totoro

There was a sharp chill in the night air, the feeling of late fall. You had wandered away from the settlement, everyone else having turned in for the night, and had settled in a clearing atop a small hill- looking up at the night sky, out on the expansive forest, and the tents and buildings of the Kingdom of Science. You had just returned from Treasure Island. The trip was a whirlwind, and terrifying at times, but you had secured the platinum you had gone looking for. Everything was in full swing to prepare for your voyage to America- the Persues was to set sail in the morning. You had fully invested yourself in every part of this project, in your journey to the island, and in preparations for the next leg of your voyage- eager to help in any way you could. Eager to continue to be a pillar of strength and wisdom for the (mostly) adolescent crew.

In the silence, your mind wandered. You thought about what would happen next. You knew where the ship was heading. Soon, you would be heading to America. You would be heading back home. It had been two years since you had broken out of the stone. So much had happened since then, you had changed so much. And yet, your end goal never altered. Your stomach tied itself in knots thinking of the possibilities. What was it like there? Was there any semblance of truth in Senku and Gen’s bluff against the Tsukasa Empire? Would America be back up and running already? If so, how long would it have been like that?

You had everything to lose there. You were terrified of what you would find. Or, what scared you the most, what you wouldn’t find. With the negative thoughts flooding your head, you, for the very first time since being revived in the stone world, let yourself cry. Away from curious eyes, eyes that depended on your strength, you let the fear and emotions escape from you. Your mind wandered back. Back to the last morning you had with your husbands- a morning 3,722 years ago. 

You struggled against Stanley’s iron grip holding you firmly on his lap on the couch. You were stuck in a burst of giggles, trying to pry his arms from around your waist. 

“Stan,” You struggled to get his name out through your laughter, “Stan, please. I need to leave. If I miss my flight because of you I swear-” His grip on you loosened, and you finally thought you had broken free. Just as you were getting up, he changed his hold on you, turning you around to straddle his lap. You groaned in feigned annoyance as he pulled you in and attempted to press kisses all over your face. You blocked his attempts with a hand on his forehead. 

“Stanley Snyder,” you said, your tone firm, but a dopey grin plastered on your face, “if you get that lipstick all over me right before I’m about to leave, you are going to be down one spouse.” He laughed, and pulled himself back. 

“Is it really so awful to want to love on my doll before they go on a big long trip?” He brought his hands to your face, gently cupping your cheeks.

“It’s not so awful,” you leaned forward, pressing a firm kiss to his lips, “but, I do have to go.” You frowned, “You have to get your ass to work, too, babe.” He gave you another kiss, grip still firm around your waist. Xeno stepped out of your shared bedroom, dressed for work with a coffee cup in hand. He walked up to you and Stanely, wrapping an arm around your shoulders with his free hand. He placed a kiss to the top of your head. 

“Stanley, dear, contain yourself. Our darling has an important flight to catch.” Xeno mused. Stanley groaned, and finally dropped his hold on you. Xeno offered his hand to help you stand. You smiled and grabbed his chin, gently pulling him in for a kiss. You felt your phone buzz in your pocket. You pulled it out and frowned. 

“Okay, boys. My car is pulling up. I really do have to go,” you gave Xeno another kiss, and turned to Stanley as he stood up, placing a kiss on his lips as well, “I love you both. Behave while I’m gone,” you pointed at both of them, getting a chuckle out of them both.

“No promises,” Stanley said. He grabbed your bags from in front of the door, “I’ll walk you out.”

“I will do my best to keep him in line, darling,” Xeno teased. “Safe travels, my dear, we will see you in a week. I love you.”

Stanley opened the front door for you, and you both walked out. Your ride pulled up as you stepped off the front porch. He loaded your bags in the back of the car and opened the back door for you. He stopped you with a hand on your shoulder before you climbed into the car. 

“Stay safe, baby. Keep us updated as much as you can.”

You nodded in response, “I will, Stan. I’ll be home soon. Don’t worry about me too much, drama queen.” You teased and placed another kiss to his lips, and climbed into the car.

“Love you, doll.”

“I love you, too, Stan. See you soon.”

With that, he shut the door and the car drove off. 

That was the last memory you had of your husbands. “See you soon” had turned into millenia. Tears fell freely down your face the more you thought about it. Your chest ached with the feeling of missing them, of longing to be in your house with them again. You would give anything to be trapped in Stan’s arms again, to have him leaving purple lipstick marks all over your face. You would give anything to feel Xeno’s gentle touch, his kind and adoring kisses, to listen to him talk through his work at you while you fixed dinner. 

Through your sniffles, and lost in your thoughts, you didn’t hear the footsteps of the person sitting down next to you.

“Now, what brings you all the way out here on this fine night, hm, dear Y/N?” You could see Gen settling down next to you. Fuck, you thought to yourself, there’s no getting out of this one. 

“Just enjoying the peace and quiet. It’s a beautiful night.” You managed to get the words out with minimal shaking in your voice. You tried to wipe the tears streaming down your cheeks away as subtly as possible, hoping the darkness of the night would cover for you. 

From the moment you arrived, Gen had gladly seated himself right in your business. In the beginning, he acted as your translator as you slowly started to learn Japanese (and even teach a little English to the Kingdom of Science). Now, he acted as the pain in your ass. You meant that with the most love in the world. Despite the near decade age gap between you two, you had formed quite the friendship with the young mentalist. But, damn, you could not keep a secret around him. Which included right now. He chucked as you spoke. 

“I thought you would have figured it out by now- but, you can’t lie to me, Y/N. Especially not after two years of ostively-pay delightful friendship.” He teased, but you could hear the care in his tone. He turned his head to look at you, seeing the reflection of tears on your face in the moonlight.

“Now tell me, dear Y/N, what’s troubling you?” His voice softened. You felt like his gaze was boring holes into you. You thought for a moment about if you really wanted to get into this now. And, then, you thought that you didn’t really have a choice. Gen could, to your dismay, read you like a book. You knew he already had it figured out, he just wanted you to say it. 

“I’m scared, Gen. Really scared.” Your voice quivered as you spoke, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill from your eyes. 

He hummed in response. “About the voyage? About going back to the States?” You nodded. “I had a feeling that was it. This is an important and exciting journey for the rest of us, but it’s very personal to you.” He watched your face, reading your expression. He wanted you to talk about it, to get your feelings out, but he didn’t want to overstep. When your face remained unchanging, he continued, “You were married in the old world, right?” 

You closed your eyes, those tears from before freely flowing down your face. You nodded again. “I was. My husbands and I lived in California at the time of the petrification. All I can think about is if their statues are still intact. God, I hope I can find them.”

There was a pause before Gen spoke up, “I’m sorry, did you say husbands? As in, more than one?” There was genuine surprise in his voice, but no judgement. You hadn't spoken about your personal life in the old world much since depetrifying. There was no time, and it pained you to think about it too hard. Gen’s question did break a short laugh out of you. 

“Yes, I had two.” You wiped the tears from your cheeks. “Well, legally, I had one husband. But a marriage certificate really isn’t anything but a piece of paper. We only got legally married because he was in the military. He was, uhm, very high ranking, and was often sent on deployments. So, we figured it would be smart to have the legal safety net. Survivor’s benefits, you know. Just in case…” You trailed off, realizing you had begun to ramble. “But, yes, to answer your question. Two husbands.”

Gen nodded, “So, a wildlife biologist, a soldier… What did your other husband do?”

“He’s a scientist, too. Aerospace engineering. He worked for NASA.” You brought your knees up to your chest, resting your head on them, still looking out into the distance. “I hope I’ll get the opportunity to introduce Senku to him.” you stare at the stars, a small smile on your lips. “They have… Conflicting views on science, to say the least.” You laugh, “But, I know those two would talk each other’s ears off for hours. I think Senku could teach my husband just as much as he could teach Senku.”

Gen groaned dramatically, “You’re telling me there’s a possibility there’s going to be two of them?” He fell backwards, throwing his arms up in the air in mock defeat. You laughed at his showmanship, feeling much of the tension you carried from before falling away. You still felt the pit of anxiety in your stomach. 

“Lucky for you, I think our chances of that happening soon are slim to none. They were in Pinnacles National Park, for an expo that I was actually supposed to be at but you know… Got stuck here with work…” You frowned. You didn’t regret your time with the Kingdom of Science, and you considered them family now. You couldn’t imagine a future where you didn’t know them. But still, the fantasies of being with your beloved husbands during the petrification, of being revived together, and not aging without them lived at the forefront of your mind. 

“Pinnacles is a two hour drive from the nearest beach. Even if we drop anchor there, the logistics of it feel so out of reach. It would take four days, minimum, round trip, and that’s not including the time it might take to find them… If there’s anything left to find.” You sighed, feeling the tears well up in your eyes again. “We have important work to do over there, and we’ll have limited time. I don’t want to risk ruining everything for a selfish endeavor like that. We all have people that we back. I wouldn’t feel right taking the time and resources just for something that only I wanted.”

“Well, they certainly sound like they have desirable skills. I mean, a trained combat expert and a rocket scientist? You do recall that our end goal is a trip to the moon, right? We could use people like them on our team. Even if they wouldn’t be idiculous-ray assets to the team, I think you’ve put in more than enough work to deserve to be a little selfish.” He turned to look at you. You looked back at him and quickly broke your gaze, trying to find anything else to look at. 

“Yeah… I guess that makes sense. Yeah, maybe.” Your voice softened, almost a mutter. 

“You’re trying to avoid it, Y/N. Why?” His tone was curt. Straight to the point. You shifted nervously.

“I’m scared, Gen. Terrified. There are a million possible outcomes, and so many of them are bad. What if their statues are broken and we can’t fix them? What if we can’t find them? What if they’re so buried under almost 4,000 years of geographical change that they’re never found again? I know they stayed conscious- I know it. It was torture for 3,700 years, imagine that for eternity.” Your voice broke as tears once again began to stream down your cheeks. “Or what if the rest of the world never turned to stone, or the rest of the world got back up and running hundreds or thousands of years ago and they grew old and died without me? I don’t want to do the rest of this without them, Gen. I don’t know if I can. We grew up together. For so long, it was just the three of us. We only had each other. They are the loves of my life, my everything. The only thing that’s gotten me through the last two years is the hope that I get to see them again. What if I can’t get them back?”

“You’ll paralyze yourself with indecision if you keep thinking like that, Y/N. You won’t know unless you look for yourself. You need to face this, but you know you don’t have to do it alone, right? You don’t have to carry all the weight by yourself.” He placed a hand on your back, and stood up. “It’s late, Y/N. We should head back and get some rest.”

You shook your head, “I’m going to stay out here a while longer. Thanks for listening to me, Gen.”

He smiled down at you, “Any time, dear Y/N. You give everybody else a great deal of your love and hard work. You deserve that same kind of care in return.” And with that, he was off back towards the settlement. Once again leaving you alone with your thoughts. 

The Perseus was setting sail in the morning. You didn’t have long before you had to face your fears head on. You were terrified, but soon enough, you wouldn’t have a choice. For now, all you could do was hold on to the crumb of hope that you managed to hold on to. 

I hope you enjoyed this part! I personally really love the little flashback I put in, and loved getting the chance to expand on one of the reader's relationships in the KoS :) I luv Gen

Also, every time I was reading through this to edit, the "now, he acted as the pain in your ass" line made me laugh out loud. I think I'm way funnier than I actually am.

Part 4 is pretty much finished, and should be out soon! I also want to keep writing for my little StanXeno series I have going on- so hopefully I'll be able to get that out soon, as well! AND, I need to start working on some requests lol. God help me

You woke up to the sound of your phone ringing on the night table next to you. Groaning, you rolled over and checked the screen. You perked up a little when you saw the screen lit up with “Xeno <3”, his picture filling your screen. You pulled the phone off the charger and answered the call. 

“Good morning.” Your voice was groggy, not even trying to hide that you had just opened your eyes. 

You could hear Xeno chuckle on the other end, “good morning to you, darling. Did I wake you?” You glanced at the clock- 10:04 AM. You couldn’t believe you had slept so late. 

“No, no. I was just getting up. I need to head for the airport in a couple hours.” You got out of bed, moving towards the hotel room bathroom to start getting ready for the morning. “What is it, like 6 PM for you?”

“6:05 in the evening. Yes, dear. Your flight is at 5, correct?”

You hummed, grabbing your hairbrush. “Yup, I’ll be landing around 1pm tomorrow. Well… tomorrow for you. Technically I’ll be landing 4 hours before I even boarded the plane,” you laughed brushing through your hair before packing your brush away with your toiletries, “God, timezones are weird.”

“But an elegant reminder to the discoveries made of our planet and galaxy before our times.” Xeno mused.

You continued to pack away the rest of your bathroom items while you listened to him. “Hey, you have the DARPA expo tonight, right? Aren’t you supposed to be there in like an hour?” You double checked the invitation you had received for the same event on your phone. 

“Yes, I just completed my preparations for it. I’ll be leaving in just a moment, but I wanted a chance to speak with you before your flight. I’m regretful that you aren’t able to join us tonight.”

You sighed, “Yeah, I’m kind of ticked about it. None of the earlier flights would have arrived on time. I want to hear everyone else’s findings on this- you’ll have to fill me in when I get home.” You were eager to learn more about the stone swallows. You had been invited as an expert in your field- wildlife biology. Unfortunately, you were already on the other side of the globe for an international conference when the invitation came through. The conference was over, and you had tried everything you could to find a quicker flight home to no avail. 

“I will gladly provide you with the details of the night, darling. I will say that there has been a discovery regarding brain activity in these stone swallows.” Xeno began, he was about to continue before you cut him off. 

“Oh, yeah, I saw this. I was sent a briefing on this yesterday. You’re talking about the link between brain activity and nitric acid, right? The swallows still alive inside the stone were able to be freed with exposure to pure nitric acid, while those who no longer showed brain activity were unable to be revived. I’m very interested in these findings. I’m eager to get home and be able to study these statues more closely.”

“That’s correct. I do wish you were able to grace us with your knowledge this evening, darling. As well as, selfishly, I am eager to see you. You will be missed.”

You smiled, walking from the bathroom to start to pack your suitcase. “I wish I could be there, Xen. You should probably get going soon. Is Stan there?” You asked, knowing the chances of your other husband being home were slim, but you still hoped for the chance to speak with him. 

“Stanley was called to base when the stone statues began to appear. As I’m sure you can imagine, our government is getting quite antsy.” There was a mild irritation in his voice. You knew full well how much Xeno hated when he was the one left home alone. You chuckled to yourself at his annoyance.

“Oh, I’m sure. Well, you need to get going, Xen. And I need to finish getting my shit together over here. I’ll see you in a few hours, okay? I love you so much. Tell Stan I love and miss him, too. I can’t wait to see you both.”

“Of course I will, darling. You have a safe flight, and I will see you tomorrow. I love you dearly.” And with that, he hung up. 

You continued your day, running downstairs for a quick bite to eat and a coffee, before heading back up to your room to continue packing. The clock read 12:31 PM by the time you had all of your things together. Perfect, you thought. You wanted to leave for the airport by one. This gave you a buffer to check out and get a taxi ahead of schedule. 

You checked your phone after walking out of your hotel for the final time- 12:39 PM. You nodded, feeling a little better about your pre-travel anxieties. You double checked your bag, making sure you had your wallet and your passport- the absolute necessities. When you looked up again to flag down a cab, you saw a bright green light breaking over the horizon. 

“Oh, fuck.” You muttered to yourself. You quickly wracked your brain for every possibility this could be before settling on one- whatever happened to those swallows was about to happen to you. You recalled the conversation you had with Xeno just hours before- the swallows that maintained brain activity were able to be freed from their petrification. You took a breath, and braced yourself. You watched the light get closer, and before you knew it, you couldn’t feel your body.

Okay

Okay

You could feel the urge to fall asleep taking you over almost immediately. 

Stay awake, Y/N. Stay. The. Fuck. Awake. 

You did what you could to keep yourself awake. It started with the ABCS; singing your favorite songs in your head; reciting all the numbers you could remember of pi (not many), the Bill of Rights, the 50 states, all the countries you could think of. You started thinking about different regions and naming the prominent wildlife in those areas. You did everything you could to stay awake. You had absolutely no concept of time. It could have been a couple days, maybe a couple months or years… maybe more. Eventually, what you couldn’t stop thinking about in the back of your mind made its way to the forefront. 

My Stanley, my Xeno, I hope you’re alright. I wonder what happened to you. Are you like me right now? Did the light miss you entirely? If you’re still living out there, I hope you’re able to find me, or I hope you’re able to move on without me if something has happened to my body. 

I hope I will get to see you again. Please, if you’re able, wait for me.

Part 2 Here!

A/N: Literally as I was copy and pasting this from my Google Docs (hi, it's been 10 seconds since I typed the first author's note) it occurred to me that I have the power to write parts of this from Stanley and Xeno's POV

Oh I feel evil now

There are definitely going to be some times in this series where I hurt my own feelings k byeeeeeee

“Sisi….!” Your lips started to twitch. A tell tale sign you were going to cry. Oh, you were definitely hungry, especially when you pressed your face into the front of his shirt with a wet sounding hiccup. Marlene started to coo, while Lucas whimpered. Mathias, poor Mathias, stood frozen next to Niki, unsure of what to do, 24 and suddenly presented with a pup sibling twenty years his junior. 

“You’re okay,” Niki rubbed up and down your back. Scenting you carefully. “Mausi, you’re okay. You did so well, such a good pup.”

Marlene let you lay against her chest, purring softly to comfort you as Niki made your bunny plush dance to distract you. Mathias scrambled to get you a bottle, awkward and unsure of how else he could help his youngest littermate. He’d been practically a baby himself when Lucas was born, and honestly, he’d never been too good with babies. But he’s learned. He and Lucas both, the two working in sync to prepare the bottle, staring at the pot on the stove while your bottle warmed. Just like Marlene had taught them.

It’s not too hot or too cold, and it passes the wrist check. Lucas and Mathias were terrified of accidentally burning your little tongue, they hated when you cried over something they couldn’t help.

You had wormed your way into their hearts. The media whispered about rumors of their dislike of you, yet it was plain as day that Lukas and Mathias would give you the moon if you so much as looked at it with a longing gaze. 

Your whimpers and hiccups turned to soft coos as you took the bottle, little hands holding onto Mathias’s as your eyes grew heavy, sleepy but much more relaxed, held against his chest as he looked down at you with wide eyes. Lucas visibly looks more at ease as you drink.

“What a good pair of older brothers,” Niki smiles, as Mathias held you. Watching as you fell asleep in his arms, starting to drool a little. Tuckered out from your shift as your older brother rocked you carefully. Your eyes droop, and with a final whine, you set your head against his shoulder. 

“I promise, I won’t let anything happen to you,” Mathias’s voice shakes a little. Feeling you suckle on his shirt in your sleep, one chubby hand gripping to the fabric. You were so small. So fragile. Still needing physical therapy and afraid to go out in public with Niki because of how the paparazzi flocked to get pictures of you. “Never.”

“You’re our littermate,” Lucas gently stroked a hair from your little face. Watching as you eventually let Mathias’s shirt out of your mouth, leaving a wet patch behind. “We’ll always take care of you, Mausi.”

The sacred bond of a littermate. 

“Don’t call her that,” Marlene teased, but there was no real anger in her voice. Just gentle teasing. “Do you think our sweet little baby wants to be known as a little rodent, just like her Vati is?”

“She already yelled at Michael for implying anything less.” Mathias whispered, watching as you snuggled a little bit closer into him. Purring in your sleep, chubby little cheeks formed into a small pout. Wispy hair that was growing thick along your scalp, Niki was practically beaming with pride. “All ‘I’m a mouse! Mar said I was a mouse, not a rat like Vati!” 

“She’s too pretty to be a rat,” Marlene cooed, gently taking you into her arms, and letting you lay against her. You snuggle in almost immediately, letting out a satisfied little huff that has her smirking at Niki, who laughs softly. Eyes on you and only you. 

“Of course she is.” Niki whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as you started to sleep in earnest, making noises as you dreamed. “She’s a Lauda, after all.”

February 28th, 2024. Ḥalba al-Baḥrayn ad-Dawliyya, Mamlakat al-Baḥrayn.

The first thing you become aware of is the way your entire body aches. Completely sore, as though you were back completing extensive PT all over again. You never wanted to think about those days, from when you’d first been able to walk again after the fire, pushing them as far into the recesses of your mind, and by consequence, locking away the few blurry memories of memories you had of your late Dam. 

“Sweetheart, my honey,” Dam cooed over you, as you cuddled against her. Dam’s shirt was always soft, especially this one. The red flannel was worn, but clearly loved. It smelled the most like Dam, out of everything in the house. It was your favorite to nest with, and to have wrapped around you as you toddled from place to place. “Look at you, the sweetest gift the world could have given me,”

You blinked slowly, mouth stretching in a yawn, just as you were tucked into bed beside her. You were so glad Dam shared her nest with you. That she was letting you add your stuffed frog and favorite blanket now, because it was your nest too!

Dam gently kissed your forehead, stroking your cheeks and whispering to you. “Sleep, my peach, I’ll see you in the morning, sunshine.”

That scent. The scent that, despite his extensive efforts, Niki could never quite replicate in your childhood plushies. The stuffed frog you barely remembered had burned with the cabin, with your mother, along with your baby blanket and the soft, red flannel. 

Niki had been there through that. Helping you the entire time. He’d been there, kneeling with his arms outstretched as you took shaky steps forward with your new brace. 

But this? This was the deep type of ache that defied all logic. And you had been through some hell in terms of knowing just how your body responded to everything. Physical therapy had never had you feeling this bad, not recently, at least. But with your litany of your chronic medical health needs, you could just be having a particularly bad flare up. 

Maybe you’d need your inhaler? It had been years since you’d last needed it, but Niki had always insisted on keeping the prescription updated, on account of his “dad senses”. You found that rather amusing at the time, but still brought it with you everywhere, packed in your medications bag. 

No, no, not the inhaler. Your chest wasn’t aching and you could breathe pretty steadily, not struggling to catch your breath like you used to. Maybe pain meds? The extra strength ibuprofen was calling your name, especially with the dry patch on your tongue, and the bottle of water sitting on the nightstand.

Two pills later, and an empty prayer that they’d kick in quickly, you realized you were actually in your room. Not your hotel room, but the room in the pack’s motorhome. Cramped, but cozy, just like Max’s and Carlos’s personal rooms. There was much more space in the Nesting Den, but it was still nice to have a private area all your own. 

You stare up at the ceiling. Foggy memories were returning to you now. Nico dragging you to the motorhome. You had forgotten to reapply scent blockers after breakfast with Nico and Lewis. The cuddle pile of pack pups and Fernando fussing over you like the mother hen he was. Niki had been called at some point, too. 

 Oh, and that Alpha with his heavenly scent, rubbing his nose against yours. 

Pause. 

Who… who was that Alpha? 

You wrinkle your brow, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms. The scar tissue on them always managed to keep you grounded. It felt different from the rest of your palms, whenever you rubbed at your eyes.

Who was he?

You were certain there’d been an alpha you’d rubbed noses with! Absolutely certain! 

Yet for the life of you, you can’t recall even what this Alpha smelled or looked like, only that it was a man, and that you’d felt safe enough to do such an intimate gesture with him! Your cheeks heat up at the thought— you’d been so out of the loop that you’d rubbed noses!

Mathias and Lucas would never let you hear the end of this.

“Maus, it’s Nando,” The Spaniard knocks before entering, a small tray with a plate of your favorite pastries stacked high, with a glass of juice balanced next to them. “Don’t worry, you only missed media day, free practices start tomorrow.”

Normally, he’d have been lecturing you about forgetting your blockers. And in your own defense, you usually weren’t shifting into your canine form before going anywhere public, so reapplying scent blockers had slipped your mind a little. 

“Did I almost die again, or something?” You try to joke, sitting up. Fernando only winces. Just how bad had things gotten?

“Not die, but you were out of it for a few hours. Like you were a pup again,” Fernando gets a wistful look on his face as he sets the plate on the edge of the bed, handing the glass of juice directly to you. “Norris is convinced you’ll request to get moved to Oscar.”

“Why would I request that?” You murmur, after drinking down about half of the juice. “We’ve been making good progress.”

“Hm. Perhaps the fact that he feels you do not like him and didn’t trust him enough with your designation.” Fernando sounds like he wants to lecture you, just by his tone, but something in his posture tells you he won’t. 

That nearly has you doing a spit take. Lando knew? How had he found out? 

“He fucking knows?!”

“Language!” Nando snaps, gawking at you.

“What, do you want me to say it in fucking German!?” You snap right back at him. You can’t help it! Quite honestly, you’re a bit panicked. You’d never intended for Lando to find out this way— or at all, really, not until you were good and ready. If you ever were. “What the fuck happened to me, Nando!”

Not a question. A statement. Because you needed to know what happened to you, now.

“You forgot to reapply your scent blockers. Got snippy with your press officer, and made my boyfriend pass out from panic because your scent messed with Lando to the point he went borderline feral over it.” 

You look up to see Oscar leaning against the door, frowning at you. 

“Fuck.”

“Wow, your American side is really showing today,” Oscar’s tone is dry as the desert in the middle of his home country.

“Fuck.”

“Oscar, please, you are not helping right now.” Fernando is rubbing his temples, looking like he’s about to cry and scream at the same time. You’ve tucked yourself into a corner. There’s this far-off look in your eyes. The one you get whenever the world seems to crumble around you. Fernando’s seen that look before, when Niki first told you his lungs were failing, before he’d gotten the transplant. When you thought you’d lose your sire.

“I’m so fucked,” You flop back on the bed. Looking up at the ceiling. Eyes much too empty for someone so young. “Of course my scent triggered McLaren’s golden boy. I’m so fired.”

“Why did you both seem to think that? Honestly, no wonder the two of you were paired together, dramatic pups that you are.”

Niki’s voice snaps you from your spiral, the older man hobbling by the young McLaren driver and even tugging on his ear with a grumble that has no real hostility behind it. The omega folds immediately, looking to the side with a bit of shame. “Be nice, Piastri.”

There’s no stopping the way you collapse into your sire. Face against his shoulder, hands gripping onto the back of his shirt as though he is the only thing anchoring you to this world, gently waving Fernando and Oscar out of the room. The Spaniard looks like he wants to argue, face crumbling as he’s waved away, but relents, whispering for Niki to fetch him when he’s done, because he still needs to talk to you.

The bitter, burnt coffee scent of guilt wafts from the prime omega. You had been Fernando’s only pup at one point. The youngest member of the F1 pack for several years, spoiled and beloved by the Spaniard. His ratita. To now. One of his older pups, still beloved, but with less time to focus on you as he had to dash around to make sure the Academy, F3, and F2 pups were taken care of. And it was clear he missed it just being you, sometimes, even when he was surrounded by all the pups he was helping to raise up. 

Niki was your sire, but it took a pack to raise you, with all of your complications and quirks. And as you grew older, Niki found it increasingly hard to share you now.

But he was an old man now, too old to deal with childish behavior and the complicated relationships between your countless other surrogate dams and sires. And certainly, much, much too old to deal with you acting like a pup, even if most of your reactions were trauma-based. 

For a few minutes, he just holds you. His little Maus, his successor in all things strategy while his sons took to driving. Niki lets himself be your Sisi, comforting you and letting you ground yourself with your face against his shoulder. Like you’re just a child again, waking up from a nightmare and speaking in a wavering voice.

Then, when you have stopped sinking your claws into his back, as though he may fade away if you don’t, he tugs on your good ear with a growl. Time to parent, yet again. Even with fully grown pups, Niki finds himself parenting the three of you much too often than he’d like, despite his children being forty-six, forty-four, and twenty-two. 

“Maus….” Niki starts, letting go of your ear as you whimper softly, already knowing you would be getting lectured. “Look at me, please, darling,”

“I don’t know why I was so mean,” you whisper. Niki cups your cheeks, wiping away your tears as you he listens to you. “I never wanted to be so mean to him, I promise, Sisi,” 

“I know.” Niki sighs. He’s glad that Fernando never really picked up on German, and that Oscar mostly stuck to English. He can keep this conversation private. “But that doesn’t make it okay. You’ve kept him at an arm’s length, you’ve been cruel at times, little mouse, that is unlike you.”

“I didn’t want to fail him the way I failed Logan.” You hiccup, looking at Niki with watery eyes. “And I still might. I could fail him, Sisi, I will fail him, just like Logan, all over again, I’ll ruin their talents, if I’m not—”

“If you’re not what?”

“If I’m not enough!” You look up at him, which such certainty and terror in your eyes. You seem so convinced that you’re the problem. It scares Niki, that you look up at him with such fear in your eyes. 

“Why wouldn’t you be enough?” 

His voice is hoarse. So startled that he can’t seem to find the words in his native tongue, blurting out his question in English. You? Not enough? What could have ever given you such an idea? You were worthy of everything! Whatever you set your eyes upon achieving, you eventually came to achieve. You graduated from your masters early just because of that! 

Well, that and one other thing. He can still feel the odd twinge every so often, in his abdomen, because of it. 

“Because I’m not,” you whisper. You sound so certain of it, even shaking a little as he holds you. “I’m not enough for this,” 

“Why would you ever think that, mein Schatz?” Niki wipes away the tears coating your cheeks. “Why would you ever think you weren’t enough?”

“Haven’t you seen how they all look at me?” You keep your face turned away from him, as if you’re deeply ashamed. “How they talk about me?” 

“Who?” 

“Latest Lauda Blunder: Is She Truly The Next McLaren Great, As Her Name Suggests?” You repeat the title of an article that had been published shortly after testing. Niki knew it well. He’d read it and then made sure it was taken down for defamation. It spewed mostly second-hand gossip about your sudden exit from Williams and questioned your prickly attitude, and radio conversations that had been leaked with Lando while Will was still around. 

No matter the threats his lawyers made, Niki never got the name of the informant. The anonymous insider from McLaren who leaked the radio transcripts. 

“I failed Williams. I’ll end up failing McLaren too,” you whisper, looking at your hands. “I’m too nice. Or, I’m the worst thing a woman can be in Motorsport. Mean to boys and confident in herself.” Your voice is a low growl. More devastated than angry. “Why do I even try anymore? If it comes out I’m an omega—“

“You will continue as you always have.” Fernando cuts in. Eyes narrowed to slits as he looks at you and Niki, sitting on your bed. “Who gives a shit what your family name is? If you’re a woman? If you’re an omega?”

“A lot of people, Nando, what does that even—“ You start, before getting cut off. 

“And? Has that ever stopped you before?” Fernando snaps, standing before you with his arms crossed. “Did that stop you from getting your masters? From being proud of who you are and where you came from?” Fernando bends down to have his face pressed against yours, noses touching. A prime talking to one of their pups, keeping you in line. Something Fernando knows how to do, and has been doing since he first met you. 

“What happened at Williams was not your fault,” Fernando brings one hand to cup the right side of your face, covering part of your scar, but not completely. To cover it all would be to deny part of who you were and how you had come to be his adoptive pup. “Williams is a team fighting to survive. They are not the best lead team. They verge on incompetent most days.”

“Fernando,” Niki admonishes, but there’s no real bite behind the words. “Don’t speak of other teams like that!”

“I shall speak on them however I wish.” Fernando huffs, still cupping your cheeks, but hooking Niki with quite the glare. “I know Modern Formula One better than you, and understand how Williams might function, given their desperation.”

Fernando puffed out his chest a little. Almost proud, as he turned back to you after snapping at Niki. Your sire had the decency to at least look a bit shocked, before relenting to Fernando. 

“But, I need you to at least try with Lando,” The Spaniard gently uncovers all of your scarring, his gaze softening as he takes in your anxious scent. His thumb stretches to stroke your cheekbone, a familiar gesture that he’s done countless times to relax you. “Logan was special. Someone who understood what it felt like to not quite fit in as one of the only other Americans. And his treatment and the treatment you faced was disgusting. But, mi ratita, don’t let that scare you away from trying to connect with Lando.”

Lando stands outside the door to your room, covering his mouth with both of his hands as his heart pounds in his chest. It feels like it’s louder than normal; he’s absolutely certain that someone has heard it by now. 

You thought you weren’t enough for him?

How— of all the things that Lando expected to be the reason you were being so standoffish, that hadn’t even been a possibility to him.

You were brilliant! If Lando was a once in a generation talent, you were a once in a millenium! The way you saw the track, how you understood everything about the car and how to get the most out of even the most glorified tractor that hit the grid, was beyond rare. It was practically impossible. 

Yet you managed to do just that. 

The simulator times and the times that the test drivers had recorded showed that. In the brief time you’d been at McLaren, working with the team and helping to tweak small parts of the car to push everything about it to the absolute limit. 

And you thought you weren’t enough. 

Somehow, you even thought that you’d failed Logan. 

Admittedly, Lando didn’t know much about Logan aside from whatever he’d eavesdropped from Oscar’s conversations. Williams seemed like a hot mess, somehow coasting and surviving into the next season on their meager budget. To Lando, Logan was just… the American. He wanted to get to know him better, honest! He really did! But it was awkward, and at this point, he felt like he’d be making things worse for the younger man if he did. 

Like you, Logan had all the pressure sitting on his shoulders. To perform in a car that was a year behind and kept regularly breaking apart on him. Constantly passed over in favor of Alex, who had gone through the very same thing at one point. 

Now you were afraid that you would fail Lando, too. 

Silently, he backs away from the room. This wasn’t something he was meant to hear. Hell, he’s not even sure if he should be here. He wasn’t officially welcomed into the pack, even if Niki said he had been waiting for when Lando would join. 

Max is down the hall, chattering away to Charles and Carlos, when he sees Lando. 

“Norris! You’re still here, we’re about to boot up some Fifa–” He pauses when he catches a whiff of the gloom hanging off Lando. “Uh oh. Uh, Lando, buddy, what’s going on–”

“I think I should leave, there’s a lot of pack things that are going on, and I’m not really a part of this–”

“Of course you’re a part of this.” Charles sniffs, wrinkling his nose. Lando’s gloom smells of underbaked cookie dough, and of tea that’s been watered down too much. It’s a thick, heady scent that sticks to everything despite how both scents suggest the opposite. “You’re pack. Half of us haven’t even formally registered with the FIA but we’re still a pack.” 

Even when he tries to argue against it, Charles ushers him down the stairs and into the kitchen. George is sipping a cup of coffee, with little gel undereye masks sitting on his face, while also typing away on a beat-up laptop. Kimi Antonelli had his hands wrapped around George’s waist, the pup grumbling while George kept his focus trained on the screen. Sitting cross legged on the counter. Using Kimi’s head as a makeshift desk to keep the laptop on.

“Getting an early jump on the eye bags, George?” Charles nudged the Beta, only to receive a grunt. Kimi responded with a soft chirping noise, not moving from how he was hugging George, face in the Beta’s lap.

“GPDA things.” George mumbled. Oh, how suave and posh he may have looked in the public eye. But in reality, he was an absolute shut-in when the cameras turned off and the press walked away. Lando had seen it in karting. Especially when George, Alex, and Lando all made the jump to F1 together. George was downright feral when out of the public eye. “Boring things.” 

“Just say you hate us and move on.” Lando grumbled, which made George briefly glance up before looking back at the screen. “That actually got you to look up! It’s a miracle!”

“You’re the reason I need to update the stupid fucking FIA on why scent blocking patches and perfumes should be left to the discretion of the individual.” George lightly patted Kimi’s head, which had the pup absolutely preening. “You and your race engineer. She wanted to use expired patches–”

“I’d like to think they’ll work well together,” Charles butted in, before Lando could even come up with a response to the fact you had already tried to block your scent again. “Opposites attract and all. The walking definition of a golden retriever and the slightly-limping black cat!”

Max only huffed, reaching over to cuff Charles’ ear while pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Don’t make fun of her limp, you ableist prick.”

“I’m not being ableist! Carlos, was I being at all ableist?”

“Flip a coin to find out.” 

Lando just sighed, slumping into a chair by the kitchen table, and muttering his thanks as Max set a mug of coffee in front of him, wincing at the lack of any cream, but grateful that any sweetener was added to begin with, sinking into his thoughts as Charles, Carlos, and Max started to bicker over what snacks that they could eat without each of their nutritionists getting angry at them.

You were an omega, that much he knew. A very unusual omega. And you’d wanted to hide that from him, for whatever reason. From his basic literature classes he’d had to take (and half paid attention to) Lando made the educated guess that your prickliness around your designation likely had to do with one of two things, if not both.

One. You had never publicly revealed your designation, but given the fact that most people knew Niki, Lukas, and Mathias were alphas, everyone just assumed you were an alpha. Revealing that you had been born an omega would draw your identity into question, as well as the fact it would open the door to a whole new wave of critiques about you. 

Two. Something happened at Williams that had made you want to hide being an omega, desperately. And Lando already knew– it had been a major news story. You’d already said you’d been close with the omega who’d been assaulted, no wonder you’d wanted to hide your designation upon moving to a new team. 

And of course, Lando had mucked up the entire plan you had after just getting a small whiff of your scent. 

Oh, your scent. It was heavenly to him. He already found himself melting at the memory of it. You had been in nesting suite 12! He was certain of it. At least he had the positive of actually knowing who he’d been causally daydreaming about. 

Lando didn’t mind that it was you. You were fierce and witty, and kept him on his toes. Whenever his PR manager tried to suggest getting him into a contracted relationship, to help boost his appearances and outward-facing character he was to play on track, they'd bring in soft, cooing omega models, there to act more as arm candy, and to promote the idea that Lando needed a real omega. One who’d dote on him, skinny as a rake, and there to fill all the traditional roles. 

All a part of this image they wanted to cultivate for him, that Niki had been able to see right through. 

Yeah, no. That wouldn’t work for him, he could burn his own kitchen down trying to cook for himself, thank you very much. 

But you… or this idea he had of you, that’s what made his heart flutter. You collected classic cars, and fixed them up yourself, even if you couldn’t drive them. And you didn’t try to soften the blows of anything, you were blunt and honest with him! Telling him exactly what you thought he needed to do rather than trying to spare his feelings. You were incredibly smart, too, smarter than he could ever hope of becoming, but you didn’t wave it around unless you had to. Or, really, if you wanted to assert your dominance over someone (which, he had witnessed once, during a meeting at McLaren Headquarters. You’d left the meeting room for five minutes, and had returned with your thesis and the framed degree from MIT and thrown it at the poor engineer you’d been arguing with about the possibility of the future planned mini-DRS for 2025). 

Yet, you were prickly to everyone. Allegedly sweet, to those who you knew, and Lando wanted the chance to get to know that side of you by earning it. 

He winced at the taste of the coffee. Sweet, but not quite right without the cream he normally added. Max seemed to be watching him, leaning against the counter near George and Kimi. Face kept neutral. Or maybe he was dissociating? Lando could never be certain with him, especially when Max didn’t even seem to notice the two Ferrari drivers arguing with each other nor that Kimi was trying to push George’s laptop off of his head so he could climb fully into his lap. 

Carlos finally managed to convince Charles that the Ferrari nutritionist wouldn’t care if they both indulged in some of the cherry shortbread cookies that Niki and Marlene had brought, so long as they didn’t eat more than two servings each. 

Was this what it was like to be a member of the grid pack? Just… witnessing the petty squabbles in a more intimate setting? The motorhome was cozy, much less formal than the team’s dedicated ones. 

This is what he wanted. Maybe even with you, if you gave him that chance, blushing at the thought that maybe you could be sitting next to him in this same kitchen, all while you were curled up beside Niki. Trying to prepare for the next day as best you could.

You have three days! Tick-tock!

"Come on, how long can it take you to take a shower?" Now it's Conrad who's scolding you.

"You can tell me Mr. '30 Minutes under shower'." You reply, raising an eyebrow and resting both elbows on the table, looking at him expectantly, waiting for his answer. Everyone laughs, Jer slaps his brother's arm and bursts out laughing, and Steven has to laugh, hiding his face in a napkin so as not to make fun of his friend.

"Enough, boys. We haven't even started eating and you're already fighting.” Your mother scolds you and your brothers.

The years go by, and some things never change—except you.

You're eating your salad while the conversation constantly changes topics. Conrad and you team up to mock Jer, quickly forgetting your discontent, then Jeremiah and Belly tease Steven about his bad performance in sports. He's always been a video game nerd sitting on the couch. That's how it goes, nothing is personal, it's just their way of passing the time. Until the moment arrives, the same every summer but on different vacation days, Laurel leans forward with that soft, sly smile. And then she says it.

"So, honey. Do you have a boyfriend or someone we should meet?" She winks at you.

Your fork freezes halfway to your mouth with the cherry tomato about to be chewed and digested. Conrad looks at you directly as if you were about to confess to a crime, unlike Jeremiah, who shows no interest in your answer. Your mother pats you on the shoulder, encouraging you to answer confidently. Of course, you're with family, but Belly knows better than anyone else in that room what you're feeling: your heart beating fast, calculating your words so as not to say something that will really embarrass you. She sympathizes with you with her gaze and a smile that comforts you. And Steven... well, Steven practically sits up straight in his seat, attentive to what you're about to say.

It's okay. You only have one job. The same one you have every year. Don't say anything stupid.

"Maybe."

That word causes a commotion at the table. What does maybe mean? Do you have a boyfriend? Conrad's eyes widen and his appetite disappears at the mystery of who the boy is who dares to date his little sister. Belly looks at you in surprise. You hadn't said anything to her about it, and deep down she feels a little betrayed because you two tell each other everything.

"Maybe?" Your mother repeats what you said.

Your cheeks turn red, you want to disappear. Bury yourself in the sand on the beach or walk towards the sea and never turn back.

"Excuse me?" Jeremiah now seems to realize what you just said. "Who are you talking about? Do we know him?"

Belly gives you a hand and tries to calm the situation down.

"Jer, calm down." She taps his arm discreetly. She doesn't want to make you more nervous; it's not that big of a deal.

And, as expected, Steven wasted no time in opening his mouth, always with the worst possible words.

"You mean the guy who vapes and talks about saving whales all the time?" He teases, knowing exactly who you're talking about. Good heavens, the most boring person he's ever met in his entire life. "You really like him?"

"Steven," his mother warns him, pointing her fork at him. But the boys are already laughing: Jeremiah chokes on his water—and you hope he chokes so they'll stop talking about this—Conrad shakes his head without saying anything else, not wanting to contribute to your humiliation, but it won't end there.

"You don't even know him, Steven." You try to defend yourself, but he always has something to say, no matter how stupid it is.

"I've seen enough," he says in a nasty tone. "His Instagram is a real red flag. And the way he commented on your photo? ‘Cutie patootie’? Are we in kindergarten?”

Holy crap, at this point, if he kept hearing about the dude dating his sister, Conrad was gonna be the one walking straight into the sea with no return. While Laurie regrets her question and everything it was causing, your cheeks couldn't be redder, and you bite your inner cheek to not do the same with your nails.

“At least he doesn’t argue with 11-year-olds on Xbox.” This time Belly defends you.

The table breaks out in laughter again, although this time there are fewer people laughing, but you don't smile again for the rest of the dinner. You are the first to finish, and even though it was one of your favorite meals, you don't ask for seconds. You excuse yourself early, without even waiting for the dessert, murmur a polite thank you to your mother and Laurel, and disappear upstairs before Steven can make another joke at the expense of your possible boyfriend.

Nothing was personal.

That's the rule. When you were ten, you didn't understand, and when the boys bullied you, you ended up crying in your room, locked away until the next day out of embarrassment. Even though you're no longer ten, you close the door harder than usual and breathe more deeply to control yourself. But you remember that the time is approaching and you have to finish getting ready for your date. You have no choice but to look for the makeup you want to use, wondering if it's a good idea to use eyeliner, knowing that your pulse right now is not something to be proud of.

You look in the mirror and don't feel so bad. Your hair has kept its natural waves, although they're not as defined, but it doesn't bother you. You even think it suits you. True to your habits, you ask Alexa to play your playlist, you start by covering your dark circles a little and adding some color to your cheeks while applying mascara to your eyelashes—too close to the mirror—when you hear a soft knock on the door.

"It's open." You raise your voice above the music. It must be Belly because you have to give her back a pair of earrings.

You turn around excitedly, wanting to ask your friend how you look in that dress; is it too short for a date? Do the rings match, or would it be better to switch from gold to silver? Does the makeup make you look like a slut? Oh, no, how embarrassing to show up looking like you want to sleep with him.

That's why you need female advice.

However, it's not Belly who walks through your bedroom door, it's her unbearable older brother.

"Hey.” Steven says in a low voice. He stays near the door, as if you're going to throw something at him, which, to be honest, you consider doing.

You look at him with disgust and turn back to the mirror, finishing your lips. Steven won't admit it, but he likes your room. It has a scent of perfume and strawberry incense that he only gets in this place. The decor perfectly reflects your personality, with soft, pleasant colors that suit you, pictures hanging with photos of your siblings and parents, and childhood stuffed animals that are many years old. The books you read on vacation are kept here, like a personal collection. For him, there is no more comfortable place in the whole house. Perhaps it's not the decor or the furniture; it's simply that your presence improves any place.

While you're trying to decide which color goes best with your outfit, Steven lies down on your perfectly made bed.

"What are you doing?" you ask him, not particularly interested in talking to him.

“You’re mad.” He points his finger at you.

You roll your eyes and let out a sigh. "Seriously, Sherlock? How did you notice? When I left the table after being humiliated in front of everyone?"

“You said ‘maybe.’ I thought that meant he wasn’t serious!” He raised his hands, claiming innocence.

“Or maybe I just didn’t want to talk about it.” You turn to look at yourself in the reflection one last time, fixing your hair and leaving a few strands hanging forward. Steven looks at you from your bed, letting his guard down and showing you his regret; he doesn't want to spend the whole summer away from you.

“I wasn’t trying to be a dick.”

But you don't take him seriously.

“You weren’t trying not to be, either.”

You grab your purse and phone, a cardigan that belonged to your mother years ago and is now yours thanks to your insistence. As a last step, you take your favorite perfume, that scent you only wear on special occasions, and perhaps tonight is the night you've been waiting for.

"Where are you going?" Steven follows you with his gaze.

"On a date."

He doesn't like the answer, frowning and tilting his head slightly, unhappy that you're leaving tonight. Especially if it's with that man. As you walk toward the door, you almost crash into him in your attempt to leave—or rather, escape—and you look up, ready to start another discussion.

"Can you tell me what you're doing?"

"A date?" he asks you with disgust. Not if he's alive to stop it. "With that jerk?”

"You don't know him."

It wasn't the first time Steven had made that kind of joke, but this time it felt different for some reason. You can see it in his eyes, you don't know if he's serious or just trying to make you angry again as usual.

"Fine, but does your mother know you're going out all night with a stranger?" He raises an eyebrow. You're outraged by his tone of voice; that kind of threat is considered high treason. You're about to respond when your phone buzzes with a notification. You quickly read the message: it's your date annoyed because you haven't arrived yet and he's still waiting for you at the agreed place. You don't know how to explain in a text Steven is making your life hell. "Is that him? Nice! You can tell him you're not goin'.”

"You're an idiot, Steven.” You point your finger at him, too angry to hold back. “I don’t say anything when you hook up with a different girl every summer. I’ve watched you treat feelings like summer jobs — temporary, seasonal, no strings attached. And you think you get to police me?”

"It's different."

His answer is so simple that it seems ridiculous to you. You slump your shoulders. Steven can't let you go out like that, all dressed up, with that hair that makes you irresistible, that dress that accentuates your figure, and that exquisite coconut and vanilla scent that will torture him all night long until the damn summer is over, because for some reason—biology—you're much hotter than you were last year. Damn it, you don't understand, he loves you, he just doesn't want some idiot to take advantage of you. It's his way of protecting you, but he's been doing it for years without realizing that the truth is, he just wants you for himself.

"Different," you repeat with contempt. “How? Why do you even care who I go out with, Steven?”

"That idiot doesn't deserve to go out with you!" Raise your voice, it's a good thing there's no one on the other side because you're not being subtle. "None of them deserve you!"

In his head, it makes sense. They don't know which song is your favorite, nor do they make you laugh when you're about to cry during the saddest part of the movie. Steven noticed this when you were kids watching old DVDs. He always passes you a tissue before even asking, and you never have to explain why. That you love chocolates but without any kind of filling, not mint, strawberry, or Oreo. You love to read, every summer they buy you a new book, and you love to spend the afternoon with Laurel on the terrace in silence while she writes. But her favorite thing is that you talk to the sea when you're alone. Once your mother told you that the waves carry away secrets, and since then you whisper them to the sea.

Those guys only see what's on the surface: your hair, your sparkle, your soft voice, or your tight dress. You don't blame them at all; you live by stealing their attention when you walk through the kitchen. But Steven knows every detail.

Damn it. He's screwed because of you.

Silence.

Dense and unbearable.

You don't say anything. You can't, your brain is in chaos right now and you can't make sense of it. The words get stuck in your throat like a painful stone.

And suddenly, Steven seems nervous. As if he didn't want to say that last thing and regrets his decision, or maybe as if he wanted to tell you but never imagined he actually would. Just being near you confuses him, your presence upsets him in a way he thought would never happen again.

His eyes rest on the hem of your dress, your legs drive him crazy. You see his throat move as he swallows. His gaze slowly scans your body, carefully observing every part of you as if this were the first time you had met. He loves your accessories, that necklace you bought two summers ago at a fair from a guy who makes them by hand. He has no idea why he remembers those things and not Mrs. Jenkins' last class, but that's beside the point. He continues up your neck until he reaches your mouth, pausing at the gloss of your lipstick.

Your voice is barely a whisper now. “Steven, let me go.”

But you don’t sound convinced. Not even a little, you want to know how far he'll go. You want to confirm if you're going completely crazy, your heart beats too fast and you feel your legs tremble under his gaze, Steven doesn’t move. Not for a second.

Slowly, a palm rests on your waist over your dress, warm and firm. The other gently caresses your jaw, with his thumb brushing the corner of your lips, as if curious to know if they are as sweet as they seem. He looks into your eyes one last time, waiting for you to push him against the door and yell at him like you usually do, but this time you just stay silent, waiting for him to make the next move because you are not capable of doing so.

Until he kisses you.

A movement that begins gently, without shyness or insecurity, just as he is, but with a totally new care. His lips are firm but patient, tasting the watermelon flavor of your lip gloss. You tense up instinctively, nervous about everything that is happening, your fingers curled in the palm of your hand and your breath coming in short gasps.

But Steven doesn't pressure you.

His thumb caresses your cheek, slowly and reassuringly, and your muscles relax one by one.

Your lips part beneath his, and suddenly you return the kiss, with a desire you didn't know existed between you. Steven moves closer, and you let him invade your space, your slightly trembling hands sliding down his chest and your fingers clinging to the fabric of his ridiculous colorful shirt as if you needed something solid to hold on to. His body is warm and familiar, but now it feels new.

Your mouths move together now, deeper, then faster, like a rhythm you've always known but never shared. Your lip gloss smudges slightly on his lips, but he doesn't care. And you gasp softly into his mouth, and he receives it like a revealing shiver.

Steven pulls away from your wet, half-open lips, just a few inches, and you slowly open your eyes, looking at him with a lust that suits you perfectly.

But this time it is you who leans in, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him toward you, desperate and reckless as he never imagined you could be. Your lips meet again, now with more urgency, your tongues brush against each other, your breath mixes, and you moan softly when his hand slides down the back of your dress, dangerously close to the zipper.

You don't know where this will end. You don't care.

Finally, when they pull apart to breathe, he keeps his forehead pressed against yours. Steven takes your face in both hands, looking at you as if he wants to keep that image forever in his memory.

His voice is rough, and he whispers so close that his breath keeps hitting you.

"Good luck on your date." He whispers as if his words are painful to say. You want to respond, or rather, you have many questions swirling around in your head. Just as you're about to say something, Steven tucks your hair behind your ear, leaving those loose strands you like so much. "You look beautiful."

You can't even respond.

And when he leaves, he can't bring himself to look you in the face one last time. As he walks out the door, he wipes his mouth with the back of his arm, still dazed and breathless from the warm sensation of your soft lips on his skin. He doesn't realize it yet:

He hasn't just ruined his date.

He has no idea what he just started.

And neither do you.

He stands in the hallway for a second — just stands there, intentando entender por qué había hecho eso, his heart pounding like he just got caught stealing something sacred. Maybe he did.

Stepping out of the shower, he runs into his best friend with wet hair, wearing only a towel. Oh dear, he has no idea how he got away with it. And guilt starts to eat him alive the moment he hears Jeremiah's calm voice. He has to try twice as hard to look him in the eye after what he just did.

“You still coming tonight?”

Steven swallows hard. “Nah. I don’t feel great.”

It’s not a lie. Not really. His chest feels too full. His head too loud. His hands still shake a little, Steven has no choice but to hide them behind his back. Oh, how he’s going to miss Cousins when Jeremiah and Conrad kill him.

He walks down the hall, past the familiar creak in the floorboard, and locks himself in his room, seriously considering not leaving that place until the vacations are over. The door clicks shut like the lid on a box he doesn’t know how to open again.

He doesn’t turn on the lights.

Steven just falls onto the bed, face up, until he realizes that the ceiling doesn't have answers. But he stares at it anyway — blank and white and still, the exact opposite of his insides. His lips are still tingling, and he's afraid he'll end up forgetting the sensation. He can taste your lip gloss on the edge of his mouth. He wipes it off again, but it doesn't go away.

He replays it in his mind—the first kiss, and the second. The way you clung to his shirt like you didn't want him to stop was a reaction he didn't expect from you. In fact, he didn't expect any of this, but his impulse was stronger than his intelligence, and that's not something that happens to him often.

But you never said stay.

You didn’t cancel the date.

His stomach twists, very different from a stomachache caused by mixing too many foods, but still a pain he cannot explain in words. He feels selfish, he doesn't want you to be with someone else, but he also has no intention of asking you for anything more.

He forces himself to get out of bed, feeling his body heavy with the guilt weighing on his shoulders. He had broken the first rule of friendship: never get involved with your friend's sister, and he did it in a big way because there are two of them. He looks out the window, hoping to find nothing. Stillness. But there you are, walking down...

Hair loose. Dress hugging your hips. The phone pressed to your ear as you move your hands quickly, you seem to be arguing, you are not happy at all.

Lip gloss freshly reapplied.

His heart stops, then starts again too fast. You’re actually going.

In a horrible silence, Steven watches you disappear into the night like nothing happened between you. Like his hands weren’t just on your skin. Like his mouth wasn’t just buried in your lips. Just like no one had ever wanted more.

He wonders if your date will notice the way your lips are slightly swollen, or that your perfume is already clinging to someone else’s shirt.

He has no choice but to lean his forehead against the cold glass.

And Steven Conklin, for the first time in a long time, feels like he’s losing something he never really had.

𐙚⋆°. MASTERLIST

Without saying a word, Steven and you decided not to mention the situation again.

Despite sleeping under the same roof, you still exchange greetings, although deep down you feel differently. You couldn't explain it exactly, but he's still the same as always with you as long as someone else is around.

The worst part is that you can't forget.

Every time you run into him, you feel like your heart is about to jump out of your mouth. You get nervous and can't look him in the eye for long because you inevitably flash back to the moment when his hands grabbed your body and his lips met yours. When you go to bed, you stare at the ceiling for hours, turning over in your bed, making a mess of your rumpled sheets, angry at Steven because his impulsiveness ruined your peace of mind. You touch your lips, and if you close your eyes, you can taste him in your mouth.

Your date was a disaster because of him.

You're grateful that Jeremiah convinced him to take a summer job at the country club because that means he has to leave the house most of the day. You can't look Belly in the face without your stomach hurting and your tongue burning in your mouth from telling her the truth because there are no secrets between you. You don't know how Steven is able to hang out with Jer or Conrad, but you have no idea that he's living out his own punishment in his own way.

If you had the chance to go back in time to avoid the consequences... you probably wouldn't change a thing. That was the best kiss you've ever had in your life.

Today is Belly's birthday. Like every year, you wake up a little earlier than the rest of the family to slip into her room and surprise her with your best breakfast. You spend a good part of the morning together. You gave her a blue floral dress that you bought more than four months ago but couldn't imagine any girl wearing. Having two brothers makes buying birthday gifts for them a real challenge; you feel like you never get it right, but with Belly it's different; you know each other so well that you both know what she likes. You lie down next to her, still in your pajamas, and talk for hours about memories of previous birthdays in this same place.

"Have you noticed how all my birthdays are the same?" She hugs you, lying on your chest. You stroke her long hair as a giggle escapes you. "It's a bit boring."

"Let's hope this one is different."

Even though you wished for it, nothing seemed to change from last year or the year before that; the same breakfast on the table, the pancake cake, the round of gifts in the living room. Even when Taylor came to Cousins to not miss her best friend's birthday, and as expected, the first thing they did was jump in the pool.

You stand in front of the mirror looking at yourself from every possible angle, considering locking yourself in until dinner. You've been thinking for about twenty minutes about whether it's a good idea to wear your first bikini. You can't get used to the feeling of showing so much, but it was a special request from the birthday girl because she also wanted to wear hers but didn't dare, so they were both going to wear their swimsuits for the first time. Is simple, white and made of lightweight fabric. You tie the back, praying that nothing will slip out of place, adjust your breasts inside the fabric, and then the lower part.

The sun is still high over Cousins, shining golden rays on the backyard as high-pitched laughter and splashing echo from the pool. The girls are in the pool waiting for you as they gossip and catch up on their vacations, but they weren't the only ones. Jeremiah and Steven asked for the day free so they wouldn't miss a moment of this day—unlike Conrad, who disappeared after breakfast and you're increasingly worried about your brother—they're on one of the sides talking about Steven's new girlfriend, Shayla, whom he met less than two days ago but apparently stole his heart in record time.

"She's the prettiest girl I've ever met." Says Steven, trying to justify his hasty relationship to his incredulous friend.

"Oh my God! You look amazing," Taylor shouts when she sees you arrive. "I think I want to kiss you."

Steven turns around and almost breaks his neck from the movement. He can feel the exact moment when the words get stuck in his throat.

His instincts are stronger; he respects you a lot, but he can't help focusing his attention on that damn white bikini.

"I feel naked," you say.

Such a simple piece of clothing, yet he doesn't understand why his mouth is dry.

It fits your body in a way Steven wasn't prepared for, the sunlight reflecting off your skin, glistening with coconut-scented sunscreen. Your hair is down but styled, with a few strands covering your cheeks, pink with embarrassment at being exposed. Your arms are awkwardly crossed over your stomach, as if you already regret going out like this, and that makes him feel deeply tender toward you.

Devastatingly adorable.

He doesn't know it, but he's just completely forgotten the whole conversation with Jeremiah.

And he is completely speechless.

"Excuse me, stop looking at my sister!" Jeremiah taps his shoulder, drawing the attention of all the girls.

Belly and Taylor laugh mockingly, but you don't react the same way.

"You're a pervert!" Tay exclaims, throwing water in his face.

"Hey! Remember I have a girlfriend!" Steven responds with an innocent laugh, and you come back to reality, which hits you in the face. "Don't say things aren't true."

He's already gotten over it. Or rather, he never really cared.

"Oh, sure, your girlfriend has you tied down," Jer teases. "She's the most beautiful girl I've ever met," he imitates him in an exaggeratedly high-pitched voice that makes him feel pathetic.

Prefer not to listen any further, your chest hurts and you have to fight with your own head not to run to your room and break down in tears. Damn it, you have to get over it once and for all, there are only a couple of days left before these vacations end and you won't have to see him until next year, so you have no choice but to pluck up your courage and get into the warm water bathed by the sun's rays.

"You look beautiful." Belly smiles at you as you join them.

"Imagine going to the beach wearing that." Taylor's voice makes you laugh. "I'm sure the men will be dying for you."

"Don't give my sister bad ideas!" Jeremiah shouts, having overheard the last part.

The sun is still beating down, the pool water cools your body as it adjusts to the temperature, and as always, it's Taylor who comes up with the worst proposal you could have heard at that moment:

"Let's play chicken." She smiles excitedly, applauding herself for her wonderful idea.

"We're not nine years old." You respond, completely unenthusiastic. Apparently, you're not the only one who doesn't feel like participating, because Steven doesn't seem excited about the game either.

"Are you serious?" He wrinkles his nose in disgust.

But Jeremiah immediately raises his arms as if he's been waiting for this challenge since they got into the pool.

"Let's go!"

Belly perks up when she hears your brother shout, laughs out loud, and steps forward. As always—because it's her birthday—she has the right to choose her teammate first.

"Jer." She points her finger at him. "You're mine."

Steven raises an eyebrow, crosses his arms.

"Wow. Without a doubt?”

"I want to win." Belly smiles, already jumping on his shoulders, getting ready for battle.

You immediately realize what that means, standing with the water almost touching your shoulders, a feeling in your stomach alerting you to the danger.

Steven looks at you, and you look back at him the same way.

"I guess it's you and me this time," he says, extending his hand toward you so you can come closer and climb onto his shoulders.

Your stomach flips as you take heavy steps underwater, not because you're afraid of the game—it's not your first time—but because you're about to be on top of Steven. Steven Conklin, the boy you think about every day and shouldn't desire.

You doubt for a second, too long.

Steven smiles, arrogant but warm.

"Are you afraid I'll drop you?"

You narrow your eyes.

"Don't tempt me to drown you today."

Stand behind him, with your hands on his shoulders, while he crouches down in the water enough to make you comfortable, getting ready. Carefully, so you don't fall, clumsily swing one leg over his shoulder, and then the other, as if you were used to doing it. The moment you are on top of him, his hands slide down to your thighs, strong, firm, warm even through the water.

You feel him squeezing your skin tightly, more than necessary, the contact is sudden. Steven stands up with you on his shoulders, your legs instinctively tightening a little more around his neck to keep your balance.

And Steven... Steven has to bite his tongue to keep from thinking inappropriate thoughts about you.

His grip tightens, his fingers sinking slightly into the soft skin of your thighs as if he can't help himself. For his own sanity, he prefers to grab your knees.

"Are you ready?" Taylor took her seat in the front row, at the edge of the pool, acting as the judge for this match. "On the count of three, guys. One... two..."

Steven dares to glance at you quickly.

"Are you ready?"

You stare straight ahead, jaw clenched, searching for the best strategy to win, ready to take down Jeremiah and Belly out of sheer pride. You're too competitive, everyone knows that, but luckily they're used to dealing with you.

Your fingers move lightly against his wet hair, as if you're trying not to grab it too tightly. And Steven's whole body is on fire beneath the surface, trying not to think about how your legs feel around him, your belly on the back of his neck, how this is something he's dreamed of but never had.

Finally, you nod your head.

Steven clears his throat and squeezes a little tighter, stabilizing you and holding on tight so you don't fall.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!" Taylor shouts, clapping from the edge of the pool as if she were watching the final of some international important championship.

You balance as best you can on Steven's shoulders, grabbing his hair—perhaps harder than necessary, but you're not thinking about that right now—pushing Belly with both hands as she swings dangerously on Jeremiah's shoulders. Laughter echoes, water splashes violently between you, and for a moment, just a moment, you feel like you're really going to win.

Until Belly grabs your wrists and pulls hard.

Steven tries to hold you, but you lose your balance.

"Shit...!"

Your legs slip as if they were covered in oil, Steven stumbles backward, and you both fall into the water.

The water envelops you in a whirlpool of bubbles around your body, and you close your eyes tightly before submerging. Your limbs flail instinctively, searching for something, anything, to grab onto without seeing anything underwater. Until, without realizing it, your hand catches Steven's face for half a second and your nails scratch his cheek badly.

Both of you surface seconds later, gasping for air.

Everyone laughs, Jer and Bells celebrate their victory hugging each other and mocking you, but Steven is the only one who doesn't laugh.

He immediately puts his hand to his face, grimacing in pain.

"Son of a bitch!" he exclaims angrily.

They are left in a confused silence that kills the whole vibe. You turn to look at him, and Jeremiah immediately swims over toward him.

"Hey, man, what happened?"

A red mark is already forming on the side of his cheek, just below his eye. Angular. Bright. Burning.

"I think I got scratched," he replies tensely, looking at his fingers for traces of blood or something. His skin burns, and the pool water doesn't help much. He takes his hand away from his cheek, and you can see the red mark on his cheekbone.

"My God, Steven, I-I didn't mean to..."

Taylor and Belly come over to get a better look at what happened, their smiles fading into worried looks.

"Let me see," Belly says, squinting to look at the scratch. "Damn it." Her expression isn't very optimistic, which worries him even more.

Before anyone else can share another wrong medical opinion, Steven is already walking toward the stairs to get out of the pool, water dripping down his back and pants. You rush after him to show him where the first aid kit is, slipping slightly on the wet tiles, ignoring Jeremiah calling your name as he scolds you like your mother for running barefoot.

"Steven," you say, walking slowly across the wooden floor, being careful not to slip.

You find him in the kitchen, looking at himself in the mirror on the wall until he sees you coming in the reflection. The floor is a mess with water marks in the shape of your feet following them, now the boys' voices sound too far away. As if there were no one else in that house except you.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you." Your voice trembles.

"You didn't hurt me." He responds by blatantly lying to you just to make you feel better, but his skin still burning and the pain is still there. He turns to you. "It was an accident. I'm fine."

"Let me check it out, you might need some cream or something." You raise your hand cautiously and gently touch the edge of the scratch with your fingers, checking his skin. He's quite a lot taller than you, so you have no choice but to stretch up on your tiptoes to get a better look.

Steven automatically tilts his head to help you, his hair still dripping with water.

"I feel really bad, seriously.” You whisper, brushing your finger across his face.

And instantly, something inside him softens.

You know that if this had happened ten years ago, his reaction would have been completely different. Steven would have screamed, cried, and blamed you for the mark on his cheek. He would have called you stupid without wasting any time accusing you to his mother for hurting him, then he would have sought revenge with the help of Conrad and Jeremiah. But they are no longer those messy children. His gaze wavers uncertainly over your worried eyes and your lower lip, which you bite gently to concentrate.

"It's… nothing," he says, more to himself than to you.

And he realizes that, of all the times he's seen you in his life—with your hair pulled back in a messy bun, oversized T-shirts, sand on your knees after long days at the beach, sick with the flu in the summer—he's never seen you like this before.

And it's not because of that bikini you're wearing.

It's the way you don't know how beautiful you are. It's your damp skin that tempts him like a torture he sought out himself, the curve of your neck wet from the pool, that gold necklace that adorns your neck, matching the thin gold bracelet Laurel gave you last Christmas. You're so close he can smell the coconut scent of your sunscreen.

You press a little too hard and he shudders in place.

"I'm sorry!"

Your hands instinctively caress his jaw, in innocent apology as you would have done with any of your brothers, and Steven's fingers tense at his sides.

He wants to touch you the same way he did in your room that night. Your waist. The lower part of your back. Run his thumb over one of the drops clinging to your collarbone and see how long it takes you to melt in his arms.

But he doesn't.

Good heavens, how much longer is this eternal summer going to last, killing him before the Fourth of July?

"Who came into the house without shoes?" You can recognize your mother's annoyed voice from miles away and know exactly how her eyebrows are furrowed.

You jump back instinctively, as if you've been caught red-handed, even though you both managed to control your impulses. Steven straightens up and quickly shoves his hands into the pockets of his wet swim trunks.

You turn around quickly. "I'm sorry, Mom."

"Yeah, I'm sorry," Steven repeats, his voice sounding strange, forcing him to clear his throat.

Susannah is standing in the doorway with two full shopping bags in her arms, her eyebrows raised, but her tone of voice calm. She sets them down on the counter and then turns back to the two of you, and when she sees Steven's face, she narrows her eyes, showing concern for his mark.

“Steven. What happened to your cheek?”

He shrugs too quickly.

"It's nothing. Just an accident." He smiles relaxed.

Guilt burns in your chest. You bite your lip, lower your gaze, and your fingers nervously play with the edge of your wet bikini top.

Susannah sighs as if she's said it a hundred times before. She's been used to you guys since you were kids.

"That's why I've told you all a hundred times: the pool is fun until someone gets hurt. It's slippery. It's dangerous. And I swear, you kids never listen."

"It's my fault," Steven murmurs, even though he knows it's not. “I will survive this.”

You try to change the subject as quickly as possible with the first thing that comes to mind.

"I'll help you with dinner, Mom." You offer with a friendly smile that manages to convince your mother.

The music blared throughout Nicole's house so loudly that you could hear it before opening the door, loud enough to make the floor vibrate beneath your feet. The laughter of the guests spread from the backyard, the colored lights gave the room a special touch, and you could smell the smoke permeating your hair as you greeted your friends. Plastic cups filled with alcohol were passed from hand to hand, along with beer cans and half-empty glass bottles.

You arrived with Conrad, and the car ride was quiet on both sides, which you appreciated. But at some point between people milling around and the second round of drinks, he had disappeared from your sight without warning, swallowed up by the crowd or wrapped up in some conversation you weren't invited to. You didn't really care. Not that night.

Taylor had insisted on doing your makeup this time to give you a different look: a soft glow on your cheeks with expensive highlighter, lashes with mascara so thick they brushed against your eyelids, lips painted with peach-colored gloss. She had also made flower crowns for the three of you, one for each of the girls. Yours now rested gently on your hair, with small white daisies intertwined among the loose strands. The soft petals brushed your temples every time you turned your head.

Your white skirt is light and comfortable, falling just above your knees, halfway down your thighs, and your matching heels give you a little extra height. You opted for a pink top with a heart-shaped neckline that catches the eye from a distance, decorating your neck with the same gold necklace as last time.

Had drunk just enough for someone who isn't used to drinking alcohol—a can of beer—nothing that would alarm your mother, but enough to feel a little more relaxed and braver than usual.

You took a sip from the red cup in your hand, emptying it and leaving a faint lipstick mark on the rim.

Honestly, you didn't expect to enjoy the night so much. You really didn't feel like coming, but Laurel and Susannah insisted that you accompany your siblings, trusting in your responsibility despite being the youngest of the Fishers. It's only been an hour since you arrived, and the party has only gotten louder, more chaotic. The kind of summer chaos you can only experience in a place like Cousins.

You're walking through the living room to get another drink, the lights projecting a soft green hue over everything, when you recognize Jeremiah's curly hair sitting on a couch, his arms wrapped around a boy he undoubtedly met fifteen minutes ago, kissing him as if it were a lifetime. You roll your eyes, amused but not surprised.

"Belly!" exclaim, recognizing her flower crown standing out in the crowd. Taylor had gone to get drinks as soon as she stepped into the house. "How long have you been here?"

"Ten minutes or so, maybe a little less." She answers, looking behind you for something or someone. "Steven drove us here, but I don't know where he went."

Nicole and her group started calling her, so you let her go so as not to interrupt her.

The line for the bathroom is even longer than it seemed at first: a row of partygoers waiting to get in, holding half-finished drinks, laughing and swaying slightly, leaning against the wall to keep from falling.

You recognize Steven about three people ahead by the clothes he's wearing. He's looking down, staring at his phone, ignoring his surroundings, its screen casting a soft blue glow on his face. His fingers move quickly across the screen, as if trying to keep up with the words he wants to say. He just wants to leave this place, but he promised Laurel he would bring Belly and her friend back.

You glance at the screen before he notices: just a name lit up at the top of the chat.

Shayla.

You feel a knot in your stomach, but you suppress it. Thanks to the alcohol and the effect it has on you, making you stupid and impulsive, you finally understand that you have to get on with your vacation, and you're not going to make it by hiding from Steven while he goes out to parties and even gets a new girlfriend.

"You can hardly notice it. You point to his cheek. He looks up from his phone and turns it off, putting it in his pocket. "Wait a minute..." You lean in a little closer, squinting. "Are you wearing makeup?"

Steven takes a couple of steps back, offended by your question.

"What? Of course not!"

"Oh my God, of course you are." You laugh loudly. "Let me guess, a little concealer, right?"

"Please. I just heal quickly. It's the Conklin genes. Superior skin regeneration."

You held back a smile.

"Right. So your 'superior skin' glows under the light like that too?" You point to the faint glow on his cheek. "That's definitely tinted foundation, Steven."

Steven leaned forward this time, raising an eyebrow.

"Says the girl wearing, like, four layers of makeup on her face right now." He scoffs at you, crossing his arms and raising both eyebrows. "I almost didn't recognize you from a distance with all that glitter."

You tap him on the shoulder with yours, and the tension between you eases enough for the first time since... well, since that night.

He looks down at you, literally, and you have to lift your chin slightly to meet his gaze.

"Sorry. But this is a highlighter, and it's very expensive."

Finally, after all that time, the line moved slowly forward, just one person at a time, and you leaned forward a little to see how many were left in front of you. Your heart dropped when you lost count.

"No way, there are still like ten people left." You sighed, leaning your arm against the wall and resting your weight on it.

You tilted your head toward him and lowered your voice enough to make it sound like a state secret.

"Look, I've known Nicole since we were little. I've been in this house hundreds of times. There's a bathroom upstairs, and I'm pretty sure no one's using it."

Steven raised an eyebrow.

"Really?"

You nodded, curving your lips slightly.

"Come on, we can both fix our makeup." You teased him one last time before walking toward the stairs.

He hesitated for half a second before following your lead, stepping away from the wall.

"You're evil, Fisher."

The two of you walked through the crowd, dodging partygoers, with Steven following close behind so as not to lose sight of you. You know the way by memory, so you have no trouble reaching the second floor. His fingers brushed yours once as you turned into the hallway, and neither of you said anything.

The moment the bedroom door closed behind you, before you could even breathe or tell him where the bathroom was, Steven's hands found your waist, strong and sure, and your back hit the door with a thud that took your breath away, but you didn't care. Not when his mouth crashed into yours as if he were starving, as if he couldn't wait another second.

It was wild. It was reckless. It was everything he had been holding back.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, your nails grazing the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine. His mouth moved against yours, hot and insistent, savoring your lips with every movement, until suddenly he pulled away awkwardly, his chest rising and falling in uncontrollable gasps.

"I can't..." He gasped against your lips, pulling away slightly.

"We shouldn't be doing this," you whispered with difficulty, mixing your breath with his as if it were something normal between you.

His eyes fixed on your mouth are the sign that he's not paying attention to you.

He leaned in again, brushing your lips with yours. "It's the last time, I swear."

He kissed you wildly, like someone who had fought against it for too long, with teeth, lips, and broken moans, as if the pain had accumulated during and now spilled out unstoppably.

And you kissed him back with the same desperation.

Every second with him felt like something forbidden, something you shouldn't want but wanted anyway, as if for some reason it belonged to you. He forgot that his best friends are your older brothers, who were going to kill him in cold blood. You forgot that your best friend is his sister, who is going to stop talking to you for a long time.

But there you were, pressed against the wall by Steven Conklin's desperation, your breasts against his ridiculous colorful shirt. The boy who used to steal your fries from your plate and make fun of your bad marks, the boy who now held your face as if you were something sacred.

Maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was the way his voice broke when he whispered, "I'm sorry, I can't” before kiss you.

Steven gasps into your mouth, something primitive and painful, and this time the kiss is slower. His hand traces your side, hesitant at first, until desire overcomes indecision. He finds the curve of your thigh, wraps his fingers around your skin, and gently lifts your leg, resting it against his hip.

It's a movement full of reckless and painful desire, unplanned, not even intelligent, but raw and honest. His hand remains on your thigh, holding it as if anchoring himself to something he doesn't believe he deserves.

You forget that he is your mother's spoiled child.

You forget that he kisses other girls as if it means nothing.

You forget that you feel too much when it comes to him.

And then your hand slid down the back of his neck, pulling him toward you again. Wondering how long you had before someone noticed your absence.

Steven's mouth stopped just below your ear, his warm breath against your skin as his hands rested on your waist, his thumbs moving in slow, dizzying circles.

Just when you think your heart can't beat any faster, the doorknock sounds on the other side.

Your whole body shuddered as if someone had woken you from a dream, as if you finally understood the consequences of your actions. Steven froze against you without letting go, clearly enjoying your closeness.

"Occupied!", he shouted, looking at the door, his voice too broken to sound casual.

The two of you stood there, your back against the door separating you from the party, waiting for some kind of death sentence or something like that. Your hands were now resting on his chest, which was rising and falling quickly and irregularly. He looked at you, his eyes stormy, his lips swollen, sensing the same thing you did.

"Steven?" Belly's voice from the other side almost gave you a heart attack. "Are you okay?"

You slowly slide your leg down. His hand withdraws as your eyes meet, breathless, stunned.

You're both fucked.

𐙚⋆°. MASTERLIST

f1gossip

liked by user, user, user and 183,283 others

f1gossip: f1's power throuple - max, charles, and yn - out for dinner the last weekend of summer break following a jaw dropping announcement of yn's move to Cadillac as TP

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user9: yn is living my life right now

user10: love that for her — she's getting the bag and she's got her boys

↳user11: she's so lucky — they're wrapped around her fingers

↳user12: as they should be!

user13: is this…like ethical? She's going to be a team principal and she's dating 2 drivers?

↳user14: I'm sure there's so many rules they have to follow — but she's been dating them for years now. Cadillac and the FIA knew that before she signed on

↳user15: you know I never thought of that…

↳user14: now if they moved to Cadillac, I imagine that it would be a completely different story

user16: I'm living for how completely chill they're being? Like redbull is falling apart around max and Ferrari is gonna give Charles generational trauma and they're both "yeah let's just spoil our girl"

↳user17: why wouldn't they? She's literally the best ever

user18: can we…can we just trade lives for a couple of days…weeks…years??

↳user19: oomph I feel that…

Private Messages: Charles, Max, and yn

News

planet_f1

liked by user, user, user, and 1,924,385 others

planet_f1: Halfway through the 2025 season and here's the confirmed grid for the 2026 season! With 10 seats still open, there's plenty of opportunity for new talent to make their debut.

All eyes are on Verstappen and Leclerc — with no contract extensions mentioned, questions are being raised about the future for the 2. A new avenue has opened up however, in the form of yn ln, Cadillac's new Team Principal and "Lestappen's" longtime girlfriend. Will the new American team prove to be a safe haven for the driving pair or will the Rain of Milton Keys and Sun of Maranello stay loyal to the teams that raised them?

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user20: they need to get the fuck out of those dream breaker teams

↳user21: they do but they won't

↳user20: I hate that you're right

user22: ok but what is that caption?

↳user23: it's so damn poetic??

user24: I'm shocked that Aston hasn't announced that Lance and Fernando have contract extensions

↳user25: right? Is something cooking for the Silverstone team?

↳user26: are we going to see max follow newey to Aston???

user27: I'm curious on which rookie is going to be alpine's newest victim..

↳user28: it's gonna be Franco — he just brings in the money

↳user29: I need it to be Jack so bad though…

user30: I need Cadillac to announce something for gods sake — we haven't got anything coming from them since they confirmed yn as TP and Indiana as their USA base of operations

↳user31: see I think they're waiting to see if they can sign Max or Charles (or both)

↳user32: what?

↳user31: wait wait wait — just hear me out

↳user31: fact 1 - obviously everyone wants either Charles or Max. like that's not even a question — if anyone thought they could pull them away from redbull or Ferrari they would

↳user31: fact 2 - yn has a front row seat to their frustrations. we're only getting a glimpse of it during race weekends but yn? Oh she's getting the tea right from the source

↳user31: fact 3 - Cadillac has some weirdly deep pockets for a brand new team. I bet yn and the board there have the go ahead for some large salaries…for the right people

↳user31: so finally - yn told the Cadillac board to wait it out a while because she thinks she can get one or both of her boys to flip teams

↳user32: …I hate how much sense that makes

↳user31: it does! And it's not like they'll be rushed to make a decision - it's such a competitive sport that literally they could probably sign a driver a week before testing next year

↳user31: I mean I don't think they will but they could

↳user31: they're totally waiting to see where max and charles land before making any decisions

user33: i need to know why redbull and Ferrari haven't nailed down those 2 yet

↳user34: apparently rumors have been swirling that both of them are demanding performance clauses that would allow them to break contract if the teams continue to suck

↳user33: after scoring yn (and each other) that's the smartest thing they've ever done

↳user34: god if those teams drag their feet anymore they might just lose this game of chicken

user35: sitting back and eating popcorn while I watch my wife yn ln cook

↳user36: she's literally just playing the long game here cause if it's not this year, one of these years she'll get one or both of her boys on her team

user37: ok but just imagine a ln/verstappen/leclerc team…

↳user38: the absolute dominance of that team…

↳user39: add in GP and Becker = perfection

↳user40: literally the dream

Email Inbox: Max and Charles

racing_gossip

liked by user, user, user, and 648,284 others

racing_gossip: News apparently coming from Cadillac F1 about possible 2026 drivers. Do we think this means the return of Sergio Perez and Valtteri Bottas or not?

view all comments

user41: oh my god the money I’d pay to see Bottas and Checo on a team together…

↳user42: they're like the perfect team

user43: petition to name Bottas the new honorary American on the grid

↳user44: counter signed immediately

user49: love this news

user50: if they'll all but signed why haven't we heard anything about it from Cadillac yet?

↳user51: because user31 is right and they're waiting to see if they can lure either charles or max away from their teams first

↳user31: I am right! And I truly believe that only something catastrophic will cleave them from their current teams

↳user52: oh god I don't know what catastrophic means for this situation…

Email Inbox, YN

Private Messages: Charles, Max, and yn

f1gossip

liked by user, user, user, and 1,826,163 others

f1gossip: what a disappointing weekend for the pair — a dnf resulting from a entire fire for max and a dsq resulting from illegal weight for charles, who lost his first place finish.

view all comments

user53: oh my god

user54: I don't know how many forza Ferrari's I have left in me…

user55: someone needs to go and save those boys from those evil ass teams

↳user56: literally any other team on the grid is waiting for that chance

↳user55: yn* needs to go and save those boys from those evil ass teams

user56: god max's radio messages after the fire…

↳user57: the return of mad max

↳user58: he legit sounded like he was going for someone's throat

↳user57: I would too! They're not fixing any problems — just making new ones

user58: ok don't come for me but they're so hot when they're angry?

↳user59: oh my god they are. I'm so glad I'm not the only one

user60: I feel so bad for both of them…yn's not there and they were both pulled away for media so they couldn't even talk to each other…

↳user61: seriously. they need a chance to yapp before meeting the press…

user62: fucking ferrari…charles was fucking dominating that race and he lost because they fucked up?!?

↳user63: it's the same thing for redbull…max has been telling them all weekend that the entire didn't feel good and they just kept brushing him off…

f1

liked by landonorris, georgerussell63, oscarpiastri, and 2,912,205 others

f1: We have our 2025 world champion! Oscar Piastri secured the WDC this weekend with his second place finish in Las Vegas. With the points as they are, teammate Lando Norris secures his 2nd place finish as George Russell lands in 3rd. Congratulations to them all this weekend!

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user64: salt on the wound…Oscar winning the same weekend max and charles dnf/dsq??

↳user65: like congrats but ouch…

yn: congrats Oscar! And Lando and George I guess

↳landonorris: thanks I guess

↳oscarpiastri: thanks yn!

↳georgerussell63: I can just feel the enthusiasm…

oscarpiastri: feels good 👍🏻

↳maxverstappen: congrats man

↳user66: he's already removed the 1 😭😭😭

↳user67: I can't with this today 

mclaren: congratulations to our 2 amazing drivers! WDC and WCC look good in orange

↳landonorris: it does! We'll have to make sure it stays that way

↳user68: Dutch orange was better 😭😭

user69: congrats Oscar!

user70: what a season! That was amazing to watch!

Private Messages: Charles, Max, and yn

cadillacf1

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cadillacf1: Wlecome to our 2026 driver line! We’re very pleased to announce the Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc will be joining the Cadillac team from 2026 and onwards!

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—

Seven days had passed since Y/N had agreed to go to the Singapore Grand Prix with Oscar. Was she regretting it? Maybe—but not because of him. The thought of seeing Lando again made her stomach churn, a feeling she couldn’t shake.

Of course, she wouldn’t be completely alone; she got along well with the other guys on the grid, and their girlfriends, too. Still, the idea of being back in that environment, surrounded by people who had once been so familiar, brought a mix of excitement and anxiety.

She had spent days mentally preparing herself, reaching such a meticulous level of planning that Alexandra swore she wouldn’t leave Y/N’s side for even a single second.

The trip to Singapore was comfortable enough—Y/N traveled with Charles and Alexandra, sharing laughs and stories that helped ease some of her nerves.

But as soon as they arrived at the paddock, the whispers and rumors about Y/N started almost immediately. She didn’t like being the center of attention, and seeing the posts and photos of her circulating on social media made her cheeks heat with a mixture of embarrassment and irritation. Yet, amidst all the chaos, she reminded herself why she was there: not for the drama, not for Lando, but for Oscar—and for herself, proving that she could face this chapter head-on.

—

f1gossip just posted !

liked by ynlover, piastriworld, ylpiastridaugther & 54,481 others.

f1gossip: Spotted! YN and Oscar Piastri arriving at the Singapore paddock together 😍 Could this be the start of something new? #YNxOscar #F1Love #PaddockCouple.

racefan_101: OMG they actually went together 😭 my heart can't handle this!

f1shippingqueen: finallyyyyyyyy 😍😍 they look perfect together

paddockgossip: I see the chemistry ✨ YN and Oscar are giving me life

maxspeedfan: wait… Lando is gonna see this? 😬

ynloversss: my parents 🥹💖 so happy for them

oscarstanforever: YN looks stunning as always, and Oscar too 💙

f1dailybuzz: can we just appreciate how cute they look walking in together? 🥰

norrislovefan: okay but I’m scared for Lando’s reaction 😭

paddockhaters: wow… not even two months and she’s already with another guy? total slut. 🤮

f1trashtalk: typical YN, can’t even be single for a second, already moving on 😒

norrislovefanatic: seriously? she was Lando’s girlfriend and now she’s all over Oscar? disgusting.

landomaguilover: can’t believe she’s acting like nothing happened… such a slut.

f1slander: yep, YN clearly has no shame. pathetic.

norrizz444: absolutely gross, no respect for anyone.

thepaddocktea: and here we go, she’s with Oscar now… totally expected from a girl like her.

—

—

The race was over. It hadn’t gone exactly as Oscar had hoped—third place wasn’t the victory he wanted—but strangely, he didn’t feel disappointed. Maybe it was because a beautiful girl was waiting for him in the garage. The moment he climbed out of the car, he sprinted toward her. Their arms collided in a tight embrace, a mix of relief and unspoken emotions. She held him just as tightly, as if the world around them didn’t exist.

From across the paddock, Lando watched everything unfold. Yes, he had won—but there was an emptiness gnawing at him. Magui wasn’t by his side, and he could see, painfully, how Oscar, despite taking third, radiated a happiness Lando could never touch. The sight twisted in his chest, a mix of envy and regret that gnawed at him relentlessly. He had betrayed her, yes—but seeing her with someone else, someone who genuinely cared for her, was a poison he couldn’t swallow.

His heart pounded, his vision blurred with a mixture of fury and longing. Every laugh, every sparkle in her eyes directed at Oscar felt like a blade. Lando’s jaw clenched, the weight of his own mistakes pressing down on him. He realized, maybe too late, that no trophy, no podium, no victory could replace the connection he had thrown away. He had lost her—not to a stranger, but to someone he respected, someone who made her smile in ways he never could.

And there she was, right there, leaning against Oscar, smiling, oblivious to the storm raging inside Lando. The world seemed to stop for them, and all Lando could do was watch, consumed by a bitter mixture of regret and jealousy, knowing that the game he had played so recklessly had cost him far more than he ever imagined.

—

oscarpiastri just posted !

liked by lando, yourusername, fernandoalo_oficial & 1,328,198 others.

oscarpiastri: Without swearing, that was blinking warm. Good race, nice podium

maxverstappen1: Congrats, Osc! Well deserved 👏🔥

carlossainz55: Amazing drive, man 🙌

lewishamilton: Podium well earned, keep pushing 💪

lando: Great job, mate 👏

yourusername: So proud of you, Osc! Can’t wait to celebrate 🫶❤️

hattiepiastri: Proud of you, brother!!! ❤️

snooypyastrii: This is everything, YN must be so happy 😭🤍

piastrilegend: I see YN cheering for him in the paddock !!!

pastryboy: Absolute legend! 👏👏👏

ynpiastri: That smile says it all, he’s in love ❤️

opbeloved81: Amazing race, honestly third place or not, he’s our king!!

—

yourusername just posted !

liked by oscarpiastri, lando, magui_corceiro, pascalispunk & 2,954,481 others.

yourusername: The most beautiful weekend of my life… and with the best company any woman could ask for.

alexandrasaintmleux: my girlfriend

alexandrasaintmleux: you look so beautiful

alexandrasaintmleux: mine, all mine 😍

iamrebeccad: you look gorgeous!!

kikagomez: my girl 🤭🤭

norrisnation: Can’t believe she’s with him… total Lando slut 🙄

norriswifey: How dare she move on so fast from Lando? Slut vibes 💀

landosgirll: Already with him? Slut. 🙄

oscarpiastri: pretty woman. 🤍. liked by the author

ynpiastri: finally officially posted!!! 😍

oscarmylove81: stoppp, you two are so cute 😭😭😭

osc_ynshipper: OMG they’re perfect together 💖

thisisyntrying: my hearttttt 💘

—

Of course, YN had seen those two likes—her ex-boyfriend and her cousin, the two people she had loved and who had betrayed her in the worst possible way—but she didn’t give them any importance. She was with Oscar, and being with him made all the bad things fade away, as if he had some kind of superpower that made the noise of the world disappear.

Oscar was a complete gentleman with her. When they went out, he brought her flowers, opened the car door for her, pulled out her chair at the restaurant, helped her with her coat, and always made sure she felt comfortable and cared for. She couldn’t deny how incredibly kind and thoughtful he was, and when she was with him, everything felt right.

But on the other hand, there were the negative comments—the people who still couldn’t stand to see her happy, the ones stuck on a relationship she no longer belonged to, the ones who excused Lando but crucified YN for moving on after just a month, even though Lando had done it before their relationship even ended.

YN didn’t care about any of that noise. She preferred the sweet nothingness of being with Oscar. They weren’t dating yet; they hadn’t even discussed their feelings openly, but anyone who saw them together would think they were. And yet, they were “just friends,” because Oscar respected her deeply and didn’t want to risk ruining their friendship. He preferred having her as a friend over losing her completely.

And YN wanted to fully move on from Lando. She didn’t want anyone to think she was with Oscar just for revenge. Of course not—she genuinely cared for him, much more than she could ever express to the public—but she also didn’t want to lose him because of the scars from her past relationship. Being with Oscar made her feel safe, happy, and whole, and nothing else mattered.

—

—

—

messages between oscar and charles.

—

YN and Oscar kept spending time together; he would drop by her apartment every now and then, and she loved having him around. The connection between them felt effortless—there was never anything awkward, just comfort, respect, and a quiet kind of care that spoke louder than words.

After Singapore, maybe they grew even closer. The line between friends and something more started to blur a little each day, and the tension between them became harder to ignore.

They were also becoming a bit more public—people no longer doubted how well they got along. They were often spotted together at restaurants, going for walks, grabbing coffee, or laughing over something only the two of them seemed to understand. Fans had begun to notice the way Oscar’s eyes softened when YN was near, and how she seemed to shine a little brighter around him.

Some even started to wonder if their bond was just friendship anymore—or if it was slowly turning into something deeper, something neither of them had put into words yet.

—

—

to be continued...

—

“so i see you got the ice princess to talk. how’d you do it?” lando says. “yeah mate i don’t know but i wanted to talk to you. i wanna call off this bet.” 

“you can't do that.” 

“there’s no you can’t get out clause”  jack shrugs.

“yes but there isn’t a what happens if you lose clause. so, we're even. you can’t back out cause you have feelings for her.” 

jack walked with lando, trying to come up with a response.

“see you jack. break the ice princess alright?” lando says, walking off.

jack thought of the second best option if he couldn’t get out of the deal, he’d just lose. there wasn’t anything to do if he lost. 

so for the next triple header he ignored you, he ignored the pang in his heart every time he saw you.

he tried to justify his decision 'you wouldn’t care, you didn't', 'you were currently leading the driver's championship, you were probably more worried about your championship', 'he was just a rookie'

imola was not a great weekend for him, he had made it to q2 but crashed at the end of the first session. he felt your words rang in his ear “these things happen. just keep your chin up okay?”, immediately stopping himself.

in monaco, he found himself in p7, scoring all the points for alpine that day. after he got out of the car, he watched you on the podium for a while. 

later, he found you in the parking lot. he quickly shoved his airpods in. jack spotted you, waving at him but he had to pretend not to notice you. he saw the look on your face as you got in your car and left the parking lot. 

in barcelona, media day, he saw you coming in after him. he decided to sit in his car, so he didn't have to talk to you, he hoped that you'd gone to the garage or were distracted by the media or anything.

then he heard a knock, startled. he rolls his window down. 

“you ignoring me jack?” you asked, direct. 

he stuttered, not knowing what to say.

“maybe.” he said, his mouth moving before his mind.   

“oh okay.” you stuttered. you immediately gathered yourself “well congrats on your points last race. see you around” 

he got out of his car, following you trying to apologise, you just walked, correcting him. 

“i’m sorry. i just i don’t know i wanted to focus on my racing” 

“you got p7. so congrats” you interjected.

“and i didn’t want you to not do well” 

“not for you to decide” 

“i know that was stupid.” 

you nodded. 

“mate. you don’t need to answer me or correct yourself. your pr team probably said something. if not your pr team, maybe someone in the paddock.”

“it’s- it’s not like that” he says his head hung low. 

“okay. i got my answer. thanks” you walked away, leaving his mind racing. did he say something wrong?  

“What the—?” he murmured before crouching to her level. “What are you doing here, muppet? Where are your parents?”

She let go of his leg, stuffed her fist into her mouth—long enough for drool to glisten down her chin and wrist—and dropped onto the ground with a soft oomph.

She smacked her lips a few times—undoubtedly mimicking someone—and then clapped her hands, giggling.

“Mama!”

Lando cast a desperate glance around him, but the engineers and mechanics paid him no mind, wholly absorbed in their final adjustments to the car.

“I don’t know where your mama is.”

He ran a hand through his curls as stress began to rise. The girl looked at him with wide, hopeful eyes, only fuelling the tsunami building in his chest.

Of course it had to happen to him.

“Well... what am I supposed to do with you now?”

For a fleeting moment, he considered calling Oscar, who was probably still holed up in his room, but the Aussie driver was just as hopeless in situations like this—if not worse. His mother’s face flashed through his mind, and he suppressed a shiver at the thought of her scolding him.

That’s when he noticed it.

Tucked between the girl’s overalls and t-shirt, a lanyard.

Carefully, Lando pulled it free and let out a sigh of relief when he saw the pass. He flipped it over, softened momentarily at the ID photo, and read the name printed in bold.

“Apolline L/N? Well, at least we know you're not a paddock intruder, muppet.”

She giggled as if she understood him, then tipped forward—still figuring out her balance, clearly. Lando caught her before she hit the ground, muttering a quiet thanks for his fast reflexes.

As he resumed reading, he absentmindedly rubbed her back. Shaken by her near tumble, she had settled her head against his chest, sucking on her thumb.

Apolline L/N VIP ACCESS A guest of: SCUDERIA FERRARI

“Well, I guess your mama’s probably over at Ferrari. What do you say, Apolline?” He leaned back to meet her gaze. “Shall we go for a walk?”

He stood, a child in his arms and tiny fingers clinging to his fireproofs.

Together, they set off.

Eyes lingered on the duo as they passed by. Whispers soon followed. What was Lando Norris doing with a small girl in his arms? Was that his sister? His daughter from a past fling?

He could already imagine the headlines, always eager to twist the narrative. Watching warily as a cameraman aimed his lens at them, he tucked Apolline's head into his neck and tightened his embrace before quickening his pace.

He passed Williams, then Mercedes—ignoring George’s raised eyebrow—and finally stopped in front of the red garage.

The usual Monaco frenzy took on a different flavour here. Lando could almost taste the tension soaked into every inch of the garage.

Ferrari wasn’t swept up in Monaco mania, no; they were drowning in Chaos.

A Charles in full race gear paced, his phone pressed to his ear, while a flustered Alexandra—so far removed from her usual elegance—tried to comfort a woman in tears.

Her sobs drowned out the frantic conversations of the team, whose faces all wore the same expression: that of pure dread.

In his arms, Apolline began to wriggle.

“Mama!”

At the sound, the woman spun around. She tore herself from Alexandra’s arms and ran to Lando.

The latter remained frozen as he took in the woman before him. His eyes darted between her sparkling gaze and her intoxicating mouth. They would have travelled further down—drawn to the delicious lines of her figure in that dress—had she not spoken, brows furrowed.

“May I have my daughter back?”

Her French accent nearly made him faint.

“What? Your daughter… Oh—uh—yeah! Of course!” he stammered. “She’s yours. Right. Obviously.”

Clumsily, he transferred Apolline into her mother’s arms. She hugged the girl tightly before setting her down and checking her over.

“Mon ange! You scared me to death! Don't ever do that again. If you want to go wandering, we’ll go together. Understood?”

The little girl just laughed, unfazed by the turmoil she’d caused, and dashed off into the garage. Lando watched her wrap herself around Alexandra’s legs, and then—

Vanilla.

Lando instinctively hugged the woman back. He buried his nose in her hair and breathed in the sweet scent as his hands tightened on her back.

“Thank you,” she whispered with the kind of gratitude only a mother could convey.

When she stepped back, Lando was already mourning the warmth of her body against his. Flushing, he rubbed the back of his neck to chase the thought away and shrugged.

Control yourself, she has a child.

“It’s nothing. Anyone would’ve done the same.”

“Still. It means a lot.”

She offered her hand.

“I’m Y/N.”

“Lando.”

Alexandra called her over. Y/N gave him a small, apologetic smile—one that did something strange to his chest—and turned to walk away, tossing a final “thank you” over her shoulder.

Lando stayed there, a little dazed.

A throat cleared, breaking the spell.

Fred Vasseur stood in front of him with his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised. Only then did Lando realize half the garage was staring at him.

Knowing he had overstayed his welcome, he turned on his heel and headed back toward the McLaren garage—but not without grabbing Charles by the collar. The Monegasque struggled against his hold before freezing as Lando leaned in and whispered:

Her heartbeat's out of sync with her breath, and the grid feels so much louder than usual -- like every mechanic, every camera, even fan knows something she doesn't.

Toto hasn't looked her in the eye all weekend.

Even Luca sounds like he's walking on eggshells.

And she knows why. The rumors haven't just started -- they're snowballing.

Mercedes is looking for a new driver in their second seat. YN's honeymoon era is gone. Toto's silent. The HQ's gone cold.

She gets into the car before the race with a dry throat and the sick feeling that this is the one that will decide her fate.

And the worst part? She already knows how it ends.

Lap 34.

The radio crackles in her ear, but she's not really hearing it. Her fingers are white-knuckled on the wheel, body soaked in sweat, the steering wheel slippery under her gloves.

Carlos is ahead. Again.

She brakes late into Turn 14 -- too late.

Rear grip goes. Tyre snaps. Wall.

The impact wasn't brutal, but the silence that follows is. No flames. No screams.

Just smoke, and the sound of her breathing. Shallow. Panicked.

Her radio clicks:

"You okay?" "Talk to me." "YN, are you okay?"

She swallows the lump in her throat.

"...Yeah." "I'm sorry, Luca."

She hears nothing back. Not even static.

She climbs out of the car and nods once to the marshals. Helmet still on. Chin tucked down. There's a camera in her face before she even crosses the barrier.

They want to see if she'll cry. She won't.

Her face is stone, but inside, the scream is stuck in her throat. She's already walking through headlines.

She can feel the "No longer fit for Mercedes" article pieces being drafted before she even gets back to the paddock.

She takes the long route back. Not because she's avoiding them -- but because she can't trust her knees not to buckle.

The crash wasn't catastrophic, but the timing was.

And she knows the sport well enough to know -- she's seen this happen before. This is the kind of mistake that gets you benched.

She doesn't want to be here. She stands in front of a dozen microphones, still in her suit, with gravel dust stuck to her knees and her gloves crumpled in one fist.

"Tough race, YN. You hade a moment in Turn 14--can you talk us through what happened?"

She nods slowly. "I tried to brake late. I didn't have grip. It was my call, I got it wrong."

"Was it desperation? You've been under pressure lately."

She tilts her head. Her eyes burn. "Maybe. I've been trying to prove something. Maybe to myself. Maybe to people who've already stopped believing."

"There are rumors Mercedes is evaluating other drivers. Are you aware of that?"

She laughs under her breath -- not because it's funny, but because it hurts. "Yeah, I'm aware."

"And what would you say to Toto Wolff if he's watching this?"

She pauses.

"Say something. Anything. Please."

Suzuka

The air feels colder than ever. YN's arrival is quieter than usual. No smiles, no waves. Just a stiff nod to the media. Her bag feels heavier. So does the silence around her.

The paddock talks are sharp but careful.

"Can she even drive anymore?" "Mercedes is waiting for Suzuka to decide." "Toto hasn't been seen with her since Singapore." "Every driver's dying to be offered that second seat."

The team gathers in the Mercedes motorhome, voices low and serious.

Toto's there, of course, but his usual fire is replaced by exhaustion. A stack of reports sit on the table -- data from Singapore, telemetry, psychological evaluations.

"We need a decision," says one engineer quietly.

"She's a risk," replies another.

Toto remains silent.

Later, in a rare moment, Toto calls YN into his office. They sit opposite each other in the quiet room -- no cameras, no distractions.

"You're not the driver you were," he says bluntly. "We have to see if you can be again."

He slides her a contract extension with conditions -- performance clauses, media commitments.

YN stares at it, the weight of every word crushing.

i have a looootttt planned for the following chapters. very excited to show you all -- i would love to hear what you guys think'll happen to her! will she stay in mercedes, or will she join another team?

if interested in the story, leave a message to be added to the taglist! if you'd like to know more about her, you can always leave a message in my inbox :)

likes are reblogs are very much appreciated, love lots! xx

This weekend, you were sitting on the rooftop of some ridiculously expensive Hospitality suite. Your feet were dangling over the edge, black and white Cortez for the day. You had chosen them as a way to make yourself feel slightly better at being shifted from Haas to Ferrari.

Guenther had just sworn in exasperation and then said this was probably Fred's doing to get on the mini pizzas. You wondered if --

No. You stopped the train of thought. You were here to be still.

You spooned up another serving of your overnight oats into your mouth. You had made it with chia and this new type of protein powder. You grimaced at the taste - it evidently was not good. It tasted like... well, like protein powder. You were unsure if the added 15g of protein was really worth the taste.

It was the very reason that you were having breakfast that you could sit on the rooftop ledge of a Formula 1 Hospitality suite, sneakers dangling over the edge. You watched the slow trickle in of mechanics from various teams. You also spotted a few F3 and F2 drivers coming in with their trainers. You smiled down at the next generation of drivers. They were so young.

The sun was just rising over the lake, just behind the city scape of Melbourne's CBD skyline. You smiled at the colour of the clouds and how they were mirrored on the still water. You took a deep breath - and then ate some more of the protein mess.

By the time you were done, some Ferrari workers had arrived. You closed the glass tupperware container - there was about a quarter left of but you had eaten all the berries and without the fruit to sweeten it, you couldn't do it - and made moves to the motorhome.

Last night had bought home pistachio ice-cream and it had given you the idea to make cannoli as a nice Race Day treat. It also meant you would be busy making the shells and the filling would be self-serve. As in, you could hide in the kitchen while everyone served themselves.

It wasn't like you hadn't worked in Ferrari in the past five years. However, it was the first time you'd been here since Oscar Piastri had entered the picture. And since Oscar Piastri had entered the picture, Daniel had drunkenly screamed at you, the Team Principals had all met to discuss your contract and Charles had looked at you. Somehow, the latter was the most daunting.

Either way, you weren't taking chances.

You greeted some Ferrari staff and took some coffee orders. While the machine turned on, you tied a bandana around your head and apron around your waist.

Then you got to work.

"Y/N can you make the coffees for the debrief?"

"Yeah sure no worries." You had just done the finishing touches for the dough and were just sitting on the table, scrolling through your phone killing time anyway. You walked over to the machine and turned on the grinder?

"Grazie! Oh, and can you then take them to the meeting room?"

The intern delivering the news immediately dipped after that, unaware of the bomb they'd just dropped in your lap. You blinked after them and wanted to call out but they were already gone in the business of the Race Day craziness. Your eyes were bulging in shock - since when were you walking into important meetings such as race debriefs? If it weren't for the fact that you recognised this intern from last year - and to be related to Fred - and you would've thought it a careless instruction that would have them immediately fired and banned for life.

You went about making all the respective coffees. You prepped Carlos' piccolo, a strong latte for Charles, the engineers coffees. And a double espresso for Fred. Just in case.

Even though he was nothing like Mattia, you had PTSD from TPs in red. You liked Fred but the whole environment still had you on edge.

You set the coffees on a tray and looked around in case you could pass them to someone else to deliver, maybe a lowly intern or an engineer about to walk in?

None.

You sighed and gave yourself a moment. You dusted your hands on your apron - and then promptly took it off once you realised the massive egg/flour mishap stain at the front. But then you looked down at your legs bare in a pair of Adidas shorts and wondered if the apron covering was better.

You took a steading breath, feeling the nerves rise up. Suddenly you felt the sensation of the bandana wrapped around your head too tight and took that off. When you felt slightly, even if incrementally, slightly better, you grabbed the tray and made way to the third door beside the two Ferrari driver rooms.

You knocked twice and entered when you heard the call. You walked in and saw the small group of people, mainly comprised of Charles and Carlos, their respective engineers of Xavi and Adami. You also vaguely noticed Morena, the PR manager and were mildly confused at that oddity.

"Oh, let me get that for you!" The closest person to you stood up to help you. It was Carlos and you thanked him. You ducked your head and were immediately half way out the door when Morena was already calling out.

"Perfect timing! I need a woman's opinion on this!"

"Uh - what?"

"A woman's opinion!" Morena repeated but clarified nothing. "We have some model options coming in today to pair up with our boys and they seem to not care much for this."

You stared at her. You blinked twice. It took you a few seconds to understand what she was saying. Suddenly pictures, looking like head shots, were slid across the table.

You stared down at the incredibly gorgeous girls and the reality of the situation you were in. Suddenly, taking off the apron seemed like a good call.

They were each more beautiful than the other. Faces perfectly symmetrical, hair styled by the gods and a waist that no type of cut would ever get you.

"Is this really appropriate?" Charles voice drew you back from the models photos. You didn't look at him but at Morena who was frowning at him.

"Considering they will be here in an hour and no one has given me an answer, then yes. Y/N is known for her discretion, no?" Morena looked at Fred who looked like he would literally be anywhere else but here.

"Bah, if it means we can get a decision sooner." Fred shrugged. "I'd like to get to racing."

"And I won't choose for you!" Morena asked. "And Xavi has not helped."

"Xavi is my race engineer. Not my match-maker." Charles said, tensely. "And neither is some hospitality worker."

Oh.

Oh no.

You felt your ears go warm. You felt the need to swallow whatever was bubbling up in your throat. Your eyes were on some random models face but she was nothing but parts of a face to you. Charles had just referred to you as 'some hospitality worker' and you wanted to die.

How - how did you guys get to this? Never in a million years would you have imagined that the first time you would be both be in a race day debrief for Ferrari would it go like this.

Still, you would steel yourself. You would not be shaken like this.

"Charles is right." You said, hating how hoarse your voice sounded. You cleared it and then spoke again. "Even if it's for PR, more thought that this should go into it. As much as modelling agencies are discreet, this particular one has had controversy selling secrets when some footballers consulted them." You thought of Jude's ex-girlfriend's manager from this agency and how they'd sold 'secrets' about him for some extra quick cash. "I would suggest finding… more local participants to make life easier and for the genuine aspect of it.” You winced at how that sounded. But it was true. “I would also suggest doing this after the race as both F2 and F3 have finished their feature races reporting increased tyre degradation from yesterday."

"How do you know?" Adami asked, frowning at you.

"About the modelling agency or the tyre degradation?" You shrugged and grabbed the tray. "Who knows? I am just a hospitality worker."

You gave Charles a look. His eyes were down, looking at his lap. You know he was clenching his fists.

You went back to the kitchen but you were too hyped up. You found yourself pacing back and forth, unable to process it. He called you a what? Charles. Charles Leclerc. The same boy you shared a crib with had referred to you as just some fucking hospitality worker?!

It wasn't like you were ashamed of the type of work you did. You know that, considering the elitism of F1, there was definitely a lack of being in touch with the reality of people who work the 'menial work' and wait on and serve those with the million dollar watches and matching boat. You had first-hand experience of going to having the lanyard to serving the people with the lanyard.

But you hadn’t expected Charles to be like that. You had expected him to be better than that.

Suffice to say, you had lost respect for Charles Leclerc. The fact that it came from him made the anger, hurt and shame all the more inflamed and you knew there was no way you could pretend to give a shit about cannoli anymore.

You stalked out the Ferrari motorhome, unable to think straight but needing to just get out.

However, it just so happened that the universe really wanted to screw you over because as luck would have it - you just had to bump into a familiar face in Red Bull gear.

The car was good. Really good. He came out on top in all three Free Practice sessions. Max Verstappen had pole position and he was beyond confident he would convert that into a win today.

And yet, he felt like he might actually throw up.

Staring down at his phone, Max let the Instagram reel keep replaying automatically as he watched you and that fucking McLaren rookie in your old Supra.

Initially, it hadn't come up on his feed. Max saw no need to follow any of the other teams and he had zero desire to befriend the new kid. Sure, Oscar Piastri’s resume was already quite impressive but Max was already wary of him since he was the reason Daniel, one of his best friends, had been forced out of F1.

And now it seemed like Piastri felt like he could take more than Daniel’s seat.

"Yo, Maxie!" Max looked up to where the man in question was walking out. Daniel had just finished doing some PR bullshit Horner had him doing as the third driver. Whilst Max could appreciate it being nice to have Daniel again around in Red Bull - and elevate some of the PR demands - Max didn’t appreciate all the rumours and unnecessary drama brought up between Daniel and Checo.

Because Max would win either way. Whoever was in the other seat didn’t phase him all that much. It couldn’t.

"Hi Daniel." Max said, looking back down at his phone once more and then pocketing it.

"What you watching?" Daniel asked casually.

"Oh nothing." Max dismissed. "Something Kelly sent me." Technically, that was true. Kelly had been the one to message him the reel.

"Ah, the missus. How is she?"

"Good, good." Max nodded, looking down for a moment. Then he looked back at his friend. "What happened between you and Y/N?"

"What?" Daniel blinked, his smile faltering at the question. "Er - where is this coming from?"

"No where. Kelly asked me and I realised I never knew the full story. She - she was gone before I could ask her." Max said, referring to your evident distance from him due to what had happened with Jos.

It was something Max had always felt conflicted about. Could he be happy that you had defended him even though it meant someone close to him got hurt? It was his father so why did it feel wrong to stand by Jos? Was it because it meant it was against you?

Either way, none of that really mattered right now. All that Max knew was that Daniel didn't break up with you because of what happened with Jos.

So what? Max knew things weren't always rosy with you and Daniel but he'd just assumed it was F1 pressures or the usual woes of relationships. Then you both broke up and knew that there was something else.

"We just, uh, I don't know. Didn't work. Fit." Daniel shrugged and looked away. It was the same line he'd always used. Max was about to give it up when Daniel finally added something new to the story. "Fucking Charles always got in the way."

Max considered this and thought about Charles and you for a moment.

He remembered always seeing you at the circuits growing up, fussing over Leclerc. He'd met you the same time he'd met Charles for the very fact that Where ever Charles was, you wouldn't be too far off. Initially, Max was confused about your relationship. You were too young to be dating but had vastly different features to be related. However, over time, he'd just come to accept that you and Charles were, well, you and Charles.

Admittedly starting in Formula 1 before Charles meant Max had been nervous when they were finally racing against each other and where your loyalties would lie. However, for the short period where that was the case (before everything crumbled, that is) it seemed to, oddly enough, actually work.

Max looked at his friend who had lost his easygoing smile. "I never felt that with her." He said, running through his memories of their time at Toro Rosso. "We thought it would cause problems with her being my trainer. But it never was."

"Yeah, well, you weren't dating her." Daniel said with a shake of her head. There was a finality to his tone that, frankly, Max didn't give a shit about. This was the most amount he'd ever gotten out of Daniel about what happened between the two of you.

For a second, Max wondered if Daniel was over this breakup as much as he said he was. "...Do you think Charles was in love with her?"

Daniel threw his head back in a laugh. Not his usual one. No, this was more sarcastic, sardonic even. "Oh, definitely. Always throwing it in my face." Now it was Daniel's time to be inquisitive. "Do you know what happened between them? Like I heard all the rumours - "

"No. I don't." Max reached across to pull a can of Red Bull to him and crack it open. Daniel didn't say anything even though they both knew that was a lie.

Because Max did know. It was why Max and Charles stopped speaking. It was why they came to blows that one night in Imola.

Daniel knew Max was lying about what happened with Charles. Just like Max knew Daniel was lying about what happened with you.

"Anyway Maxie, I have to -- oof!"

Both men turned around to see the very girl in question fall back. You were clearly running from the Ferrari motorhome - it was right next door - and judging by your face, you were very much not okay.

"Woah, you okay?" Daniel reaches his hands out to steady you and Max notes the way you immediately recoil from his touch. Your eyes darted quickly to meet his and Max felt himself want to reach out also and make sure you were okay. Daniel's observation was correct: you very clearly weren't okay.

"Yeah, excuse me." You made a move to step around but Daniel immediately ran his mouth.

"You don't look good, Tez." He looked behind you at the red building. "Trouble in paradise?"

"I'm honestly not in the mood for your shit."

"What shit? I'm just pointing out the facts." Daniel said. Max glared at his friend. Daniel could be a dick when he wanted to be. "Just be careful. McLaren's next door and it could look like you're violating your contract."

"Daniel." Max couldn't help but warn his friend. It was clear you were not okay and this was not the time.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" You spat back. "Have you been waiting outside the Ferrari motorhome to make these digs? What? Liking some fucking tweets wasn't enough for you?"

"Y/N." Max now warned you.

"Max, with all due respect, I'm this close to losing it. And you have lost the right to care about me."

"Yeah, don't want to add another Verstappen to your list."

That was too far, even for Max. He stepped in front of you before you could react and gave Daniel a very clear shove. "Don't you fucking dare." It was at this point the Australian realised he had probably gone too far. He shoved Max's hand off and turned around with a "yeah whatever" before stalking off.

Max turned around and saw something he'd only witnessed once before in the ten years or so that he'd known you.

You, on the verge of tears.

"Fuck, Tez." Max immediately wrapped a hand around your shoulder and guided you to the shared loading zone space of the Red Bull and Ferrari motorhomes. "Are you okay? He lowered down to meet your eyes. You were staring at nothing behind him, guiding your attention there as your tears pooled and fell down your face.

"Do - do you want a hug?" He asked, feeling awkward since it wasn't exactly like he was your closest friend right now and had the right to offer you any comfort. Max also had never seen you like this.

Vulnerable. You were always the rock in a time of chaos. You had always kept him level-headed and reminded him to curb his anger and how to properly channel it. You were the calm in any storm. You were always stronger that way. Nothing ever seemed to get you down.

So to see you like this... it was almost like seeing a parent cry. You had always been the one to comfort him. Never the other way around.

He was about to put his arms around you when that seemed to awaken something in you.

"Get the fuck off me." You immediately shoved him back.

"Woah, I'm just trying to help you."

"And why would I need your help? Especially since you never offered it when I really fucking needed it."

Max faltered. You had a point. He should've said something when you defended him - when you protected him. Not throw you under the bus and lie because his dad told him to do so. Because everyone knew you were protecting Max from his abusive father but the official records were that you attacked Jos since Max's testimony went that way. His mother had cried, Jos had given him the silent treatment and even Helmut told him to think of his career.

So Max gave the final line needed that would see you always see you a premeditated court agreed amount of space away from his family. And him by extension.

It wasn't lost on him that the last time Max had been this close to you had been when you were mopping up vomit in Abu Dhabi 2021.

"I'm sorry, Y/N."

"A few too fucking years late, Max." You wiped at your tears. You never liked to be seen as weak. He liked to think he got that from you.

"Then let me just help you out this one time." He wasn't sure why he started this - maybe it was the guilt of not doing something in the past and wanting to rectify it, but he added. "Horner's onto you. He's got lawyers on your case."

You stopped crying for a moment, thrown at this. "What?"

"That Piastri kid. I know you're close to him." Max couldn't help the annoying feeling when he said that aloud, "But Horner is worried since he has a good record with F3 and F2 but McLaren have a shit car so I'm not too worried but - "

"Oh my God." You breathed and turned around, looking at the wall. "Oh my God." You repeated.

"What?"

"Oh my God I'm actually going to move to Madrid and start with football because I am so fucking done with you drivers."

Max stared, unsure what was going on with you right now. What had he said? Why were you so angry?

"Is that seriously what you're worried about right now?"

Max blanked. How had he gone from trying to help you out by letting you know what Horner was doing to somehow pissing you off even more. "No, I - I'm just saying that I don't care if you're training Piastri but the point is that Horner - "

"And say, Max, why should it matter if you care or not?" You snapped at him, all the tears suddenly gone. You were fuming. "What? I need your permission as my old driver to train someone new?"

"No, it doesn't matter because I'm better than him."

"Yeah but I haven't trained him yet."

"Well go ahead and train him then! We'll see who wins with your rookie in that McLaren tractor."

"You know what, Max? Bet. By the end of this year, both you and Horner will regret fucking me over for Jos."

"Good luck doing that when you're also making him coffee."

At that exact moment, the sound of a door flinging open broke the tension and out came a man dressed in red. Neither you or Max were sure where Carlos Sainz had come from but there he was. He bounded down the steps and came between you and Max before you had anytime to say or do anything.

Max, immediately filled with regret, started apologising. "I didn't mean that - "

"Shut the fuck up Verstappen." Carlos' harsh curse cut out of nowhere. He didn't look at the driver once and Max watched as you let Carlos tug you back and up the steps back into the rear exit of the Ferrari motorhome.

Max turned to the side of the building and, despite knowing he has a race in a few hours, threw his fist right into it.

Usually on your rest days, you opted for active rest. Walks. Yoga - or just stretching in general. Swimming if possible was also a go.

Today was a rest day. You had planned to go for a walk around Albert Park when the track closed up for the day. That had been the plan. Make it through the day, enjoy the race, go for a walk and then start making plans for Azerbaijan. You had discussed getting there early to have a few days to settle and get into a routine with working out and training.

That had been the plan. And if life had gone according to your plan, you would currently be smiling at the sun that was setting over the skyline reflected on the lake and think to yourself about how much you loved Formula 1.

However, right now you were in bed, no form of exercise attempted as you watched the Liverpool game. The race had finished a few hours ago and you had watched Max win on Dia's old TV. It just added fresh salt to the wound and he lifted the trophy and celebrated as if you were nothing in building him to be the driver who was standing on that podium.

As such, you were under two blankets and hadn't left the space on the living room couch since you'd arrived earlier today. You had also apparently given up on your cut as you accepted Dia's Nutella sandwiches and glasses of red wine.

When she asked what had happened you just said, "2018 hit me in the face again."

She didn't say anything more about that. She said a gentle, "I'm here if you want." But then just sat by you on the couch and knitted. She commented on Oscar's driving style. She also kept making jokes about Stroll. That lifted your mood slightly.

The race, admittedly, had been an interesting one. Dia didn't say anything when Charles went off but her loud snort made you smile. Him getting beached the first lap felt karmic to you and for the first time ever, you would allow yourself to feel vindication seeing Charles go out of a race.

However, it wasn't the Ferrari with the black T cam that had your attention this race. Carlos was starting 5th and anytime he was on screen, you found your attention drawn to his car. Especially since the first half of the lap he was fighting with Pierre and when he finally overtook him on lap 25, you found yourself wanting to cheer for him.

Oscar drove pretty well and finished 8th. It wasn't too bad but with the amount of cars that went out, it was a lucky result. Especially since most of the time, both the McLarens were fighting with Haas.

Especially after the second red flag and he got into 3rd place after he was forced into Alonso who spun out. Unfortunately he didn't keep it and finished 12th. It was evidently not a good result and you almost wished you could reach out to him.

In another life.

You were done with drivers and Formula 1 for the day - for the week. You hadn't been serious before with Max but now, in the space or your living room watching the Liverpool game Carlos had spoken about before, you couldn't help but think that football would be better than F1.

The doorbell rang and you looked at your aunt.

"Did you order Uber Eats?"

"In my house? Don't insult me." Dia tutted and lifted your feet off her lap to get up and answer it. You kept watching the game and watched as Mo Salah went in for the assist but missed. Your thoughts continued to mull over it as the offhanded angry comment became more and more concrete as the night wore on.

For one, taking your uncle's offer meant you'd get to train athletes again. You wouldn't get to travel as much, sure, but that also meant you'd get more consistency and having a routine wouldn't be so much of a headache with all the jet-lag. You were friends with most of the boys on the squad and they all usually came from diverse backgrounds - meaning less of the elitist snobbery of the rich upper class that ruled F1.

And since Christian Horner was apparently calling his lawyers - his very, very good lawyers - it would probably be for the best. Maybe she could coach Oscar online or something. He'd understand. He was a good kid and she'd miss him, sure but was it really worth it if --

"Oh dearest, sweet niece of mine! You have a guest!" Dia's voice rang from the hallway and you frowned, sitting up. You weren't sure who might come to visit you. The only feasible option was Oscar and so you stood up, not caring about your dishevelled, ratty pyjamas. Maybe it was a good time to tell him he was going to Madrid.

"Hey bro, sorry for not messaging you. Shit hit the fan and I think I'm gonna move to Madrid - "

"My hometown? That's nice. I can show you around."

Oscar Piastri was not standing in your door frame.

It was Carlos Sainz.

"Carlos? What - what are you doing here?" You pulled at the large jumper you wore above the Spider-Man boxer briefs that completed your nightwear look.

Unfortunately this just made him look down at said boxer briefs. Carlos' lips twitched but he said nothing and just smiled warmly at you. "You weren't at the circuit." Was all he said, as if that explained anything. Then he held up a brown paper bag. "I brought you ice-cream."

Not sure what to do, you just welcomed him in. "Uh, yeah. Sure. Come in." You noticed Dia quickly dip down the hallway to give you space. Not before she made a show of wiggling her eyebrows at you. You gave her an unimpressed look and waved at her.

And so you sat at Dia's cluttered kitchen table with Carlos Sainz who brought you ice-cream from a gelato shop near the hotel he was staying at.

"I wasn't sure what flavour you liked so I got a few." He opened the styrofoam tub and you saw three different colours. "Pistachio, hazelnut and tiramisu. It was their weekly flavour."

"All sounds good." You brought some spoons and cups to the table. Carlos brought a cup to him and began serving himself. You went to the other cup but Carlos tutted your hand away. He then finished scooping some of each flavour before passing the cup to you.

It was a small gesture but after the day you had, it meant a lot. You smiled and muttered a quiet thank you. You waited until he had served himself before you tried the pistachio.

"Hmm, that's good." You commented. Pistachio was one of your favourite flavours and this was pretty good.

"I agree." Carlos nodded. "Do you have a favourite flavour?"

"Usually go for pistachio."

"Ah, good for me!" Carlos smiled and held out his spoon with pistachio ice-cream. It took you a second but you clinked your spoon against his. "Cheers! You know, if you move to Madrid I can show you all the good ice-cream shops."

"Thank you. It's not confirmed, just a thought I'm having on a bad day." It was then that you realised that you probably weren't the only one who might be having a bad day.

Technically, with eight cars out, Carlos' 12th place meant he had finished last today.

And had been told he needed to get into a PR relationship.

"I'm sorry." You said. He looked at you, spoon in mouth and frowned. "I - uh, about today. The race."

His face became a bit more solemn and he sighed. "Thank you. It wasn't exactly my best result but I know Charles - " He stopped and you thought it was because he named your former best friend. But then he shrugged and scoped some more ice-cream into his mouth. "I bet Charles so I'm fine."

Your mouth fell open.

"You're not a reporter, I don't need to lie." Carlos elaborated and it took you a second to process the honesty.

"I... yeah. Fair enough."

"Oscar did well."

"Not well enough."

"I heard what you said to Max."

You bristled at his comment. Admittedly you hadn't had a lot of interaction with Carlos but you were unused to him calling things so straightforward. So, you deflected. "Was this after you were let out of choosing a PR relationship?"

"Yes. And thanks for that by the way. By bringing up the locals bit, Morena decided we can pick our own girls." He rolled his eyes. Then he looked at you and grinned. "Let me know if you decide to move to Madrid."

"Ha. Funny." You then decided to use his same tactic. "Carlos, I'm sorry I'm gonna be blunt."

"That's fine. I prefer that."

"I noticed." You said. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Do you want to go to the Real Madrid game next week?"

What? "What?"

"The game?" Carlos repeated, seeming very indifferent to the immediate change in conversation that was throwing you for a loop. He had brought you ice-cream and come to your personal home to ask you about a football game? "I can get us private flight tickets to Bernabéu. My dad has a box."

You stared at him. He continued to eat ice-cream. Innocently.

"Again, Carlos, I'm gonna ask... what?"

He put down the ice-cream and turned to you fully. It made you sit up a little and he stared at you. "I'm stuck at Ferrari. I thought it would be the next step up but I feel more stuck there than when I was with McLaren. My first season I went without a win and I knew Charles was going to be their priority but I didn't realise how bad it was going to be. I'm not going to stand out to them unless I really work for it."

"Okay." You said, trying to understand where he was going with this.

"And I don't want to be stuck in some PR relationship with someone I have nothing in common with. I heard you with Max. You want to get back at Red Bull and it looks like he's going to be the one to beat this year."

You were starting to see an angle here... but it was an angle that seemed far too ludicrous to accept.

"Carlos..." You were hesitant to ask, "what exactly are you saying?"

"Let me date you. Be my chosen PR girl. Come with me to Madrid and watch the game."

"And train you?" You added. "That's kind of what we're getting at here."

"Yes." He nodded. "And train me to beat Red Bull."

"And prove to Ferrari you're better than Charles." You reminded him. "It sounds like you get all the benefits. I mean, I'm training you and helping you out of a PR relationship."

"Yes but you forget Lando is my best friend. He can help us get you to still work alongside Oscar."

"Max told me Horner's got lawyers on my case."

"Yes but doesn't it say family? Romantic grounds? You'll be my girlfriend. And Horner can't say anything if my friend and his teammate happen to use the gym the same time as I'm there with my girlfriend."

You had to stand up. You couldn't sit there and think about this. You ran a hand through your hair as you thought over what Carlos was asking you, what he was offering.

Seeing you consider this, Carlos continued to speak, to sweeten the pot. "You can finally work in F1 without making the coffee."

Considering the day, this pissed you off. You stopped your pacing and glare at him. "I enjoy making coffee."

"I know you do." Carlos didn't skip a beat, "but you'll finally be able to do what you're really passionate about and prove everyone wrong."

"By making you win." You reminded him of that key part.

"Exactly." He grinned. "It's a win-win. If Oscar is going to break Charles' rule, then I might also." Carlos said it with a shrug but that caught you more than anything.

"What rule?" Carlos looked at you for and grimaced. "Out with it Sainz."

"Leclerc kind of put out a general ban on you. No one's really allowed to come near you."

For the second time tonight, you were floored. Except this time, you had to sit down. You put your head in your hands, elbows on the table as you processed this. This.

Charles had banned other drivers from engaging with you. That's why Alex stopped cracking jokes with you, it's why George stopped giving you the updates about Carmen, why Lando stopped saying hello and why Pierre all but pretended you didn't exist. Logan Sargeant had gone from always chatting with you in F2 to avoiding you like the plague when he arrived in F1. You found it off he refused your Congratulations! cake you'd sent to Williams.

For the first time in your life, you found yourself rooting for Charles to lose.

Because you had decided that you would do anything to make the man beside you win.

"We're versing Sevilla." You spoke.

Carlos' smile grew. He understood what you meant. "I know."

"You'll organise the tickets."

"Of course." He licked his spoon clear. Your ice-cream had since melted at all the revelations of the night. "I'll send someone to pick you up for the flight."

"My uncle will want to meet you." You added, thinking now about the reality of all the logistics.

"My dad also." Carlos added. "He might be there."

"That's fine." You had met Carlos Sainz Sr before when you worked in Torro Rosso. "Just please don't tell my uncle I have a Liverpool jersey."

"As my girlfriend, I do think we're going to have to do something about that. I may take the Don's side on that one."

Girlfriend. That was a word you hadn't had in a while. How long had it been since you were someone's girlfriend?

To think you had woken up thinking about the shitty protein powder in your breakfast to now going to sleep as Carlos Sainz' girlfriend.

"You look like your head is spinning." Said driver commented.

"That's because it is." You said. Needing something to do, you picked up the ice-cream contained and went to put the lid back on and put in the freezer. Carlos had brought the cups and spoons to the sink and you immediately reached for them.

"I can get that."

He tutted at you again and turned on the tap. "This is how a man treats his woman." You had to snort at the line.

"What corny romance novel did you get that from?"

"My father, actually." He said which made you tilt your head. You knew Carlos Sainz' dad played a big role in his career, a former rally driver himself, but you were starting to understand the level he played in Carlos' life.

By the door as he was putting his shoes on, you asked him. "Are you going to tell your dad, by the way, that you and I are PR." Suddenly, however, another thought arrived to you - one that took precedence above all. "Wait, if you and I are going to be in a relationship does this mean I have to attend all those Ferrari events are your WAG?"

"Yes, but fake boyfriend or not, I'm not going to allow today to happen to you."

"What?"

"Ricciardo, Verstappen, Leclerc." He listed. "No one will disrespect you like that again. I promise you. I won't let them."

You stared at him, stunned. "I... um. Thanks, Carlos."

He smiled at you. "Anytime, cariña." He reached up his hand and tucked a hair behind your ear. You blinked. Wasn't this the behaviour he was supposed to do when cameras were around. You said this and his smile grew. "Just getting my practice in. Sleep well."

You closed the door behind him and rested your head against it. Before you could process anything, you heard laughter behind you.

Dia stood there, an amused look on her face with her arms crossed. "Fake relationship with the hot Spanish driver? Yeah that doesn't sound a like a rom-com plot. I give it 6 months."

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Michael almost immediately cuffs the younger Alpha over the ears, before grabbing the back of his neck angrily. Niki also squeezes the parental bond on the back of your neck, making you yelp. Both of you slump slightly, like you’re nothing but naughty pups still unpresented, and not a 17 year old and 14 year old who still can’t help but bicker despite being practically raised together since Michael had officially taken custody of Max and Victoria in 2013. 

“Sisi!” You whine, when Niki finally releases his grip on your parental bond. Max is refusing to make eye contact with you, too busy being embarrassed by how Michael is scolding him.

“Don’t ‘Sisi’ him,” Michael folds his arms. Both yourself and Max share a quick, terrified glance of ‘Oh we fucked up’ at the other. “You know better, Max! And as for you, Maus—”

“She started it!”

“He started it!”

The two of you look at each other, going slightly slack jawed, before starting to bicker again, and in a flash, Michael and Niki are watching two juvenile wolves wrestle in front of them, unamused. As if you’re five and eight again. Play fighting in the woods outside of Hof under the watchful eye of Corinna and Marlene, with Mick, Victoria, and Gina sleeping peacefully in the shade.

Why couldn’t you two have stayed that cute and small? Niki briefly wonders, thinking of the two bright eyed pups that were joined at the hip, speaking rapid fire German and Dutch, not quite understanding each other, but enough to get the point across. Not much has changed on that end, with the two of you now cursing the other out in your respective tongues. Because as quick as you two were to change, so are your sires.

Michael is a giant, reddish-brown wolf. But Niki, Niki is truly an outlier. Deep brown, nearly black fur, a head taller than Micheal despite being smaller than him when human. And the terrifying patches of blank skin on his face and front-right leg. He picks Max up by the scruff easily and the young alpha yelps in shock. Niki had been like a sire to Michael, and now, Max is hanging from his pseudo grandsire’s jaws. 

I’m going to have a heart-to-heart with this one, Niki growls to Michael, who is similarly carrying you. You, now limp in Micheal’s jaws, looking dejected with your tail tucked between your legs. Max is similar, whimpering to Niki, apologies slipping out in his high-pitched whines as he does so. Niki softens, but not by much, adjusting the juvenile wolf just enough to make it easier to carry him to the Pack Motorhome. You, however, get carried off to Mercedes.

You squirm, clearly not liking this decision. Toto sees you first, looking confused as Micheal pads into hospitality like it’s nothing. The Austrian just watches for a second, before shifting and going to find Nico. You know you’re in trouble when Lewis walks in. The air is tense between you. His hand still bandaged from when you’d bitten him all the way back in Spain. It was taking longer to heal because of the location, the stitches always being pulled awkwardly on the back of his hand and his palm. He clearly couldn’t use the hand without pain.

Niki had given you a long lecture about it after. But you’d been holding tightly to Nico, not caring about the lecture or anything really. You just wanted to make sure that Nico was okay. That your adoptive dam was safe. And secretly, Niki was proud. 

“Submit,” Niki’s voice was just a whisper, but it was deadly serious. The order of the pack founder, of the first prime— it had made Lewis’s knees buckle. His gigantic canine form towering over him. Making his breath come out in gasps. 

All he could see was your bared teeth. The blood— his blood— on your lips as you stood in front of Nico. Nico, who looked terrified of him. Who was shaken and pale, save for a feverish flush on his cheeks. You were curled against him when Lewis had stalked past and when he’d turned around, after catching a whiff of his mate’s curdled scent, you’d attacked, not even letting Lewis open his mouth for the snarky comment he was going to make. 

“Submit to me Lewis, or be exiled!” Niki’s voice had been heard throughout the entire Pack Motorhome. Carlos and Max had tried to pull you away from Nico, but you’d just hissed at them, feral and worried for your dam. The dam who had held you to his chest during your first heat and had once fed you bottles of pup formula to help you grow and become stronger.

Lewis bowed his head to Niki that very moment. Pressed to the ground. Nico’s curdled, sickly scent choking him. Submitting. And feeling his world crumbling around him as Michael stepped in. 

Lewis looks at you, being carried like a pup in Micheal’s mouth and steps forward. Worried. Trying to understand

“Mouse—“

“Maus!”

Nico is a blur, seemingly appearing from nowhere as he sprints by, scooping you up. The omega looks frazzled, checking your canine form for any injuries as you sulk, squirming and eventually even nipping at his fingers. Lewis lets out a sharp snarl at that, more instinctual, and you freeze. But so does Nico. 

“Don’t bite your dam, pup—”

“Don’t act like you’re my sire!” You snarl back, tumbling forward partially human, partially wolf. Ears flattened to your head.“I hate you!”

“Maus!” Nico admonishes, pinching the back of your neck. His mate sounds horrified, and he looks the part, too. Eyes wide as he looks at you. But not at Lewis. He can see the slight tremor in his form, even with Michael there. With Toto hovering just behind him. He’s afraid of Lewis. “Don’t say that!”

You just curl closer to Nico. Sniffling. Lewis feels like he’ll spend the rest of his life atoning for what he’s done this season. What he was willing to do for the rest of it.

It suddenly all seems pointless when you refuse to look at him and especially when Nico doesn’t say a word to him or even look in his direction. His scent is curdled in the air. Truly fearful of the man he’d once looked at with such love. Lewis leaves soon after, walking faster than he’d care to admit, seeking solace in the pack home.

February 28th, 2024. Ḥalba al-Baḥrayn ad-Dawliyya, Mamlakat al-Baḥrayn.

You’re blessed by the fact that hardly any press is there to see you dragged to the motorhome by Nico Rosberg. You’re already aware Niki is on the phone, when your quiet and sweet uncle Hulk wordlessly hands an ancient, yet somehow still functioning landline, to Rosberg, while gently murmuring reassurances to you as Nico quickly dials the familiar number to Niki’s mobile. 

“You’re okay. Nothing’s going to happen to you with us here,” Soft whispers in German calm you, Hülkenberg’s tone gentle despite his normally gruff appearance. “I’ve got you, little mouse.” 

 Ah, how the German-speakers always worked so seamlessly with each other. It was always a sight to behold, especially for anyone new to the paddock. It had been even worse in 2021, with happily retired Michael and Nico, then Seb, Max, and Mick along for the ride. Hülkenberg would oftentimes have home-cooked food ready in the Motorhome after a race. Niki was still under the watchful eye of a doctor, after the transplant, but would stubbornly insist on coming to every European-hosted race that didn’t require flying. 

“I’m more than Sisi’s pup,” you whimper brokenly, and your pseudo-uncle’s face crumbles as he scoops you into his arms as though you’re a toddler again. 

“Of course you are, you’re the youngest race engineer in history. You’re an advocate spreading awareness of disabled bodies. And you’re the best mechanical engineer I’ve met,” Nico whispers, as the omega with the same name hurriedly explains the situation to Niki over the phone. His German slurring together in a panic and Niki’s voice just-barely audible over the speaker.  “Little mouse, you’re so much more than their lack of knowledge.” 

A few other drivers poke their heads out. Nando, with several of his pups from the lower divisions and the academy program, look out of the kitchen. When he sees you, he coos softly, scooping you up like you weigh nothing to him. Both Nicos exchange glances as you’re hurriedly pushed into the nesting room, the younger pups swarming around you. Lance and Carlos are there already, tilting their heads to the side as they watch you enter, pushing aside what looked like a rather intense game of Uno. Lance sniffs the air, and looks confused, prompting Nando to do the same.

“Mi ratoncito, what’s wrong?” Nando cups your cheeks, his nose in the air and gasping when he actually smells you and not the scent blockers that normally hide your scent. “Your scent—!” 

“I could smell her all the way from where I was interviewing someone,” Nico sighs,  curling protectively around you and nipping at a somewhat sulky Gabriel, who seemed insistent on staying by you. “Hush, Gabi, you’ll get cuddle time with her later, she’s at McLaren most of the day,” Nico chides, but he does get shot a glare by Fernando, the prime omega puffing up a bit.

“Don’t nip at the pups, they’re sensitive,” Fernando huffs, squeezing the younger omega’s nose gently. “You’re lucky I’m fond of you, Rosberg.”

“My pup needs me right now,” Nico snips back, holding you closer. But he does relax, as several of Fernando’s pups curl a bit closer, all sniffing at you. Most of them don’t even know your designation, let alone know your scent. Franco, excitable pup that he is, can hardly control himself, fully sprouting ears and a tail as he sniffs the air. His tail wagging happily.

“Y’smell like peaches!” 

“Yes, she does,” Nico soothes you, running a hand down your back as you press your face into his chest. “Oh, Mausi, you’re safe here. They know not to tell anyone outside this room.” 

“Of course, ” Fernando growls, looking at each pup sternly. There’s no need to glare at Lance and Carlos, who have settled beside you. Lance in wolf form, settling his great, dark brown head on your back, huffing softly as you curl into Nico even more. Quiet as always, yet a staple by your side.

Carlos just staying close and holding your hand. The three of you, Fernando’s pups, even if not by blood. They already know your greatest secret, having known since you were all true pups, still just babies in the eyes of the rest of the pack. Needing nutrient-rich pup formula to help you grow. To Fernando though, you’re all still babies. His babies. 

The look he exchanges with both Nicos is enough to cement that they feel the same. Be it through different means and from different events. 

But Fernando is the prime omega of the greater Formula Series pack. He will do whatever is necessary to make sure his pups are safe, especially you three.

All he can see is Carlos, Lance, and yourself. Curled up in his personal nest, bellies full of croquetas from dinner, sleeping. Still just 9, 5, and 4 in his heart and mind. Spending the summer break learning to control your canine forms and wrestling in the sun, your sires and dams trusting Fernando totally to keep you safe. You’d still been nursing then. Lance, on the verge of being weaned. And Carlos occasionally whining and grumbling for a bottle when his youth came out, but usually settling for a glass with a silly straw. 

“What secret?” Gabi says hesitantly, tail tucked between his legs. Eyes wide. Truly worried about you, for as tough as he tries to seem. 

“M’fine. Just forgot to wear blockers,” your voice is muffled. And you refuse to lift your face from Nico’s neck. Likely smudging your makeup in the process, but that’s fine. There’s definitely some hidden away in the motorhome for situations like this. “…mmm. Sleepy.”

“No, no sleeping,” Fernando gently lifts you, even as Nico whines and holds your hands until he has to stretch uncomfortably to keep his grip. The German doesn’t try to pull you back. He knows Nando would never do anything to hurt you. “Let me get a good look at you…”

“M’fine, Dam,” you grumble, but don’t make any attempts to fight back. Only making a single, weak chuff at the Spaniard as he sniffs at you. With just a slight nod, he has Lance going towards the bathroom, likely to get makeup cleaner, to get rid of any remnants of the skin-leveling cream and concealer you used to hide your scars. It was already looking a bit faint, likely from how you’d turned canine to enter and then exit the little cafe and when Nico had triggered the paternal bond on the back of your neck to get you to the motorhome. You’re relaxed as can be, though. Even as Lance and Carlos clumsily wipe away the remaining traces of your makeup, with Nico purring to keep you calm.

The pups, naturally, are watching with rapt attention. Sniffing at you and then the air, as your scent finally has a chance to flourish without the makeup and blockers clogging your scent glands. It takes a few minutes, given the damaged half of your body, but it’s undeniable. You smell like peaches. More specifically, peach cobbler, freshly fallen leaves, and a morning rain. Exactly what the valley of your birthplace smelled like in the late summer to early fall, when you were born. 

It’s very clear to the pups why this is such a big deal very quickly. 

The sweetness of your scent, for how little you could control it, was disarming. There was no way for you to control it really, not with glands as damaged as yours. 

The pups all gather around you, a purring heap as you are set back down into the nest. Thoroughly chagrined.

“I should have some blockers in the bathroom here—“

“All expired. Y’know how it is.” Carlos wrinkles his nose. He’s used to your normal scent, with no blockers on. “God, you smell strong, Mouse.”

“The press officer pissed me off,” you grumble, with the peach cobbler scent getting stronger. Chloe, from where she’s pressed against your side, sighs happily. “….getting comfy there, pup?”

“Very.” She grins at you, and you can’t help but purr, your instincts winning the war in your mind. The pups around you are happy. They want to be here, cuddled against you in the nest. “Y’smell like home.”

“I’m an American too. You pups forget that alot.” You huff, but nose at the top of her head, still purring. Franco and Gabi whimpering about not getting more attention from you. “From the south.”

“Ah. Peaches…. Makes sense,” she mumbles, still happily cuddled beside you. The warmth of the nest is soothing. 

You’re asleep within five minutes of being placed in the middle of the pup’s cuddle pile.

Lando watches as Nico Rosberg drags you away. The odd scent of rotten leaves and burnt sugar and pastry hangs in the air faintly. His nose twitches. Peaches. He can smell them. That’s the person who’d been in nesting-suite twelve, the scent that’s been bothering him all week because of course he couldn’t stop thinking about them, and it had been you all along. Making a bit of a fool out of himself with how Will had acted and how cold he’d been before that. And just thinking of how Will had used his Alpha voice on you… it makes him prickle, his instincts on high alert for any threats, especially to you.

Part of him feels foolish, because he’s been pining after you all this time without knowing it was you. And he doesn’t like Alphas that way— or, at least, he thinks he doesn’t— but now he’s not so sure. He hardly even knew you, if he was being honest. Had just met you, a month ago, and had only recently started to broach the idea of being friendly with you after you’d facetimed him. 

You smelled like peaches. Not… fresh, exactly. Like they’d been baked into something. 

When he was little, his Dam told him that his mate’s scent would compliment his. Lando’s scent is that of summer, melted sugar, and a crackling fire. He’d been told countless times how wonderful his scent was, how comforting and welcoming it was, to be wrapped up in it. When he was little, his Dam would blow raspberries against his cheek and tease him about how sweet he was, making him giggle loudly. Even when Flo was born, then Cisca. His Dam and Sire always made sure to make time for every single one of them, showering them in affection. 

Even when he crashed in karting. Even when he threw temper tantrums as a pup. They were loving and gentle with him, patient as can be. 

But there’s something odd about the way you had shrunk under Nico’s gaze. Like you’d been caught red-handed doing something you weren’t supposed to. He wants to find out more, even when Oscar squeezes his arm to try and pull him away. The press officer looks horrified, one hand up to her mouth for being told off by Nico. 

Need to find her. Need to protect and take care of her. His instincts whisper, making the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Oscar’s touch burns. Lando feels the need to run.

“Lando— we need to keep moving, she’s with Nico, she’ll be okay,” Oscar insists. “Zak and Andrea probably already know—”

“She smelled like peaches,” Lando mumbles, still focused on the scent that hangs around them, pupils blown to nearly hide his irises. Like a shark that smelled blood. “I like peaches.”

Oscar’s eyes widen, and he starts to sniff the air around them. He tugs roughly on Lando’s arm again, managing to get him to move a step away. “Oh no— no, no, no, no, that’s a bad idea, Lando—”

But he’s already padding after you in his canine state, keeping to the sides and aways, just a few paces behind, thankful for his dark fur and smaller stature. He’s actually quite small for an Alpha, used to getting confused for being a Beta, or in one case, even an Omega. And don’t get Lando wrong, he couldn’t care less about what others think. He’s drop dead gorgeous like this, with dark chocolate colored fur. It’s long and silky and he takes pride in it, spending hours grooming himself when he has a proper amount of free time. It’s a unique look, one that makes him stand out, especially with the slight curls of the fur. 

Oscar watches him pad away. The press officer looks like she’s about to combust. But she pulls Oscar to the motorhome before he can follow after. And he really doesn’t want to test his luck with her today. 

Meanwhile, Lando watches carefully. When you enter the pack motorhome, he just darts around the back, quickly turning human again as he does so, and taping his badge at the door. The back entrance is less glamorous to be certain, but he’s used to entering here. Especially when he’s getting back from late night shenanigans and can’t be bothered to make the trek to his hotel room.

Everyone in the pack is welcome to sleep in the motorhome, and some honestly prefer it, so good for them, but not him. He’d always found it a bit cramped. The teams usually got hotel rooms for everyone, anyway, they had to. It just happened to be one of the rare times that the GP itself got the whole pack a floor in the hotel.

Lando knew a few people would stay in the motorhome. The three Primes usually always stayed, just to make sure everything stays where it’s meant to, and to keep an eye on the pups of the pack. He’d been a pack pup once, coming up in F3 and F2, he’d stayed in the motorhome for all the feature races. Let Nando fuss over him, listened to all of Jenson’s stories, and felt safe under Lewis’s watch. That was before Lewis had officially become the Prime Alpha— Micheal hadn’t officially stepped down until 2019, and still made a few silent, well-hidden visits before then, to get to know everyone.

But that hadn’t been his main pack. Sure, Sebastian took him under his wing and made sure his rookie year went as smoothly as possible, but that was the closest he ever came to having another Dam. His Dam— his mother— was always attentive. Continued to be, even now, at age 24. He had his own pack, back in England. That was enough for him. 

He didn’t mind the grid pack, partaking in events here and there with the group he’d once karted against. But it wasn’t as ingrained for him. Not like it was for Carlos and Max, who’d spent summers together, growing up side-by-side. That was a whole other bag of worms he didn’t have time to get into, especially looking at how complicated Max’s relationship with the pack was. He just… felt like it sort of skipped over him. Alex, George, Pierre, Charles…. Hell, even Logan and Oscar, they all participated happily in pack duties. 

The pack, more so, didn’t feel like his. He had his place in it, and was technically a part of it, yes. But it wasn’t his pack.

Everyone should be gone, anyway. Maybe Fernando would be there, with the pups, to keep an eye on them. Carlos and Lance would probably stay with their adoptive dam, always loving to help out.

So, he was a bit shocked when Esteban and Pierre were speaking softly to each other right by the door, like they hadn’t expected anyone to be there. Which was weird for a few reasons. Esteban and Pierre don’t get along. Haven’t for years. Something about a falling out as they grew up karting together, never really able to get past the tension that had brewed. Yet, Pierre has Esteban backed against the wall, hands on the omega’s hips, whispering to him. Esteban was pink in the face, with a dopey smile as he leaned down to touch his forehead to Pierre’s. Their scents sweet and warm. 

“Holy fuck,” Lando whispers, as Esteban’s face goes another shade darker, and he hides his face against Pierre’s neck, whimpering. “Holy fuck.” 

“Shut up!” Pierre hisses. “Lando—”

“You don’t hate each other?!”

“No we’re— voilà pourquoi, je ne voulais pas te mettre au parfum—” 

“We’re mated,” Esteban whispers. Fingers gripped to his mate’s shirt. Eyes slightly wet and threatening to spill tears with anxiety’s curdled scent dripping from him, Lando actually feels horrible for accidentally stumbling into them in a clearly intimate moment. “Since 2019, we just—”

“So you don’t actually hate each other?” Lando hisses. Because that’s the main thing he has to know. 

“Not fully, but there are moments.”

“Pierre Gasly! Don’t even joke about that!” Esteban lightly smacks his chest, starting what sounds like a serious lecture in their native tongue before getting silenced by a quick peck on the lips by his mate. And Esteban practically folds himself over Pierre, blushing and purring, smelling like fresh coffee. 

“No. We argue and bicker like any normal couple.” Pierre grins, as Esteban murmurs something grumpily. “C’mon, chouchou, don’t be like that, I love when you’re all fiery.”

“Ugh. I wish I could go back to before seeing this,” Lando rubs his face. They both smell too sweet. It’s distracting. They don’t smell like you at all. “Wait— fuck, don’t distract me right now, I need to find Lauda—”

“Why would you need to find her?” Esteban speaks just a bit too quickly. A bit too defensively. Which comes as Lando’s first clue. 

“Because I’m worried about her,” Lando says bluntly, just slightly biting the inside of her cheek. “The McLaren PR team— well, they pissed her off,”

“I’m sure she’s fine, I heard Nico dragging her in here,” Pierre soothes, which has Esteban shooting him a withering glare. Second clue. “What? Lando’s pack, we can tell him that much—” 

“What are you hiding?” Lando narrows his eyes. Looking at the two drivers who he’d grown up with while karting, then into the lower formula series. “I know it’s something with my race engineer.”

Pierre can’t meet his eyes. Esteban is too busy looking at his mate to make sure he doesn’t crack to even give Lando the time of day. This scene goes on for about ten seconds until Carlos happens to walk past him, that same, fruity scent clinging to him. 

Carlos looks at Lando. 

Lando looks back at Carlos. 

Carlos then looks over at the two French drivers, looks back at Lando, and then runs for it, with Lando in hot pursuit. Third, and final, clue, that they are definitely hiding something about you.

The Spaniard slides around a corner and dashes down a narrow hall, nearly making Lando crash into the wall. But he recovers enough to chase after, cursing the slippery floors of the motorhome. He makes it to a staircase at the end of the hall, watching his friend and former teammate run up the stairs on all fours, as if he’s a toddler learning how to climb them again. 

“Carlos! Get back here!” Lando screeches, managing to close the gap by taking the stairs two at a time, mentally thanking you for how you’d forced his trainer to focus on making his build more similar to a sprinter’s. 

The absolute terror in Carlos’s eyes would be comical, too. Really, the whole situation would be, if it wasn’t about something being hidden from him. 

He actually catches up and tackles Carlos, getting a solid grip around his waist, when they both get to the top of the stairs, sending the older driver to the ground with an audible ‘oof’ of his breath leaving his lungs, right in front of the pack’s nesting room. 

All Lando can really smell is what he’s trying to locate— peaches. But it’s more developed now. With the hints of something else. Fallen leaves and… petrichor? No, that’s not it. It’s different from that. It’s… it’s like the scent of rain when it’s still raining. And to call the fruity scent just peaches, would be incorrect. It’s slightly burnt sugar, and something baked, like a cake, with just a whiff of vanilla. 

Lando loves the occasional little treat. But he’s never had one that smells like this, he’s certain he’d remember how heavenly it was. 

Somewhere downstairs, he can hear a door opening and closing. Rapid footsteps towards the staircase. Oscar is calling his name, with Logan’s scent not far behind, also calling for him. 

But he reaches the door, eyes blown wide, still sniffing the air and letting the scent overtake him.

Good scent. Beautiful, strong, prospective mate, Omega Omega Omega—

The door swings open. 

You’re asleep in the most beautiful nest Lando’s ever seen, surrounded by the pack’s pups. The room is full of different scents. But he can only smell yours. It’s instantaneous, how calm he feels.

He never wants you to cover up your scent again. Never wants you to mute it with those horrid scent blockers, not when you smell this good, not when you’re already so perfect. Why would you ever hide this? Why would you hide such an important part of yourself from everyone? From him? And why on earth would you hide that you were an Omega when your scent alone had such a calming effect on everyone?

Lando takes another step forward, entranced. He wants to take care of you. Wants to show you what a good Alpha he could be for you, to earn the right to be by your side, to have you as his race engineer. 

A soft rumble rises from his chest, slipping past his lips as he looks down at you, his eyes reflecting in the dark as he gazes upon your sleeping face. You stir at the noise, looking up at him with sleep still clouding your eyes, chirping softly in confusion.

Logan yanks him out of the room by the back of his polo-collar before he can have the chance to curl up in the nest around you, to protect and take care of anything you could ever want. His Alpha roars. Someone closes the door, but Lando doesn’t care about that. They’re taking him away from you, Logan is taking him away from you. He can hear his blood rushing in his ears. 

They hid Omega. Trapped Omega. Defend. Protect. Defend. Protect.

Lando snarls as he tries to fight out of Logan’s grasp without any hesitation, claws growing and fangs extending as he twists in the American’s grip. He can hear Carlos calling his name. And he knows it’s not right what he’s doing. 

Protect Omega. Protect pups. We need to protect Our Omega—

That this is wrong. He shouldn’t fight Logan, and he certainly shouldn’t have gone into the pack’s nesting room without invitation. Suddenly, there are two people holding him down. Carlos seems to be able to tell that this isn’t Lando’s full doing, especially when he looks him in the eye.

Rivals. Trapping Omega. Fight them.

“Fuck! Fuck—“ Logan holds him tighter. He smells of burning rubber and stress. "Lando, fucking stop!"

“Lando— please— you need to calm down—we’re not trapping her—” Carlos pleads as he thrashes in his grasp. “Please, listen—“

Liar liar liar liar—

The worst part is that Lando agrees. He knows this is wrong and he’s been raised so much better than to react like this when he’s pulled away from something. His Dam had made sure of it. Made sure he could control himself, and told him how important it was to be able to control his instincts, even when they were screaming for him to do something. 

But this is something else entirely, because he’s never reacted like this to anything. And it’s honestly a bit scary that he can’t properly control himself after being exposed to your scent properly. He cries out, pleading, hoping someone will understand. 

“Help— please— I can’t—“ Lando gasps, still fighting against Logan and Carlos. 

 Nico Hülkenberg emerges from the nesting room, barks something at Logan as he grabs Lando by the shoulders. Without any hesitation, the German crashed his temple into Lando’s forehead, and everything went black, the struggling Alpha going limp on the floor, with you watching in horror from the safety of the nest.

Hehehe.... another choice has to be made...

You have three days! Ta-ta! Until next time!

taglist:

The question echoed through his mind like a Formula One car bouncing off barriers, each impact more devastating than the last. His hands were shaking—actually shaking—and he clenched them into fists to try to stop the trembling. The anger that had fueled his vicious attack just moments ago had evaporated the second she'd walked out, leaving behind nothing but a sickening void filled with self-loathing so intense it made him want to vomit.

"Lando." Pietra's voice cut through the silence like a blade, and when he turned to look at her, the disappointment in her eyes hit him like a physical blow. "What the hell was that?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. What could he possibly say? That he'd just eviscerated the only woman who'd ever made him feel like he couldn't breathe properly when she wasn't in the room? That he'd weaponized her deepest insecurities against her because she'd dared to speak truths he wasn't ready to hear?

"That was..." Max's voice was uncharacteristically serious, all traces of his usual humor gone. "Mate, I've known you for years, and I've never seen you be that cruel to anyone. Ever."

"She started it," Lando said weakly, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew how pathetic they sounded. Like a child trying to justify a playground fight.

"She called you out on your bullshit," Tom said, his usually friendly demeanor replaced with something harder. "And instead of taking it like an adult, you went for the jugular. You called her broken, Lando. Fundamentally broken. Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?"

Broken.

The word seemed to hang in the air like a toxic cloud. He'd called her broken. He'd looked at Y/N—brilliant, fierce, impossibly beautiful Y/N—and told her she was incapable of human connection. Him. The man who'd spent the last 14 months unable to form a connection with any woman because his every thought was consumed by her.

"I need to..." Lando started moving toward the door, his body operating on pure instinct. He needed to find her, needed to take it all back, needed to—

"Don't." Ed's voice was firm. "Leave her alone, mate. You've done enough damage for one night."

"But I need to apologize—"

"Not tonight, you don't," Pietra said, and there was something in her voice that made Lando stop in his tracks. "She needs space. You need to figure out what the hell is wrong with you. Because that?" She gestured toward the door. "That wasn't you being defensive. That was you being deliberately cruel to someone who didn't deserve it."

Lando sank into the nearest chair, his legs suddenly unable to support his weight. His mind was racing, replaying every vicious word he'd thrown at her, each one making him hate himself more than the last.

You're completely incapable of human connection.

The irony of it was suffocating. He'd accused her of being incapable of connection when he was the one who'd been running from his feelings for her since the day they met. When he was the one who'd maintained a fake PR relationship and worn his ex's bracelet like some kind of shield against the terrifying possibility of actually wanting something real.

"She was right," he said quietly, staring at his hands. "Everything she said about me was right."

"That doesn't excuse what you said to her," Ed said. "Y/N's always been nothing but lovely to all of us. A bit reserved, sure, but kind. And you just... destroyed her."

Destroyed her.

The words hit Lando like a punch to the gut because he'd seen it happen. Had watched the light dim in her eyes with each cruel word, had seen her shoulders draw in as if trying to protect herself from his verbal assault. He'd seen the exact moment when his words had found their mark, when he'd confirmed every fear she'd probably ever had about herself.

And the worst part? He'd kept going. Had seen the damage he was causing and had pressed harder, twisted the knife deeper, because her truths about him had hurt and he'd wanted her to hurt too.

"I have to go," Lando said suddenly, standing up so quickly he knocked over his abandoned wine glass. The red liquid spread across Max's coffee table like blood, and Lando stared at it for a moment, seeing it as some kind of metaphor for what he'd just done—made a mess that couldn't be easily cleaned up.

"Lando—" Max started, but Lando was already moving toward the door.

"I can't... I can't be here right now," he said, his voice rough. "I'm sorry about dinner, about the wine, about... fuck, about everything."

He grabbed his jacket and was out the door before anyone could stop him, taking the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator because he needed to move, needed to do something with the restless energy coursing through his body.

As he descended floor after floor, his mind wouldn't stop replaying the fight. But now, with the anger gone, he could see things he'd been blind to in the moment. The way her voice had trembled slightly when she'd talked about his ex. The way she'd wrapped her arms around herself when he'd started his attack. The way she'd looked at him at the end—not with anger or hatred, but with a kind of resigned acceptance that was so much worse.

Like she'd expected it. Like she'd been waiting for him to confirm something she'd always believed about herself.

At least I know it. At least I'm not walking around pretending to be something I'm not.

Her words echoed in his head as he finally burst out of the stairwell into the lobby. She thought she was pathetic. Thought she was broken and unlovable. And he—fucking idiot that he was—had just confirmed it all.

His McLaren was parked outside Max and Pietra’s building, right where he’d left it earlier that evening. Lando walked up to it, hands still trembling as he pulled the keys from his pocket. But as he reached for the handle, he paused. The lingering taste of wine on his tongue—subtle but undeniable—stopped him cold.

He stared at the car for a long moment before exhaling sharply, locking it again with a quiet beep. He couldn't drive. Not like this. Not after drinking. Not with his head spinning.

So he turned and started walking—no destination, no plan, just the need to move. The London air bit at his skin as he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and wandered into the night, leaving the car behind.

He didn’t know where he was going. He just knew he couldn’t go back to his hotel room. It would be too empty, too quiet, too full of reminders of what a complete bastard he'd just been.

He ended up wandering aimlessly through London, the city lights blurring past as his mind spiraled deeper into self-loathing. For over a year, he'd been an absolute dick to her. Treated her with a coldness he showed no one else—dismissive, rude, sometimes outright hostile.

And why?

The truth he'd never admitted to anyone—barely admitted to himself—was that Y/N terrified him. From the very first moment he'd seen her at one of Max and Pietra's gatherings, something in his chest had shifted. It was like the world had suddenly snapped into sharper focus—like he'd been living in black and white, and she’d walked in carrying all the color he never knew he was missing.

She'd been wearing a simple black dress, nothing particularly special, but the way she'd moved through the room with quiet confidence had made it impossible for him to look away. He'd watched her laugh at something Pietra said, watched the way her eyes lit up when she was engaged in conversation, watched the way she absently tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking.

And he'd felt like he'd been hit by a freight train.

It wasn't just that she was beautiful—though fuck, she was so beautiful it made his chest ache. It was something deeper, something that defied logical explanation. Like every cell in his body had suddenly oriented itself toward her, like she was magnetic north and he was a helplessly spinning compass needle.

He'd never felt anything like it. Not with Olivia, not with any of the models or actresses or influencers he'd dated or slept with. This was different. This was terrifying.

Because Y/N wasn't the kind of woman who would be impressed by his fame or his money or his lifestyle. He could tell that from the first conversation they'd ever had. She'd looked at him with those impossibly intense eyes and spoken to him like he was just... a person. Not Lando Norris, F1 driver. Just Lando.

And instead of being refreshing, it had scared the shit out of him.

So he'd done what any emotionally stunted coward would do—he'd pushed her away. Had been cold and dismissive and rude, had treated her worse than he'd ever treated anyone in his life. Because if he kept her at arm's length, if he made sure she disliked him, then he wouldn't have to deal with the terrifying possibility that she might see through all his bullshit to the person underneath.

The person who wasn't nearly good enough for someone like her.

Eventually, his legs carried him to a quiet side street, far from the noise and crowds. There was an old wooden bench tucked beneath a flickering streetlamp, and without thinking, Lando sank onto it. The full weight of his realization crashed over him like a wave.

For 14 months, he hadn’t been cruel because he disliked her. He’d been horrible because he was falling for her—and didn’t know how to handle it.

No, that wasn't quite right. He wasn't falling for her. He'd already fallen. Had been gone from that first night, probably.

Every gathering where she was present had been torture. He'd spend the entire evening hyperaware of where she was in the room, of who she was talking to, of whether she was laughing at someone's joke. He'd catch himself staring at her when he thought no one was looking, memorizing the way she gestured when she was making a point, the way she bit her lower lip when she was thinking, the way her whole face transformed when she genuinely smiled.

And then she'd catch him looking, and he'd immediately default to coldness, to dismissal, to barely acknowledged greetings that probably made her think he couldn't stand her presence.

She had no idea that he'd stopped sleeping with other women entirely since meeting her. That every Instagram model who slid into his DMs got ignored. That the very thought of touching another woman made him feel physically ill because they weren't her.

Sometimes, he even tried flirting with other girls in front of her—half out of spite, half out of desperation. Just to get a reaction. Just to make himself forget her. But it never worked. He never even made it as far as touching them. Because every time, without fail, his mind went right back to her. Always her.

The PR relationship with Matilde continued only because he was contractually obligated, but even that had become unbearable. Every staged outing, every carefully orchestrated photo op felt like a betrayal of something he couldn't even name. He'd started pushing back against his management, trying to minimize the appearances, counting down the days until the contract expired and he could be free of the whole charade.

And the bracelet... Christ, the bracelet.

Lando looked down at his wrist, at the metal bangle that had become such a part of his daily wear that he barely noticed it anymore. He wore it out of habit, not out of any lingering feelings for Olivia. He'd genuinely forgotten it was even connected to his ex most days. It was just... there. Like his watch. 

But Y/N had noticed. Had seen it as evidence that he was still hung up on his past, and he'd been too proud, too defensive to simply tell her the truth—that he hadn't given Olivia a serious thought in years. That the only woman who occupied his thoughts was sitting right in front of him, rightfully calling him out on his bullshit.

His phone buzzed with a text from Max: Where are you? We're worried.

Lando stared at the message for a long moment before typing back: I'm fine. Just need to think. I'm sorry for ruining tonight.

Max's response was immediate: You didn't ruin tonight. But mate, what you said to Y/N... that wasn't okay.

I know, Lando typed back. I know. I fucked up.

That's an understatement. I've never seen you be that cruel. What's really going on?

Lando started and deleted a dozen responses. How could he explain that he'd been cruel because he was scared? That he'd torn her apart because she'd gotten too close to truths he wasn't ready to face? That he was pretty sure he was in love with her and had just destroyed any chance of her ever looking at him with anything other than disgust?

In the end, he just sent: I need to figure some stuff out. Tell Pietra I'm sorry.

He turned his phone off before Max could respond, not ready for any more disappointment from his friends. He deserved it, knew he deserved it, but right now the disappointment he felt in himself was already threatening to drown him.

He ends up ordering an Uber to his hotel. The ride is a blur—quiet, heavy, suffocating. He barely registers the familiar streets as they pass, his mind still trapped in Max and Pietra’s apartment, replaying the fight over and over again. Every word, every look, every ounce of her pain loops in his head like punishment.

You're cold. You're bitter. You're judgmental. You suck the fucking joy out of every room you walk into.

Had he really said that to her? Had he really looked at the woman who'd been quietly driving him insane for over a year and told her she sucked the joy out of rooms? When the truth was that every room felt empty when she wasn't in it?

By the time he made it to his hotel room, Lando felt physically sick. He barely made it to the bathroom before he was retching, his body finally rebelling against the toxic combination of wine, adrenaline, and self-disgust.

When he was done, he slumped against the cool tile of the bathroom floor, feeling more exhausted than he had after any race. His phone, which he'd turned back on out of habit, showed multiple messages from the group.

Pietra: That was completely out of line, Lando. Y/N didn't deserve any of that.

Tom: Mate, I don't know what's going on with you, but you need to sort yourself out.

Ed: Never thought I'd see you be that harsh. Hope you're okay, but more importantly, I hope Y/N is.

Each message was another twist of the knife, but it was Pietra's follow-up that really gutted him: I texted Y/N to check on her but she hasn't responded. I'm really worried about her, Lando. You have no idea what you might have just done.

The implication in her words was clear—there were things about Y/N he didn't know. Depths to her that he'd never bothered to explore because he'd been too busy protecting himself from his own feelings. And in his ignorance, he might have done more damage than he could even comprehend.

Lando dragged himself to the bed, not bothering to turn on the lights. He collapsed onto his bed fully clothed, staring up at the dark ceiling as her final words echoed in his mind.

You're cruel, Lando. Genuinely cruel.

She was right. He had been cruel. Viciously, unnecessarily cruel to the one person who'd never deserved it. Who'd never done anything except exist in his proximity and unknowingly turn his entire world upside down.

He thought about all the times over the past 14 months when he'd caught her looking at him with something almost like hurt in her eyes before she'd quickly looked away. All the times he'd been deliberately cold when she'd tried to engage him in conversation. All the times he'd practically ignored her existence while being charming and warm with everyone else in the room.

She must have thought he hated her. Must have spent over a year wondering what she'd done to earn his disdain, never knowing that the opposite was true. That he was desperately, pathetically, completely gone for her and just too much of a coward to do anything about it except push her away.

And tonight, he'd pushed too hard. Had said things that couldn't be taken back, had confirmed every insecurity she'd probably ever had about herself.

You're just fundamentally, irreparably broken.

The words made him flinch even now, hours later. How could he have said that to anyone, let alone to her? How could he have looked at Y/N—brilliant, composed, successful Y/N—and called her broken?

But even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer. Because she'd held up a mirror to his own life, his own choices, his own cowardice, and he hadn't liked what he saw. So instead of acknowledging the truth in her words, he'd lashed out with the cruelty of someone who knew exactly where to strike to cause maximum damage.

Lando rolled onto his side, catching sight of the metal bracelet on his wrist in the dim light from the window. Without thinking, he yanked it off and threw it across the room, hearing it hit the wall with a satisfying clang. He should have done that months ago. Should have done a lot of things differently.

His mind drifted back to another night, another gathering—when her voice, quiet but certain, had cut through the noise. She’d said she wanted someone who would fight for her. Someone who would choose her, every time. Someone who wouldn’t hesitate to go to battle for her, to face down the entire world if that’s what it took.

And what had he done? He’d been too scared to even admit he had feelings for her. Had maintained a fake relationship for publicity, worn reminders of his past like armor, and treated her like she was nothing to him. He’d flirted with other girls in front of her—desperate to get a reaction, desperate to make himself forget her—but it never worked. He’d been the exact opposite of what she needed, what she deserved.

The thought that she was out there somewhere in London, probably alone in her apartment, believing the horrible things he'd said about her made him want to get up and drive to her place immediately. But Ed had been right—he'd done enough damage for one night.

Still, he couldn't stop himself from composing a message to her, typing and deleting over and over again.

I'm sorry.

Delete.

I didn't mean any of it.

Delete.

Please let me explain.

Delete.

I'm a fucking idiot and you deserve better.

Delete.

In the end, he didn't send anything. What could he possibly say in a text that would undo the damage he'd done? How could he explain that he'd been cruel because he was terrified of how much he wanted her? That he'd confirmed all her worst fears about herself because he was too much of a coward to face his own feelings?

The truth was, there was no explanation that would make it okay. No apology that would erase the words he'd thrown at her like weapons. He'd shown her the worst version of himself tonight, and that might be all she ever saw when she looked at him now.

If she ever looked at him again at all.

—-

Back to present moment

"I think... I think I'm having a heart attack," she gasped into the phone, her voice barely recognizable even to herself. "I can't breathe... my heart is racing... I think I'm dying."

The operator's voice was calm and professional, asking for her address and symptoms while dispatching an ambulance. Y/N tried to answer the questions, tried to provide useful information, but she was too consumed with terror to form coherent responses. All she could focus on was the overwhelming certainty that her body was shutting down, that this was the end result of being fundamentally unworthy of existence.

The paramedics arrived within minutes, though it felt like hours to Y/N as she lay on her bathroom floor, having collapsed there while trying to make it to the door. They were kind and efficient, checking her vital signs and asking gentle questions about her symptoms while loading her onto a stretcher.

"Heart rate is elevated but not dangerous," one of them murmured to his partner. "Blood pressure is high but not critical. Pupils are responsive. Ma'am, have you taken any drugs or alcohol tonight?"

"Wine," Y/N managed to whisper. "A few glasses... hours ago."

"When did you last eat?"

The question made her realize she couldn't remember. Yesterday afternoon? The day before? Time had become meaningless in the face of such overwhelming emotional devastation.

"I don't... I can't remember."

The ambulance ride passed in a blur of medical equipment and concerned voices. Y/N drifted in and out of the panic, sometimes feeling like she could breathe again, sometimes convinced that her heart was about to explode. The paramedics monitored her constantly, offering reassurance that her vital signs were stabilizing, that she was going to be okay.

But Y/N couldn't believe them. How could she be okay when the person who was supposed to love her most in the world had just confirmed that she was fundamentally broken? How could her body be fine when her soul felt like it had been torn into irreparable pieces?

At the hospital, she was whisked into an emergency room bay where a team of medical professionals descended on her with the efficient choreography of people who dealt with medical crises every day. They hooked her up to an EKG machine, drew blood, checked her blood pressure, asked more questions about her symptoms and medical history.

"I'm Dr. Harrison," a kind-faced woman in her fifties said, pulling up a chair beside Y/N's bed. "Can you tell me what happened tonight? What led up to you feeling like you were having a heart attack?"

Y/N stared at the ceiling tiles, trying to figure out how to explain that her soulmate had just destroyed her soul without revealing information that would make her sound completely insane.

"I had a fight with someone," she said finally. "A bad fight. I was upset."

Dr. Harrison nodded with the kind of understanding that suggested she'd heard similar stories before. "Emotional stress can definitely trigger physical symptoms. How long since you've eaten anything substantial?"

"I don't know. Over 12 hours ago I think."

"And you said you'd been drinking wine?"

"Yes. But not that much. Three glasses maybe?"

Dr. Harrison made notes on her chart, her expression remaining neutral and professional. "We're going to run some tests to make sure everything is okay with your heart and other organs. In the meantime, I'm going to have a nurse bring you some juice and crackers to get your blood sugar stabilized."

The tests took hours. EKGs to check her heart rhythm, blood work to check for signs of heart damage or other medical issues, a chest X-ray to rule out any lung problems. Y/N lay on the narrow hospital bed, staring at the fluorescent lights and listening to the sounds of the emergency department around her—monitors beeping, phones ringing, the quiet conversations of medical staff as they went about their work.

She didn't call anyone. Didn't text Pietra to let her know what had happened, didn't reach out to her parents, didn't contact any of the few friends she'd managed to maintain over the years. The thought of explaining why she was in the hospital felt impossible. How could she tell them that she'd had a panic attack so severe she'd thought she was dying, triggered by a fight with someone who was supposed to be just a casual acquaintance?

Around noon, Dr. Harrison returned with the test results and a gentle smile.

"Good news," she said, settling into the chair beside Y/N's bed again. "All your tests came back completely normal. Your heart is healthy, your blood work is fine, there's no indication of any physical problems."

"Then what happened to me?" Y/N asked, her voice hoarse from hours of crying and hyperventilating.

"You had what we call a severe panic attack," Dr. Harrison explained. "The combination of extreme emotional stress, lack of sleep, not eating, and having alcohol in your system created a perfect storm for your nervous system. Your body went into fight-or-flight mode and couldn't find its way back to baseline."

Y/N nodded, feeling simultaneously relieved and embarrassed. Of course it was a panic attack. Of course her body had betrayed her just like everything else in her life.

"This is actually more common than you might think," Dr. Harrison continued. "When we're under extreme emotional stress, our bodies can react as if we're in physical danger. The symptoms you experienced—the racing heart, difficulty breathing, chest pain—those are all normal responses to what your nervous system perceived as a life-threatening situation."

"It felt like I was dying," Y/N whispered.

"I'm sure it did. Panic attacks can be absolutely terrifying, especially when they're this severe. Have you experienced anything like this before?"

Y/N shook her head. She'd had anxiety, had felt overwhelmed and stressed, but nothing like the complete physical breakdown she'd experienced that morning.

"I'm going to recommend that you follow up with your GP in the next few days," Dr. Harrison said. "And I'd also suggest considering some counseling or therapy to help you process whatever emotional trauma triggered this episode. In the meantime, make sure you eat regular meals, stay hydrated, avoid alcohol for the next few days, and try to get some rest."

Rest. The word felt like a cruel joke. How was she supposed to rest when her entire world had been turned upside down? How was she supposed to eat and drink and take care of herself when the person who was supposed to love her had just confirmed that she was fundamentally unworthy of care?

By 2:00 PM, she was discharged with instructions to take it easy and a prescription for anti-anxiety medication that she had no intention of filling. The taxi ride back to her apartment felt surreal, like she was returning to a crime scene where her former self had been murdered and left to rot.

Her apartment looked exactly the same as it had when she'd left it in the ambulance twelve hours earlier, but everything felt different somehow. The expensive furniture and carefully curated art pieces felt like props in a play about someone else's life, someone who had been naive enough to believe that success and material comfort could protect her from the fundamental truth of her own unworthiness.

Y/N collapsed onto her sofa and stared out at the London skyline, feeling more alone than she had ever felt in her entire life. Her phone, with its cracked screen, showed seventeen missed calls from Pietra. There was also a message from Sophie—a good friend from work—probably just asking a random question or seeing if she wanted to hang out like they sometimes did outside of work.

She couldn't bring herself to respond to any of them. What could she possibly say? That she'd discovered her soulmate found her so repulsive that he'd felt compelled to destroy her? That she'd had a panic attack so severe she'd thought she was dying? That she was now carrying a secret that would slowly poison her from the inside out for the rest of her life?

Instead, she turned off her phone and drew the curtains, plunging her apartment into artificial darkness. She would stay here, in this cocoon of expensive isolation, and figure out how to rebuild herself into something that could function in a world where the person who was supposed to love her most had instead chosen to confirm every terrible thing she'd ever believed about herself.

She had known the night before she made the right decision, but the hospital incident confirmed she really did indeed make the correct choice. The decision felt final, like drawing a line between her old life and whatever came next. She would never tell him about the mark on her hip. Would carry this secret until it killed her.

Even when it meant accepting that maybe, just maybe, everyone who had ever told her she was worthless had been right all along.

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