it crept in like a shadow, dulling the edges of your focus.

Kimi opened his mouth to say something else, maybe to ground you again, maybe just to stay a little longer.

But the loudspeaker crackled to life, cutting him off.

“Welcome to the first women’s singles match of this year’s Australian Open! Y/n Y/l/n versus Alexandra Saint Mleux!”

The words echoed through the locker room, sharp and final.

It was time.

You stood slowly, gripping your racket like it was the only thing tethering you to the ground. You gave it a few light swings, trying to shake the tension from your arms, but your muscles still felt tight, coiled like springs. From somewhere beyond the locker room walls, the roar of the crowd filtered in—louder than you expected. It hit you in the chest, sudden and real, and your stomach twisted.

Kimi stood just off to the side, arms folded, calm as ever. He gave you a small nod, his voice low and steady. “Focus,” he said. “You know what to do.”

You nodded back, not trusting yourself to speak. Then you turned and walked down the long hallway toward the court, each step echoing in the narrow space. You passed Toto near the entrance, his expression unreadable but his voice warm.

“Good luck, kid,” he said. “Remember Mleux’s weaknesses.”

You managed a quiet, “Thanks,” as you stepped past him and into the light.

The sun hit you like a wave—bright and hot, wrapping around your skin. The stadium opened up in front of you, vast and humming with energy. The crowd’s cheers rolled over you in waves, and your heart kicked up, faster than it should’ve been. You blinked against the brightness, against the noise, against the weight of it all.

This is it, you thought. This is finally your Australian Open.

You walked to your baseline, the court beneath your feet familiar and foreign all at once. You took a deep breath, let it fill your lungs, and exhaled slowly. The racket settled into your hands like it belonged there.

You bounced lightly on your toes at the baseline, trying to shake the nerves from your limbs. Your eyes stayed locked on the other side of the net, where Alexandra stood like a statue—calm, composed, her expression unreadable. She looked like she was waiting for a warm-up rally, not the start of a Grand Slam match. Of course she did. That was her thing. Ice in her veins. No cracks in the armor.

The umpire’s voice broke through the hum of the crowd. “Time.”

You inhaled slowly, steadying your breath. The racket felt solid in your hand, familiar. You tossed the ball into the air, eyes tracking it as it rose against the bright sky.

Focus.

The ball met your strings with a clean, satisfying snap. It flew wide and fast, clipping the line. Ace. The crowd erupted, a wave of sound crashing over you, and for a moment, it lit something in your chest. A spark. A reminder. You were here. You were ready.

The next point didn’t come as easy. The rally stretched long—baseline to baseline, shot for shot. You felt your knee twinge, a dull ache that flared with each push off your right foot. You ignored it. There was no space for pain today. You moved sharper, hit deeper, pulling from every drill Toto had hammered into you. Attack her backhand. Drag her wide. Don’t let her settle.

Point by point, the match found its rhythm. Brutal. Demanding. Sweat rolled down your spine, your grip tightening with every swing. The world narrowed to the ball, the lines, the breath in your lungs. Everything else fell away.

The first set had taken everything out of you. Long rallies, sharp angles, your knee screaming every time you pushed off just a little too hard. You’d won it—barely. And now, standing at the baseline in the second set, the heat pressed down heavier than before. The sun clung to your skin, sweat pooling at the base of your neck, soaking into your wristbands. You bounced the ball, trying to find your breath, trying to find your focus.

One point at a time.

You returned serve cleanly, chased the next shot, sent it down the line with just enough spin to pull it out of reach. The crowd responded, a low murmur rising into something louder, warmer. You didn’t let yourself react. Not yet.

But as you walked back toward the baseline, towel draped around your shoulders, your eyes drifted—just for a second. You didn’t mean to look. But you did.

And there he was.

Lando.

Sitting in the stands, elbows on his knees, cap pulled low. No smirk. No lazy grin. Just stillness. Focus. Watching you—not like a teammate, not like a rival. Like someone trying to understand something he hadn’t seen before.

Your grip tightened around the racket handle.

Why is he even here?

You shook the thought off, forced your gaze back to the court. It didn’t matter. He was just another face in the crowd. Just another distraction.

But the next rally dragged long—brutal, punishing. You chased a wide ball, stretched too far, and your knee flared in protest. Sharp. Immediate. You bit down on the pain, forced yourself through the motion, barely masking the wince.

And from the corner of your eye, you saw him move.

Lando straightened in his seat, jaw tight, eyes locked on you.

Like he felt it too.

You’d taken the second set, but your heart was racing for all the wrong reasons. Not from the heat or the effort or the pressure of the match—but from something else. Something you couldn’t quite name.

As the applause rolled over the court, you let your eyes drift—just for a second, just long enough to betray yourself. And there he was.

Lando.

Still in the stands. Still watching. Elbows on his knees, cap pulled low, gaze fixed on you like he hadn’t looked away once.

You turned quickly, heading for the sidelines. The crowd was loud, the sun relentless, sweat dripping down your temple as you moved straight toward Toto. You didn’t wait for him to speak.

“What is he doing here?” you asked, voice low but sharp. “Doesn’t he have his own match?”

Toto handed you a bottle of water, calm as ever. “He already played,” he said. “He won.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He’d finished his match. And he’d still come to watch yours.

The thought landed in your chest with a strange weight. Not heavy, exactly. Just… tight. Unsettling. Maybe he was here to see you fall apart. Maybe he wanted proof that you weren’t as good as everyone said.

Or maybe—worse—he wanted to see for himself just how good you really were.

“Focus, kid,” Toto said, his voice low and even, cutting through the noise like a metronome. He gave you a steady look, the kind that didn’t waver, didn’t rush. “You’ve already taken two sets out of three. You’ve got this in the bag.”

You nodded, but it didn’t quite reach your chest. Your heart was still racing, your body humming with adrenaline and heat and something else—something harder to name. Pressure, maybe. Or fear. Or the weight of knowing how close you were to finally breaking the curse of this tournament.

You looked down at your hands, fingers wrapped tight around the water bottle, knuckles pale. You’d done the hard part. You were ahead. But the finish line always felt the farthest when it was right in front of you.

Still, Toto’s voice stayed with you. Calm. Certain. Like he believed in you even when you weren’t sure you could believe in yourself.

You took a breath. Then another.

And when you stood, racket in hand, the world narrowed again—to the court, the ball, the next point.

Just one more set.

The whistle blew, sharp and final, slicing through the heat-soaked air.

You stepped to the baseline, and something inside you shifted. Not snapped, exactly—more like something uncoiled. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the weight of the moment. Or maybe it was the image of Lando, still watching, still there, etched into the back of your mind like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

Whatever it was, it lit a fuse.

You served with more bite, more speed. The ball cracked off your strings and kissed the line. Your returns came cleaner, heavier, each one landing with purpose. Your feet moved before your thoughts could catch up, your body slipping into that rare, elusive rhythm where everything just worked.

The crowd roared, but it barely registered. Their cheers blurred into a distant hum, like waves crashing somewhere far away. All you could hear was the thud of the ball, the scrape of your shoes, the steady beat of your breath.

Focus. Timing. Instinct.

It all clicked.

Each point you won fed the next—momentum building, confidence blooming in your chest like something wild and overdue. The anger, the nerves, the noise—they all faded, burned away by the fire in your blood and the clarity in your mind.

And then, between points, as you turned to towel off, your eyes flicked to the stands.

Lando was still there.

Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on you. No smirk. No smugness. Just focus. Just… attention.

The rally stretched on, longer than you thought your body could handle. Sweat dripped into your eyes, your muscles screamed with every lunge, every pivot, every desperate reach. Your breath came in ragged bursts, the court blurring at the edges as you chased one more shot, then another, refusing to let go.

Alexandra lunged for your return, her body fully extended, racket slicing through the air. The ball clipped the edge of her strings—then spun wide.

Out.

The stadium erupted.

For a second, you didn’t move. Couldn’t. The sound hit you like a wave, crashing over your shoulders, and then your knees gave out. You dropped, the racket slipping from your hand, your fists clenched and raised as you let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh.

You’d done it.

The Australian Open. The one that had always slipped through your fingers. The one that haunted your off-seasons and whispered in your dreams. You’d won the first round. And this time, it was real.

Toto was there in an instant, dropping to your level, gripping your shoulder with both hands. His eyes were bright, voice thick with something that sounded suspiciously like pride. “You did it,” he said, shaking you gently. “You did it, kid!”

You laughed, still catching your breath, the weight of the last few months crashing down all at once. The pressure. The burnout. The doubt. The noise. It all spilled out in one long, shaking exhale. “We did it,” you said, voice cracking. “We actually did it.”

Toto pulled you into a quick, fierce hug. “No,” he said, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “You did it. That’s all you.”

And in the middle of the chaos—the roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras, the blur of movement—you let yourself feel it.

Not relief. Not survival.

Triumph.

Real, unfiltered, earned.

You had won the first round of the Australian Open.

You and Toto stepped into the hallway, the buzz of the crowd still echoing faintly behind you. You didn’t have to look to know he was smiling—that quiet, proud smile he only wore when words weren’t enough. The kind that said I knew you could without needing to say it at all.

And then you saw them.

Lily, Oscar, Kimi… and Lando.

Lily was the first to reach you, arms already outstretched. “You did it, Y/n!” she beamed, pulling you into a tight hug that nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

You laughed, still catching your breath, still riding the high. “Thanks, Lil. It’s—God, it’s unbelievable.”