My escape.

It's been three days since Olivia left. Three days since you moved into the guest room.

Three days since Jack has slept more than an hour at a time.

He'd expected that he'd miss you, but he hadn't expected his body to react so viscerally to your lack of presence. Hadn’t expected it to feel like something essential had been pulled out of him—like his body didn’t know how to settle without you.

It's familiar in a way he hates. The restless energy buzzing under his skin, the sharp edge of awareness, the way his mind keeps searching for something to do—something urgent, something loud enough to drown everything else out.

He'd caught himself earlier, halfway to the drawer where he'd hidden the police scanner, until his mind caught up to his body. He wanted to reach in, grab it, but he didn't. Because if he did, he’d go. And as long as you were here—even in another room—he wouldn’t.

He'll reach for it when you're gone. Not a second before.

You've left for the guest room half an hour ago—your room now—after getting ready for bed. He'd convinced you to keep your things in his bathroom, arguing that it made more sense than to move them—a weak excuse that somehow worked.

It meant that he could sit against the headboard, listen to you potter around in there and get a sweet smile from you before you eventually leave.

After that, he could creep under the covers, drag your pillow into his arms, and bury his nose deep into the fabric where your scent still lingers. Pretend for a moment that you haven't left—that you're still in the bathroom.

But this time the familiar scent is not there. He'd turned the pillow around, rather desperately, hoping—praying—to find it.

He didn't.

You'd changed the sheets. Washed off the last bit of evidence he had that you'd been there. He lay back down with a thud, pillow still hugged tightly to his chest, and resigned himself to a night of no sleep.

He was wrong. It isn't a night of no sleep—it's much worse. Because when his eyes close, he's right back there.

Dry, suffocating heat sticks to his skin. Lungs burning with each breath. Sand grinds between his teeth. There's a sharp, metallic stink of fuel and blood.

Someone's bleeding.

He's pressing down, his hands slick, trying to keep it in—begging stay with me, stay with me—but it won't stop.

It never stops. It's one after the other. Faces blur. Voices overlap. Orders shouted over choking breaths.

He's too slow. He's always too slow.

A broken sound tears out of him. His hands twist into the sheets, knuckles straining white, fabric biting into his palms. He doesn't feel it until something pulls him up, drags him out—

His eyes snap open to another nightmare—one that hurts in an entirely different way.

You're sitting beside him, watching him with worried but sympathetic eyes. Close but not touching him like he wishes you would—he wants nothing more than to feel your warmth, even if it's just a mind's trick. His chest is still heaving, lungs refusing to settle, heart slamming hard enough it hurts. Adrenaline courses through him. He doesn't move—couldn't if he wanted to—so he just stares at you, waiting for the inevitable moment when you fade away again.

"You're okay," you whisper, shifting closer on the bed.

He doesn't believe it. Not when he can still feel it—the heat, the blood, the weight of it all sitting heavy in his chest like it never left.

"You're okay," you murmur again, glancing from his face down to his hands still clutching the covers. You reach out, but stop halfway, hesitating. "Can I touch you?"

"Please," he manages, his voice cracking. He can barely breathe.

You move slowly, carefully easing the fabric out of his grip and replacing it with your hand. Your other hand comes up to his face, swiping at the tears that he hadn't even realised had fallen.

"Breathe with me," you say. You bring your intertwined hands up to your chest, resting them gently on your sternum, so he can feel the slow and steady rise of it.

He tries matching you, but it feels impossible.

You keep murmuring assurances, gentle words that he doesn't believe, but he keeps trying. His breaths come uneven at first, catching, stuttering—but you keep at it.

He knows it’s a panic attack. Rationally, he does. But his body takes its own time to realise it. Eventually, the edges dull. The noise fades. His lungs stop fighting him.

And once he's finally able to take a full, deep breath, he realises, it isn't a dream. Your hand is warm—real.

"Hey," you whisper, giving him a small smile.

"Hi," he says back.

You don't say more. You don’t ask anything. You don’t push. You just look at him, something soft in your expression, and then—

you pull your hand away.

The loss is immediate. He swallows, disappointment filling his aching chest. Of course. He should've known you wouldn’t stay. You just came to make sure he was okay. That’s what good people do. People like you.

He should’ve known better. Should’ve known not to expect more. Men like him don’t get to have things like this. Not with everything he carries. Not with everything he’s failed to carry. Not with—

The mattress dips beside him. You don’t say anything as you slip under the covers beside him. Your face tucks into the space between his shoulder and chest, your arm draping over his stomach.

He doesn’t move at first, then his arm comes up. Careful. Hesitant. It wraps around your shoulder, pressing you closer into him. His nose dips into your hair, and he takes another deep breath. Finally breathing you in. His eyes close again, his grip tightening just slightly around you, afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens it.

And for the first time in three nights, he sleeps properly.

Jack wakes slowly. His shoulders loosened, breathing calm, and his head not aching for once. He breathes in quietly, searching for your soft breath in the room. It's quiet.

Too quiet.

Heart slowly sinking, he keeps his eyes closed as he reaches across the mattress, searching for your body. Not wanting to see just yet. Not wanting to confirm it.

His fingers only brush against cold sheets.

Jack sighs, cold realisation hitting him. He keeps his eyes closed for another second before he reluctantly opens them to face the truth.

You've left. Of course you have.

And judging by the coldness, it must have been sooner rather than later. Probably right after he fell asleep.

With another harsh exhale, he pushes himself up to sit at the edge of the bed. Building up the nerve to go act like it doesn't mean anything, that his heart isn't fracturing, trying to keep up this pretence.

Then the door creaks open, your foot nudging it as your elbow releases the handle. In your hands, you hold a tray with plates and mugs clinking as you step inside.

"Nooo," you pout when you see he's awake. "I was supposed to wake you up with breakfast in bed." You lift the tray, staring at it dejectedly. "I even made you coffee," you add.

Jack blinks at you, trying to make sense of the situation. Had you slept there the whole night, after all?

"Lay back down," you demand, cutting through his thought process.

"Really?" His voice is hoarse from surprise and sleep, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Amusement flickers through the haze of disappointment.

"Yes!"

And because he can't resist you, he does as he's told, his eyes closing again. He hears the tray set down next to him, his book hitting the floor—he bites back a comment.

"Okay, you can wake up now," you say.

Jack doesn't move.

"Ja-ack," you exaggerate, poking his arm. He doesn't budge. "Come on," you push at his arm, your voice growing closer as your face nears his.

"I'm sleeping," he murmurs, his mouth curling despite his attempt to control his grin.

"Funny," you deadpan. " Come on, wake up. Wake up. Wake up." You poke, push and prod with each word. "Wake u—" he cuts you off this time, his hands wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you into the bed. In a smooth roll, he pins you lightly beneath him, leaning on one arm to avoid crushing you, the other draped across your frame to hold you in place.

Your mouth stays open, but no words leave this time.

"I thought you were taught bedside manners in med school," he says. "Looks like I was expecting too much."

He can see your eyes widening, how your breathing turns shaky. He has to stop himself from leaning down and pressing his mouth to yours. He drags in a breath and forces himself to keep still.

He doesn't have the chance to act, even if he wanted to, because your head turns, soft lips brushing his ear seconds later.

"What? Something more like—" your voice turns breathy, sweet, and downright sultry. "Good morning, Jack. Your sweet, sweet wife made you breakfast."

He knows you're teasing him, but that is actually what he wants. What he wishes for every day.

But he can't show you that, so he rolls back, shrugging. "Something like that, yeah."

You grin, pushing yourself up to lean against the headboard. "I'll remember that. Now," you gesture to the tray, "eat before it gets cold."

"Yes, ma'am." Jack reaches over, giving you one of the mugs and taking the other himself. He takes a small sip of the dark liquid.

You've been watching him carefully, your brows knitting as he swallows. "It's not good, is it?"

He tries his best to hide the instinctive grimace that comes from drinking watery coffee, murmuring, "No, it's… It's good."

The lie flops immediately. Especially when you take a sip yourself. "It's horrible." You pout again, something Jack really wishes you would stop doing. It keeps drawing his attention to your lips.

"It's the effort that counts," he says.

"I don't want your pity," you say.

"Hey—the offer to teach you still stands."

"Hmm, nah," you say, shaking your head, a slight smile on your lips. "I'll just let that be your thing."

Jack tilts his head, thinking. "Did you make it bad on purpose?"

"What?" He can see you considering how to answer, knowing that he'd placed a trap—that either answer is bad.

You settle on, "Shut up and eat," instead.

Jack grins, watching you over the rim of his mug.

You'd seen the worst of him, and still you'd come back. He wants to believe that means something.

The shift is progressing much better than the last few ones, despite the cases being nearly the same. The difference is in you—yawning less, not fighting so hard to stay awake.

Just one night of sleeping with Jack again apparently makes up for days of fractured sleep. The bed in the guest room isn't as nice—it's what you tried to convince yourself at first—but deep inside, you know it's really about not sleeping with Jack. It’s unsettling how quickly your body has gotten used to it—how much worse everything feels without it.

Tonight you're still tired, but significantly less so.

"Here." A cup lands on the desk next to you as Lily leans against the counter. "I finally give in—come to the 'dark side' or whatever you call it—" she grins, "and then you're too tired to even notice."

"No, ugh—I'm the worst," you groan. "I'm so happy you're here. You're one of the few nurses I've managed to convince."

"Don’t you mean the only one?" Lily tilts her head, red ponytail slipping over her shoulder as her eyes narrow playfully. There’s a grin tugging at her lips, the kind that says she already knows the answer.

"Give it time. My charm is a slow burn."

"Mm-hmm. Or a complete myth," she says, nudging your shoulder lightly.

Lily’s been here as long as you have—long enough that you can’t quite remember any shifts without her. She’s the kind of person who somehow looks put together even after twelve-hour shifts, her scrubs never wrinkled, her smile never fully fading. When everything feels dark, she’s the one who brightens it.

And somehow—miraculously—she’s also figured out how to make the break room coffee taste like something other than regret.

"Seriously though," she adds, softer now, studying your face. "You look exhausted. Like… more than usual exhausted."

"I’ve just slept like shit the last few days," you admit, shrugging one shoulder.

"Uh-huh," someone mutters in passing. You don’t even have to look to know it’s Parker, but you do anyway. She’s halfway past the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, already moving like she’s got somewhere better to be.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" you call after her, because you absolutely cannot let it go—even though experience tells you that’s a mistake.

Parker stops, glancing at you, unimpressed. "You've slept 'shitty'," she repeats flatly.

"Yes?"

She hums, glancing between you and Lily, something calculating flickering behind her eyes. "That’s just funny."

You sigh, regretting this conversation even more. "Why?"

"So has Abbot."

"So what?"

Parker’s mouth curves, just barely. "It’s just funny that two newlyweds both show up to work tired." There’s just enough pause after it for the implication to settle.

"Oh my—" Lily’s eyes go wide, and she physically leans closer to you, her voice dropping into a whisper that is not quiet at all. "Are you trying?"

"What? No!" you choke, nearly spilling your coffee as you whip toward Parker. "Stop making up rumours!"

But Parker’s already turned back to Lily, completely ignoring your protest. "I’ve got twenty on it happening this year," she says, like she’s placing a perfectly reasonable bet. "You in?"

"Oh, I’m absolutely in," Lily replies instantly, all delight and zero hesitation. "Thirty on it happening in three months—and them pretending it didn’t until it’s too obvious to hide."

"Guys," you groan, dragging both hands down your face this time. "Guys, please—"

They’re already walking away, laughing like this is the best thing that’s happened all shift.

You stare after them, equal parts horrified and exhausted. "…I hate both of you," you mutter, even though they’re long gone.

But you know the night shift's noticed. The way you lean in more, flirt a little easier—just trying to take Olivia’s advice, even if you’re doing it far more subtly than she'd like you to.

Still, you didn’t think that, combined with a few bad nights of sleep, would be enough to start a bet.

At around four in the morning, there's a lull in patients, the waiting room empty for once. Unlike others, who are taking the time to catch some Z's, you’re using it to catch up on your charts.

You’re mid-sentence when a body drops heavily into the chair beside you. "Ugh."

"Hmm?" You barely glance over, fingers still moving across the keyboard, though slower now.

"I’m gonna have to file a harassment claim by the end of the night if this keeps going," Shen says, dragging a hand down his face.

That gets your attention. "A patient?"

"No." He shakes his head immediately, expression souring. "Worse."

You already have a feeling. Your eyes flick instinctively down the hall—and just in time to see Smith slip through the doors of one of the rooms. "Don't tell me it's—"

He grimaces, nodding. "Uh-huh."

You lean back with a quiet exhale, rubbing your temple. "Damn. I told her to drop that."

"Who?" a new voice cuts in. Jack's shadow falls across the counter a second before he leans over it, his eyes moving between you and Shen.

"Smith," Shen mutters. "She hasn’t crossed a line yet, but she’s right on the edge."

Jack’s expression tightens slightly, his easy demeanour sharpening into something more focused. "Has she done it to anyone else?"

"Not that I know of," Shen says, shaking his head. "Just me."

Jack nods once, adding almost like an afterthought, "So you and me."

Your spine straightens instantly. Shen’s head snaps toward Jack, eyes wide, then flicks to you like he’s suddenly very aware he’s in the blast radius of something.

You turn fully in your chair, staring up at Jack. "She hit on you?"

Jack blinks, like he hadn’t quite anticipated the reaction. "Yes."

"When?"

"When you were—" he gestures vaguely toward your midsection, searching for the least awkward phrasing, "…I turned her down."

Your brows knit tighter. "Why didn’t you tell me?" It comes out sharper than you mean it to.

"Uh oh," Shen mutters under his breath, already pushing himself upright. "I have a patient in South 19—I gotta go."

Neither of you stops him. He disappears fast.

Jack exhales quietly and moves around the counter, stepping into your space instead of staying on the other side. He leans back against the edge beside you, closer now, his voice softer.

"Hey," he says. "I’m sorry. I didn’t really think about it at the time. I was more worried about you that day, and then it just… slipped my mind."

You worry your bottom lip, gaze dropping briefly to the desk as you turn that over.

"Still," he adds quickly, watching your face, "I should’ve told you. I’m sorry." He pauses, then asks, "Are you mad?"

You look up at him then—taking in the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s trying not to make a big deal out of it but clearly cares about the answer.

After a second, you shake your head. "No. Not at you."

Some of the tightness leaves him immediately, subtle but still noticeable.

"I’m mad at her," you continue, turning back toward your screen, though you’re not really reading it anymore.

Jack shifts beside you, thinking. "I’m going to write her up."

You glance at him again, surprised. "You are?"

"That’s two attendings now," he says evenly. "And there’s also the shit she pulled with you." His mouth presses into a thin line. "Hopefully it’s a reality check."

"And if it’s not?" you ask.

A hint of something dry creeps back into his expression. "Then I’ll have her moved back to days."

You raise a brow.

"Make her Robby’s problem," he finishes.

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, cutting through the lingering irritation. "Wow. Harsh."

"He’ll survive," Jack says lightly, completely unapologetic.

You study him for a moment, something softer settling in your chest now. "…Thanks," you say.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing, pushing off the counter slightly. "It’s my job as your attending to take care of you."

He says it lightly. It doesn’t feel light. Doesn't quite match the way he’s looking at you.

"Hey," you say, catching Parker just as she’s finishing up, the early signs of shift change rippling through the department. "Wanna go out soon?"

Her head snaps up so fast it’s almost comical. "Uh, yes?" she says immediately, eyebrows shooting up. "I’ve been waiting for you to ask."

A small, tired smile tugs at your mouth. "Good."

You mean it more than she realises. You need it—something loud, something distracting, something that isn’t this constant low simmer in your chest. Every time you catch a glimpse of Smith moving through the department, laughing too easily, standing a little too close to people, it tightens again.

It’s not about Jack. Not really. You trust him. It’s the audacity of it that gets under your skin. The fact that she knew. That she looked at him, at the ring, at you—and still decided to try anyway. Fake marriage or not, it irks you.

"Can I come too?" Lily calls as she passes behind you, halfway to the supply room, but clearly listening in.

"Of course," you say easily.

"Yay!" she grins, then, without missing a beat, she turns slightly. "Hey… you coming?" You follow her line of sight—and your stomach sinks.

Smith.

She’s just stepped up to the board, pausing mid-motion as she blinks at Lily, clearly caught off guard. "Uh… me?" she asks, pointing lightly to herself.

"Yeah!" Lily grins, completely oblivious to the undercurrent running through the rest of you. "Come hang out with us."

There’s a split second where Smith hesitates. "Uh… sure," she says finally.

"Great," you reply, the word coming out smoother than it feels. You glance at Parker, and the look you share says enough.

Great. Just great.

"Uh—let’s invite day shift too," you add quickly, already stepping back, reaching for a pen you don’t need. "Make it a whole thing."

Bigger group. More noise. Less chance of being forced to interact.

"Yeah, yeah, good idea," Parker murmurs, catching on instantly.

As you start to move away, Parker falls into step beside you just long enough to mutter under her breath, "I’ll tell Lily what’s going on."

You let out a quiet breath, tension easing just slightly. "Thanks," you murmur back.

"Hi!" Lily beams the second she steps through the door, her voice already carrying that bright, slightly-too-loud energy of someone ready for a night out.

Warm light spills from the living room into the hallway, soft music humming in the background. The place already feels lived-in for the night: shoes kicked off near the entry, jackets draped over chairs, laughter drifting in from deeper inside.

"Come in, come in," you say, stepping back to let her through, one hand gesturing her inside while the other tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Jack’s just leaving."

Right on cue, he appears from the hallway, shrugging into his jacket, keys already in hand. He looks relaxed in a way he rarely does at work—sleeves rolled, hair slightly mussed. He nods at her.

"Hey," Lily says, her eyes flicking between the two of you with immediate interest.

"Call me if there’s anything," Jack says to you, like he hasn’t already said it twice. He'd offered the house for you guys to get ready together, something the other girls had squealed at—more than just a little excited to see "your" place. It's just a few of you pregaming, the rest meeting you later. "And take an Uber to the bar."

"It’s a ten-minute walk," you shoot back instantly, crossing your arms. "I’m not wasting my money on that."

Jack exhales, slow and long, like he saw that coming. "Hand me your phone."

You don’t even hesitate, though your eyes narrow as you pass it over. "What are you doing?"

"Saving you from yourself," he mutters, already unlocking it, password memorised. His thumbs move quickly, tapping through screens easily.

You lean slightly, trying to peek. "Jack—"

"Relax," he says, not even looking up. "I’m not reading your messages."

"Wow, thank you for that bare minimum reassurance."

He huffs a quiet laugh, then hands the phone back. "My card’s on there. Take an Uber."

You glance at the screen, then back at him, sighing. "…Alright."

He studies you for a second, like he’s deciding whether to argue further, then seems to accept the win. His hand comes up, settling briefly at your waist as he pulls you a step closer. He presses a soft kiss to the side of your head, lingering just a second longer than necessary. "I’ll see you later, honey."

The door clicks shut behind him, and there is exactly one second of silence. Then—

A high-pitched squeal cuts through the hallway. "Oh my god, you two are disgusting," Lily breathes, clutching her chest.

You roll your eyes, but you’re already laughing, shaking your head as you take Lily by the arm and guide her further inside. "You're just jealous."

"Am not," Lily says immediately, though her grin says otherwise. Her eyes are already darting around, taking everything in. "Also—wow."

She steps fully into the living room, turning slowly like she’s trying to catalogue the entire place at once. "Okay," Lily says, wandering a few steps farther in. "This is so nice."

"Right?" Trinity chimes in from near the hallway, already halfway through opening a door before you even notice. "I’m just gonna—"

"Trin—" you start.

Too late. She peeks inside anyway. "Bathroom. Boring," she announces, closing it and immediately moving to the next.

"You guys are unbelievable," you mutter, though there’s no real heat behind it.

"Wait, is this your room?" Trinity asks.

"No," you say quickly. "Trinity—"

"I’m just looking!" she insists, disappearing down the hall anyway.

Lily drifts toward a bookshelf, tilting her head as she scans the spines. Mel perches carefully on the very edge of the couch, like she’s still not entirely sure she’s allowed to take up space there—but she’s trying. There’s a small smile on her face as she watches the rest of you bicker and move around each other, something soft and a little uncertain, like she’s easing into the rhythm of it. You're not sure how Trinity managed to convince her to come out with you—but you're so happy she did. You like Mel.

From the kitchen, ice clinks against glass. "Come get your drinks," Parker calls.

You make your way over, leaning against the counter as she hands you a glass. Behind you, Trinity’s voice echoes from down the hall, "Oh my god, your closet is so organised, it’s actually stressful."

"Don’t touch anything!" you call back.

"I’m not touching—I’m just looking!"

"Same thing!"

Lily appears beside you again, still grinning. "No, really, you guys are so cute," she says, nudging your arm. "I’ve seen you two at shift change, but never like that."

"Like what?" you ask, taking a sip.

"Domestic," she says immediately. "It’s weird. In a good way. But also—" she scrunches her nose, "—barf."

"They’re barf material," Trinity yells from the hallway, doubling down. Mel grins over the rim of her glass.

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself, the earlier tension finally loosening its grip.

"Oh—wait," Lily suddenly says, her whole expression shifting as something clicks. She turns to you, eyes wide. "I’m so sorry about inviting Smith, I didn’t know—"

"It’s fine," you cut in easily, waving a hand like it’s nothing. And you mean it. She couldn't have known. "Seriously. Don’t worry about it."

Parker snorts, not even looking up as she pours another drink. "Yeah, we’ll just make sure she sees exactly who she’s dealing with tonight."

"Ooh yes. Here's to dressing slutty," Trinity adds, sliding up to the table and grabbing a drink.

Lily raises her glass, grinning. "And to making Abbot incapable of coherent thought."

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch anyway as glasses clink together around you.

Olivia’s words echo in your mind: Flirt more. Try harder. See what happens. You have… kind of. But nothing bold. Nothing risky.

Tonight? Tonight you’re going to push it. And if it blows up—there’s alcohol, witnesses, plausible deniability.

The house descends into chaos, music playing just loud enough to keep the energy up without drowning conversation. Empty glasses and half-finished drinks cluttered the coffee table.

Trinity has taken over the couch like she owns it, legs tucked under her, talking fast and loud about something that had happened earlier as she draws a sharp cat eye. Lily sits cross-legged on the floor, halfway through curling her hair, pausing every few seconds to laugh. Parker hovers near the kitchen, topping up everyone’s drinks whether they ask or not. Mel lingers just at the edge of everything, but she’s smiling more now, shoulders less tense. Every now and then, someone pulls her into the conversation, and her laughter blends softly with the rest.

"Can I do your makeup?" you ask once you're finished with your own.

She blinks, caught off guard. "Who—who, me?"

You nod, already shifting closer. "We can do something simple… or we can go all out. Your choice."

"Um… well," she glances back at Trinity. "Could we do that?"

"A cat eye?" you light up. "Yes. Absolutely."

You're sitting in front of her now, steadying her chin, carefully dragging eyeliner across her lid.

Behind you, Trinity leans back into the couch cushions, watching. "I’m doing her hair next," she declares.

You finish Mel’s eyeliner, leaning back to assess your work. "Okay. Now don’t touch it."

Mel turns toward the mirror, and her expression shifts. "Oh… wow."

"Okay," Trinity cuts in, pointing at you as she grabs the curling iron. "Your turn. Go change. We need to see the look."

You grab your drink off the table, taking a quick sip before heading toward the bedroom.

"I'll come with you," Parker says. "Make sure you don't choose something boring."

The bedroom is quieter, the living room muffled behind the door. Parker perches on the bed, watching as you pull options from the closet. "No." You hold up another. "No." Another. "Absolutely not. What is that?"

"You’re so picky," you mutter.

"Sit," she orders, pointing at the spot she just left.

You roll your eyes—but sit. Parker is already on her feet, rifling through your closet, pushing hangers aside. She pauses, then slowly pulls a dress out.

Black. Fitted in all the right places, but still soft. Short. "This one," she says, turning to you—and the look she gives you makes it very clear this is not a discussion. "Abbot will have a heart attack."

You raise a brow—but you’re already reaching for it. You don’t bother turning away as you change. Parker doesn’t even blink, just leans back on her hands, completely unfazed. Your first year of residency together killed any sense of modesty between you.

"Girl, if you weren't married, I'd tap that," Parker says with a smirk. "If Abbot ever fucks things up, you'll always have me."

You laugh, loud and unfiltered. "I'll keep that in mind." You grab your drink again, finishing what’s left in one go, the warmth settling low in your chest.

"Alright," you say, turning toward the door, a spark of something sharper and bolder settling in as the fabric shifts against your body. "Let’s do shots before we leave."

Parker grins, already pushing off the bed. "Now you’re talking."

You spill out of the Uber in a tangle of laughter, Lily gripping your arm as she nearly misses the curb entirely. The air hits cool against your skin, grounding but not nearly enough to dull the soft buzz humming through you. Even Mel looks a little looser around the edges now.

Inside, the bar is already alive. Trinity pushes ahead, dragging Parker with her toward the bar. Lily stays close to you, fingers hooked loosely in your arm so you don’t get separated, while Mel lingers just behind, taking it all in.

Your eyes are searching the crowd, but it doesn't take long to find him. Jack's at the bar with other night shift people, leaning back against the counter. He looks relaxed, posture loosened by alcohol, but his eyes keep flicking toward the door.

Even half-hidden behind the others, he sees you. His mouth curves immediately in response. The group converges, greetings overlapping, orders being shouted toward the bartender—but it all blurs a little as you step closer to him.

"Hi," you say. You don’t overthink it—you just lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. His reaction is immediate, his hand finding your waist, steady and warm. "Oops," you murmur, swiping your thumb lightly over his cheek. "Lipstick."

Jack doesn't seem to mind. He's watching you. You can see his eyes move, taking you in properly. From your face, down the line of your neck, over the dress… lingering just a second too long at the hem.

The reaction hits you instantly—a warm, electric rush settling low. You grin, leaning back to give him more space to look. "Do you like it?"

He hums, head tilting. "Can't really see it, sweetheart."

Your smile sharpens. "Oh?" you murmur, sliding your fingers into his. You lift his hand, spinning beneath it. The dress shifts against your thighs. "How about now?"

His grip tightens slightly when you come back to him. His gaze burns dark. "You look…" he starts, then pauses, swallowing once. "You look gorgeous."

There’s something in the way he says it—something quieter and more real than you'd imagined. For a second, you just hold his gaze, letting that settle between you, then your smile softens, something genuine slipping through the teasing. "Thank you."

You close the space again without thinking, your body angling naturally into his. His hand adjusts at your waist, pulling you in just a little closer.

Before you can say anything else, the music shifts. Trinity lights up instantly. "Oh, this is my song," she announces, already grabbing Lily.

"Wait—no—" Lily protests, laughing as she’s dragged away anyway.

Parker doesn’t even hesitate. "We’re going," she says, pointing at you and Mel like there’s no alternative.

Mel hesitates, clearly unsure. "I don’t—"

"You do now," Parker calls, already moving. Mel looks at you like she’s not entirely convinced, but she turns anyway.

You glance back at Jack, one brow lifting slightly. "Wanna come dance?"

"I don't dance, sweetheart," he answers.

You hum, leaning in just a little closer, your fingers brushing lightly along the front of his shirt. "That’s a shame," you murmur. Your gaze flicks up to his. "I think you’d be good at it."

His hand tightens at your waist. "Yeah?" he says, his voice lower now.

"Mm," you hum, lips curving slightly, a little more confident now, alcohol heightening the feeling that it might not be just you feeling this way. You might’ve said more—leaned in just a little further, pushed it one step further past safe—

—but Parker’s hand closes around your arm, pulling you with her before you can. And just like that, you’re gone into the crowd—though you can still feel the imprint of his hand where it was, and the weight of his gaze lingering long after.

The dance floor is packed, bodies moving close, lights flashing in uneven bursts. Trinity is fully in her element—hands in the air, singing along to every word, whether she knows them or not. Parker’s matching her energy, spinning Lily into her until they’re both laughing too hard to keep rhythm.

Mel hovers at first, then slowly loosens, shoulders relaxing, a small smile turning into something more real as she lets herself move. You fall into it easily enough—the music, the drinks, the way the night feels like it’s building toward something. Every now and then, you catch glimpses of the bar, half-looking for him without meaning to.

Time blurs a little after that—songs bleeding into each other, drinks appearing and disappearing, the group shifting and reforming as people wander and come back.

Eventually, the heat of the dance floor gets to be too much, so you slip away, weaving through the crowd toward the bar. "Water, please," you say, sliding onto one of the high chairs. The bartender nods, and a second later, you’ve got a cold glass in your hand. You take a long sip, closing your eyes for just a second.

God, that’s better.

You’re just starting to settle, letting the room sway lightly around you, when a voice cuts in beside you. "Hey—"

You don’t turn right away. A man leans against the bar next to you anyway, shaggy-haired, smirking. "I saw you out there," he says, nodding toward the dance floor. "You looked good."

"Thanks," you answer, your voice cool, eyes forward, sipping again. Letting him know you’re not interested.

He doesn’t take the hint. "I’m Trent," he goes on, shifting closer like that alone will make this work. "You’ve got some moves, but I think we could make some great moves together—if you know what I mean."

You let out a soft, unimpressed breath. "I’m married," you say, lifting your hand just enough for the ring to catch the light.

He hesitates for only a heartbeat before smirking like he thinks he can charm it away. "He doesn’t have to know."

Your expression shifts, irritation flickering sharper now. You finally turn your head fully, meeting his gaze.

He mistakes it instantly for interest and leans in just a little more.

"I'm not interested," you say flatly.

"Come on," he presses, his voice dropping like that’s supposed to help. "Your husband can’t please you like I—"

"You sure about that?" Jack’s voice cuts through like a blade. You feel him before you see him—solid at your back, close enough that your shoulder brushes his chest. The shift is immediate.

Trent straightens, the confidence cracking just slightly as he looks past you. Gone is the easy, relaxed lean from earlier. Now he’s all sharp lines and tension—shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes locked on Trent.

"Fuck off," Jack says, voice quiet but edged. "And leave my wife alone."

Trent looks like he might argue for half a second—ego flaring—but then he really looks at Jack. At the way he’s standing. The way his gaze doesn’t waver. The kind of anger that doesn’t need volume to be threatening. It drains out of him just as fast. "Yeah—yeah, man, whatever," he mutters, backing off, hands half-raised like he wants no part of it anymore. He disappears into the crowd.

Jack doesn’t move until he’s gone. "Asshole," he murmurs, then he turns to you. His hands land on your hips, spinning your chair so you’re facing him fully. "You okay?" he asks. His voice is still low—but different now. Still tight, but threaded with something protective.

You look up at him. At the tension still lingering in his jaw. The way his eyes flick over you like he’s making sure you’re actually fine. Your breath stutters just slightly as heat curls low in your stomach. Your thighs press together instinctively, a reflex you can’t fully control. You feel it everywhere—warm, electric, pooling low, your pulse throbbing in places it shouldn't.

You’re hyper-aware of him: the brush of his hands on your hips, the nearness of his chest, the tension still coiled in his body, ready to snap at a moment’s notice. Your eyes betray you—you know it. They darken, deepen, and when your gaze meets his, you see it reflected back.

"Mm," you hum softly.

Jack watches you for a second longer, like he's clocking the shift in you, before he exhales lightly. "Come join us at the pool table."

He doesn’t pause for your answer. His hand finds yours, fingers sliding between yours with a possessiveness that makes your stomach flutter. He keeps you close as he guides you through the crowd, and the heat in your chest only grows.

The pool area is quieter. Enough space to breathe, enough light to actually see what you’re doing. Shen’s already there, lining up a shot with calm precision, like the chaos of the bar doesn’t touch him at all.

"You play?" he asks without looking up.

"Define play," you reply, grabbing a cue from the rack. Truthfully, you don’t care about the game—not with Jack this close.

You lean over the table, more focused on the way your dress shifts against your thighs than the shot.

You hit. The cue ball goes entirely the wrong direction. "Damn," you say, pretending to be disappointed.

"Sweetheart." Jack’s voice comes from behind you, closer than before, threaded with amusement. "What was that?"

You glance over your shoulder, lips already pulling into a small pout. "I don’t know how to do it."

His eyes flick to your mouth before returning to your eyes. Shen sinks his shot cleanly in the background.

You step forward again when it’s your turn, deliberately setting up another questionable shot. There’s a small pause, then—

"Here," Jack says, a little quieter now. "Let me help you." He steps in behind you before you can move. Close enough that you feel the heat of him before anything else—his presence slotting in naturally. His hand slides over yours on the cue, the other settling at your waist.

"Not like that," he murmurs, his voice lower now. "You’re fighting it."

You inhale a little sharper than you mean to.

"Loosen this," he adds, thumb pressing lightly against your fingers. His mouth is near your ear now, close enough that you feel the shape of the words more than hear them. "Yeah," he says softly. "Like that."

For a second, the rest of the room fades—the noise, the game, Shen waiting patiently at the edge of it.

"Take it," he murmurs. You do. The ball sinks cleanly this time.

He steps back again. You straighten, turning toward him. He’s already looking at you. There’s something hotter there now. Something that matches exactly what’s been burning under your skin all night.

It hits you all at once, sharp and unmistakable. Oh.

This isn’t one-sided. This isn’t you imagining things or pushing boundaries just to see what happens.

He’s… there with you. Meeting it. Responding. Wanting it.

You don't win the game, but it doesn't really matter. You barely register the score. Because every time you step up to the table after that, you can feel his eyes on you—and every time he steps in again, a little closer, a little bolder—it has nothing to do with pool anymore.

It actually feels possible now—and that changes everything.

Shen’s convinced Bridget to play him after absolutely destroying you. You linger off to the side with Lily and Jack, half-listening as they laugh about something, half-watching the game. You're mostly focused on how his thumb keeps stroking softly against your hip bone.

"I’m gonna go pee," you murmur into Jack's ear, your lips brushing just enough to feel the warmth of his skin before you slip away. He lets you go, but his hand lingers for half a second at your waist.

"I'll be at the bar," he responds, smiling at you with half-lidded eyes.

The second you’re in the bathroom, door locked behind you, you exhale hard—then immediately press a hand to your mouth, a breathy, disbelieving laugh slipping out anyway.

"Okay—okay," you whisper to yourself, pacing once in the tiny stall. Your head is light—spinning, but not in a bad way. The alcohol sitting just right in your system, softening your edges, quieting the part of you that usually overthinks everything. You press your lips together, trying to steady yourself, but the grin keeps pulling back. "Jesus," you breathe, shaking your head.

You’re just about to step out when you hear it. A voice, sweet and slightly high-pitched, carrying just loud enough for you to catch the words over the music. "Has Abbot done this before? Been with other residents? Do you think I still have a chance?"

Your body stills instantly. Smith. You'd completely forgotten that she was here. The other girl answers, uncertain, but it barely registers over the rush in your ears.

"I just don’t really see how they fit," Smith continues, giggling softly. "I mean, I’ve never seen them kiss or be really affectionate with each other."

Something in you snaps. A sharp, sudden possessiveness that cuts clean through the haze of alcohol and lands hard in your chest.

By the time the door swings shut behind them, you’re already walking. You don’t even fully think it through. You just move.

You find him easily, leaning against the bar, talking to Jesse and Donnie. Stepping close, your hand finds his arm, fingers curling into him. "Hey," you murmur.

He glances at you, turning his attention fully to you as he senses the shift in your energy.

You don't give him time to ask. You just lean in. This time it isn’t a quick, calculated peck. It’s not something you can pass off or laugh away.

It’s immediate—sharp and demanding. Your lips press to his with a purpose you can’t deny. Your other hand comes up to his shoulder, to his neck, pulling him closer, claiming him.

His reaction is just as instinctive. He cups your waist, tilts you slightly, deepening the kiss without hesitation. He exhales softly against your mouth before his tongue skims your lower lip. The world around you drops away until there’s only this. Only the two of you, lost in the heat and closeness that’s been simmering all night. The alcohol doesn’t dull it—it amplifies it. Makes you bolder, less restrained, and less willing to pull back.

As you break apart just slightly, your forehead resting against his, you whisper, barely audible over the pulse of the bar, "Sorry," you breathe. "Needed to… shut something down."

Jack doesn’t answer right away. His hand is still firm at your waist, thumb resting just where the fabric meets your skin. Not pulling away. Not loosening.

You expect a smirk. A joke. Something that minimises the heat. Instead, when you finally lift your eyes to his— he’s looking at you. Focused. Pupils blown.

His gaze drops to your mouth, like he’s replaying it, then back to your eyes.

"Yeah?" he says quietly, but he doesn’t move back. He doesn’t create distance like it was just a moment, just another cover-up. If anything, his grip tightens slightly, like he's keeping you right where you are. There’s the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth when you don't answer.

"Right," he murmurs, softer this time. But the way he says it—the look he gives you—doesn’t suggest he buys it. Not entirely. He looks at you like he's considering doing it again.

Saving face  | @noellawrites

after a scandal, you and Benedict must wed to save face.

A bet between lovers | @saintlike78

You believe that Daphne and the duke will be engaged before the end of the season… your husband on the other hand does not - why not bet on it?

As a kite | @/saintlike78

A stressed artist and “travellers powder” - a quite amusing mix, but not during family dinner

Foolish | @make-me-imagine

The reader is Benedict’s best friend and is in love with him. Their cousin comes to London and Benedict starts courting the cousin and the reader’s heart gets broken. At the end he realizes that he is actually in love with the reader.

a kiss that isn't meant to happen but does so anyway | starryeyedstories

City of stars  | @rubysunnday

Eloise Bridgerton does not know when to keep her nose out of her friends business. Especially when that business involves pining over her brother - one that Eloise knows for a fact loves her back.

a fitting distraction  | @benedictscanvas

Forgive me | @/benedictscanvas

Fic recs | @labrunereve

High | @thebadgerclan

Your husband comes down from Colin’s tea…

Masterlist | @fayes-fics

Second Son | @/fayes-fics

The second son is, for once, the first choice…

Mirror, Mirror | @/fayes-fics

When Benedict’s wife tries on his clothes, things happen…

To Know You… | @/fayes-fics

Benedict knows you better than anyone. But does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants?

Eden | @/fayes-fics

Seeing you with other Bridgerton offspring has an interesting effect on your new husband…

Subtle-tea  | @ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff

“You’re only semi-lucid and are sort of reaching for my face, and for various reasons I shouldn’t kiss YOUR face but your hand is right here and I still need to convey affection.” 

AKA. You and Benedict drink too much of Colin’s special tea and it spurs you to act upon previously hidden feelings.

i was made for lovin’ you | @auroracalisto

the reader loves benedict bridgerton. when he dances the night away with her dear sister, she wonders if her love is perhaps… unrequited.

the ultimate deception | @maximoff-pan

you are a well known artist who paints under a pseudonym. What happens when Lady Whistledown comes to know of your identity? How will your relationship with Benedict evolve?

Bad Timing | @captainsophiestark

When Eloise needs help with a problem, she knows she can count on her brother and his new wife for help.

“pall mall” | @tontattletale

That’s my wife! | @wysteria-clad

Reader gets married to Benedict a week ago. He drinks ‘special tea’ and couldn’t believe he really married her.

With child | @leascorner

He was so absorbed by his own created misery; he hadn’t actually thought about what you could be thinking. How hard was it for you to congratulate all of your friends on their pregnancy, to watch over all of his nieces and nephews? It was all within easy reach and never really yours.

little things | @leviathanspain

the brothers teasing has finally made its mark, and benedict can’t hold himself back anymore

like someone in love | @/leviathanspain

you’ve come to terms with the fact that he would never see you romantically, and so you have to find a way to move on

𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐔𝐌 | @sarahisslytherin

you’ve been receiving love letters from a secret admirer and you’re desperate to reveal his identity.

𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢𝙨, part 02 | @/sarahisslytherin

benedict has always been against marriage, but when he meets the princess one fateful night he can’t help but fall in love.

I Know You So Well Masterlist | @homeofthepeculiar

When Benedict runs from his feelings for one of his closest friends, Anthony takes it upon himself to show his brother what he is missing.

Over the Garden Wall - Masterlist | @/homeofthepeculiar

The youngest daughter of Queen Charlotte and King George, plagued by the same illness as her father, grows tired of her lonely and isolated existence. When escaping the prison-like castle she has been sequestered in for her entire life, she meets a young man who shares her love for painting and whom she can not stop thinking about. Secrets, betrayal, and love all fight against one another. Which one will win?

Benedict Bridgerton x Princess Reader | @angelitadiaz

Bridgerton shade of blue | @dragon-kazansky

Benedict bumps into you, quite literally, at a ball while trying to escape his mother's attempts to find him a partner. You decide to humour him with a dance, not realising just how entwined you would become with him. It seems the universe will find every excuse to push you and Benedict together, no matter how much you fight it.

Whatever the Poets Say  | @pagesfromthevoid

Summer Nights | @murdockparker

Benedict was born to be a father, she was sure of it.

Our Cottage | @/murdockparker

A first anniversary is nearly as important and memorable as the wedding day—if only she had remembered it. Or, at the very least, hoped her husband also forgot. Knowing her husband? Unlikely.

Of the Same Mind | @/murdockparker

A mutual distaste in a certain author—should he even have the grace to be called that—leads to an unexpected meeting.

Dad!benedict | @multi-fandom-imagine

Dad!benedict | @/multi-fandom-imagine

She’s Gonna Save Me | @michwritesstuff

Benedict contemplates a life pursuing art and living outside the expectations of his family and society. Does he find a wife and settle down or live freely? What happens when he meets someone who can offer him the best of both worlds?

One happy marriage. | @entitled-fangirl

the reader lies about something important and finally breaks down to tell her husband about it.

Guilty as Sin | @peachpitfics

Benedict Bridgerton asks you to accompany him to his private studio, to show you some of the art he’s been working on. You find a little more than you were expecting.

five times: the one point five. | @basset-babe

by the lake | @storiesforallfandoms

in which she flees from a pushy suitor, only to find a lovely alternative painting by the lake

What a Question | @fandom-puff

Look at the stars | @satellite-evans

Benedict and his Y/N spend a joyful day picnicking and stargazing with their children

Drunk in love | @/satellite-evans

When their wives get drunk, it is up to the Bridgerton brothers to take care of them

Flowers and Gardens | @everythingbridgertonbxm

Benedict Bridgerton is very in love with his wife and he isn’t afraid to show it.

It was one of those chaotic thoughts you weren’t supposed to act on, the kind that belonged in a group chat, not a dating profile. But the wine glass was half empty, and you were feeling reckless, so there it went. You expected maybe a handful of half-hearted reactions. A lazy “lol.” A pity match or two. Definitely not everyone is taking it seriously.

You didn’t expect Alex.

His opening message wasn’t a “hey” or a smarmy pick-up line. It was:

This is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen on Tinder. Are you serious?

You blinked at the screen. And then, before you could think better of it, you typed back:

One hundred percent serious. Imagine the chaos.

That was the start of the worst and best idea of your life. Because instead of running in the opposite direction like any sane person, Alex dove headfirst into it with you. Within half an hour, you had the skeleton of a fake relationship plotted out—how you’d met in a coffee shop, how you’d argued over oat milk, how he’d once lent you an umbrella, how your anniversary was in May. By midnight, you were laughing so hard you could barely breathe, trading increasingly ridiculous “issues” to fight about. You claimed he chewed like a cow. He claimed you had a debilitating obsession with reality TV.

By the end of the night, you had an actual appointment booked.

It was only when you woke up the next morning, groggy and hungover on adrenaline, that it hit you. You were really about to walk into a licensed professional’s office with a stranger you met on Tinder less than twenty-four hours ago and pretend to be in a relationship on the rocks.

You should have canceled. You should have deleted Tinder altogether. Instead, you put on your favorite jeans, downed a coffee, and headed out to meet him.

You hadn’t thought this far ahead.

It was one thing to type out chaotic backstories over Tinder with a stranger named Alex, who, judging by his emojis and weirdly specific insults, was probably harmless. It was another thing entirely to stand outside a beige office building with a sign that read “Dr. Martin Grey, Licensed Couples Therapist” and realize you were about to commit a federal-level crime against psychology.

Well. Maybe not federal. But at least unethical.

“Y/N?”

You looked up, startled, and immediately regretted it because the man approaching was unfairly tall, unfairly attractive, and unfairly holding two iced coffees like he hadn’t just agreed to become your fake boyfriend in front of a licensed professional.

“Alex?”

He grinned, and you hated how boyish it was. “One oat milk latte, for my favorite hater.” He held it out, as if this were a normal first meeting and not an audition for who could commit to the bit harder.

You took the cup, squinting at him. “You actually got oat milk.”

“Obviously. It’s canon now. That’s how we met, remember? You called me the human embodiment of oat milk. I had to method act.”

You sipped. Damn him. It was good. “Okay, fine. Points for consistency.”

“Thank you. I take this role very seriously.” He straightened up, mock-solemn. “So, should we rehearse? We’ve got, what, five minutes before we’re due in there?”

You both looked at the sliding glass doors like they might swallow you whole.

“Right,” you said, tugging your phone out to skim the notes app where you’d written your “lore.” “Okay, so. Coffee shop, eight months ago, umbrella in March, anniversary in May—”

“—and our main conflict is that you hate how loudly I chew,” Alex finished, pointing at you.

You pointed back. “And that you think I’m addicted to reality TV.”

“Which is true.”

“Shut up.”

“See? Perfect,” he said, like this wasn’t absolutely deranged. “We’re already fighting.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “We are so going to get caught.”

Alex leaned against the wall, casual in ripped jeans and a hoodie, like this wasn’t the weirdest Wednesday of his life. “Nah. Think about it. Therapists probably see couples way messier than us every day. Like—‘my boyfriend of twelve years won’t do the dishes’ messy. We’re gonna look normal by comparison.”

“I don’t think normal couples plot their relationship lore on Tinder.”

He tilted his head, considering. “Normal’s boring.”

You shouldn’t have laughed. You really shouldn’t have. But you did.

The laugh turned into a nervous little spiral of giggles, and Alex was watching you with that infuriating grin, and suddenly the absurdity of the whole thing cracked something open in your chest. “Oh my god,” you wheezed. “We’re actually insane.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, sipping his coffee like this was all routine. “But at least we’re insane together.”

You looked at him then, really looked. He had a sharp jaw softened by an easy smile, hair that clearly resisted being tamed, and brown eyes that flickered between amusement and—something else. Something you weren’t about to acknowledge, not when you were about to fake a relationship in front of a stranger with a psychology degree.

Instead, you forced a grin. “Okay, partner in crime. You ready?”

He exhaled dramatically. “Born ready.” Then, lowering his voice: “So, just to clarify, if they ask how we met, I don’t say ‘on Tinder.’”

“God, no. Stick to the coffee shop.”

“And if they ask about our first fight?”

“You chewed too loudly during our second date.”

He nodded, serious. “Right. And if they ask why we’re here—”

“—because we’re working on communication. And because I watch too much Love Island.”

He cracked a smile. “Solid.”

For a moment, you just stood there, staring at each other with matching smirks, two idiots about to gaslight a therapist.

Then Alex pushed the door open and held it for you. “After you, fake girlfriend.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping inside. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late,” he whispered.

The waiting room smelled faintly of lavender and judgment.

You both sat on opposite ends of the couch at first, awkwardly scrolling your phones like two strangers in a doctor’s office—which, technically, you were. Then Alex leaned over, nudging your knee with his.

“We should probably sit closer,” he muttered. “Couples don’t sit like this.”

You froze. He was right. Normal couples didn’t sit with a three-foot buffer zone of pure “stranger danger” between them. Slowly, carefully, you slid closer until your thighs brushed, and holy hell, when had it gotten so warm in here?

Alex chuckled under his breath. “Relax. We’re not actually dating.”

“Right,” you said, pretending the heat in your face was from the coffee. “Totally.”

Before you could overthink further, the office door opened and a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a clipboard stepped out.

“Alex and Y/N?” he asked.

Alex shot you a look that screamed, "Showtime."

You both stood, and for a brief, ridiculous second, Alex reached for your hand. His palm was warm, his grip firm, and you knew it was for show, but your heart didn’t get the memo.

“Yes,” Alex said smoothly. “That’s us.”

And just like that, you walked into the lion’s den, hand in hand with your fake boyfriend, trying very hard not to laugh — or maybe scream.

The office looked like it had been decorated by someone who thought IKEA catalogs counted as personality. Neutral beige walls, two armchairs angled just enough to look conversational, and a box of tissues on the coffee table like an ominous warning.

You and Alex sank into the loveseat together, stiff as mannequins. His arm brushed yours, his knee bumped your leg, and every nerve in your body screamed, do not laugh.

The therapist, Dr. Grey, according to the little brass plaque on his desk, sat down across from you, crossing one leg over the other. He had the practiced smile of a man who’d seen every kind of marital crisis known to humankind.

“So,” he began, pen poised over his notepad. “Tell me what brings you two in today.”

Showtime.

Alex cleared his throat, shooting you a side glance. “Uh, well… we’ve been together for about… eight months now?”

You nodded too eagerly. “Yes. Eight months. Exactly.”

Dr. Grey’s eyebrows lifted, already scribbling. “That’s a very precise answer.”

“Anniversary in May,” Alex added quickly, as if that explained anything.

“May 13th,” you blurted.

The therapist’s pen paused. “Impressive memory.”

You forced a sweet smile, gripping Alex’s knee under the table like do not blow this, oat milk man. “We’re very… detail-oriented.”

Alex winced slightly at your grip but leaned into the role. “Right. But lately, um… we’ve been having some disagreements.”

“Mm-hm.” Dr. Grey tilted his head, waiting.

You jumped in before Alex could waffle. “He chews like a cow.”

Alex gasped, full betrayal. “I do not!”

“Yes, you do! It’s like sitting next to a lawnmower when you eat cereal.”

“That’s so specific—”

“Because it’s true!”

Dr. Grey held up a hand, his voice calm, soothing. “Okay. So one concern is… eating noises?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, while Alex muttered, “She exaggerates.”

“And,” Alex countered, “she’s addicted to reality TV. Like, she’ll watch four hours of Love Island in one sitting.”

You sat up straighter, indignant. “That’s called commitment to character arcs!”

“It’s called brain rot!” Alex shot back.

The therapist’s pen scratched furiously. You half-expected him to underline brain rot.

For a moment, silence settled over the room, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioner. Then Dr. Grey steepled his fingers.

“It sounds like you two care about each other,” he said. “But small irritations are becoming amplified.”

“Exactly,” Alex said, nodding seriously. “Like, it’s not a dealbreaker that she knows the names of every contestant on Too Hot to Handle, but it’s… concerning.”

“And it’s not a dealbreaker that he slurps noodles like he’s auditioning for a sound effects job,” you added sweetly.

Alex whipped his head toward you. “That’s a low blow.”

“You deserve it.”

The therapist cleared his throat. “Let’s talk about how you two met. Often, remembering the foundation of the relationship helps put current issues in perspective.”

Crap. Here it was. The lore test.

You jumped in first. “We met at a coffee shop.”

Alex nodded rapidly. “Yeah. I was in line. She insulted me.”

Dr. Grey blinked. “…She insulted you?”

“She called me— uh— what was it again?” Alex glanced at you desperately.

“The human embodiment of oat milk,” you supplied.

The therapist blinked again, pen hovering. “…Interesting.”

“Yeah,” Alex said, as if this were the most normal meet-cute in history. “Romance blossomed after that.”

“Instantly,” you said, trying not to crack.

“Instantly,” Alex echoed, his lips twitching.

Dr. Grey scribbled something that you were certain was just ?? in all caps.

“Okay,” the therapist said slowly, “and your first date?”

“Umbrella,” Alex said too quickly.

You nodded like a bobblehead. “Yes. It rained, and he… lent me his umbrella.”

“In March,” Alex added, smugly.

“Right,” you said, glaring at him like don’t get cocky.

“And when did you become official?”

“May,” you chorused in unison.

Silence.

Dr. Grey’s eyes flicked between you, suspicion glinting. You could feel sweat prickling your back.

Alex reached for your hand again, squeezing, and for one absurd second, it steadied you. Like, yeah, maybe you were lying through your teeth, but at least you were lying together.

“Well,” Dr. Grey said finally, “it’s clear you two share a playful dynamic. But let’s dig into what happens when conflicts arise. Can you give me an example of a recent fight?”

Your brain blanked. Your carefully written notes hadn’t covered this.

Alex, bless his chaotic soul, said, “She got mad because I ate the last cookie.”

Your head whipped around. “That’s not a fake example, that actually would make me mad.”

“You didn’t even bake them!”

“Cookies are communal!”

“You can’t claim dibs on the whole pack!”

Dr. Grey pinched the bridge of his nose like he was already reconsidering his career choices.

The silence stretched again, thick with awkwardness. You stared at Alex, and he stared back, and somewhere between your glare and his smirk, you both started to break.

First, it was a twitch of your lips. Then a stifled snort. Then Alex’s shoulders shook, and before you knew it, the two of you were half-laughing, half-choking on the loveseat, desperately trying to hold it together in front of a man who thought he was saving your relationship.

The therapist looked done.

“Do you often laugh during conflict?” he asked dryly.

“Yes,” Alex gasped, wiping his eyes. “It’s our coping mechanism.”

“Very unhealthy,” you added, still giggling.

The look Dr. Grey gave you could’ve rivaled the power of God himself.

Dr. Grey tapped his pen against his notepad. “So. The last cookie fight aside… when disagreements arise, how do you typically resolve them?”

You and Alex froze.

Because you hadn’t gotten that far in your fake backstory.

“Uh,” you started, wringing your hands in your lap. “We… talk it out.”

Alex nodded too quickly. “Yeah, lots of communication.”

“Mm-hm,” Dr. Grey said, unconvinced. “And what does that communication look like?”

Alex hesitated for half a beat too long before blurting, “Um… I usually make her tea.”

You whipped your head toward him. “Tea?”

“Yes,” he said, leaning into it. “Tea calms you down. Chamomile, specifically.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t even know what chamomile looks like.”

“Of course I do!”

“What color is it, then?”

“…greenish?”

“That’s all tea, Alex!”

Dr. Grey’s eyes flicked between you both like he was watching a tennis match. His pen was working overtime.

“Okay,” the therapist said slowly, “so perhaps the tea ritual isn’t as consistent as it could be. What about physical affection? Do you use touch as a form of reassurance?”

The question hit like a stun gun.

You and Alex glanced at each other, and then away, like two teenagers caught passing notes in class.

Finally, Alex coughed. “Uh, yeah. We… hug.”

“Hugging,” Dr. Grey repeated, deadpan.

“Yes. Hugging,” you echoed, your voice an octave too high.

“Do you want to demonstrate?” the therapist asked.

Your soul left your body.

Alex’s eyes went wide. “Demonstrate?”

“Sometimes it helps,” Dr. Grey said calmly, “to show how you connect physically in moments of tension.”

You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole.

But Alex, ever the method actor, opened his arms in slow motion like he was about to embrace a feral cat.

“Come here, chamomile girl,” he said under his breath.

You glared at him. “If you call me that again, I will actually leave.”

But you leaned in anyway, because what else could you do? His arms wrapped around you awkwardly at first, one around your shoulders, one hesitating at your waist. You stiffened, then slowly — too slowly — let yourself sink into it.

And god help you, he was warm. Steady. Comfortable in a way that made your brain short-circuit.

“Mm,” Alex said loudly, patting your back with exaggerated force. “See? Hugging fixes everything.”

You elbowed him in the ribs on principle.

Dr. Grey’s face was unreadable.

“Thank you for that demonstration,” he said finally. “It seems like you two do rely on humor and physical touch… but I’m sensing there may be some deeper communication issues.”

“Oh, definitely,” Alex said solemnly, still holding his side where you’d jabbed him. “She doesn’t respect cookies as individual entities.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “And he doesn’t understand basic tea taxonomy.”

The therapist inhaled deeply, clearly regretting his career path.

“Let’s try something different,” Dr. Grey said, flipping a page on his notepad. “I want you both to list three qualities you appreciate about each other. Start with Y/N.”

Your stomach dropped. Crap. Compliments.

You blinked at Alex. He was watching you expectantly, and you had the distinct impression he was enjoying this.

“Um…” You fidgeted. “He… makes good jokes?”

Alex raised his brows. “Good jokes?”

“Fine, passable jokes.”

“Better.”

You exhaled through your nose. “And… he’s reliable. He showed up today with coffee, so that’s something.”

His expression softened for a blink before he smirked again. “That’s two. One more.”

You hesitated, then muttered, “He’s… nice to look at.”

Alex’s grin spread slowly, lazily, and he was far too pleased with himself.

Dr. Grey scribbled something furiously.

“Interesting,” the therapist said. “Alex, your turn.”

Alex didn’t hesitate. “She’s funny. Like, the kind of funny that sneaks up on you and makes you laugh when you shouldn’t.”

You blinked. That was… weirdly specific.

“She’s also stubborn,” he continued, tilting his head at you, “which is… frustrating, but kind of admirable.”

Your chest did a weird, fluttery thing.

“And…” He paused, a smirk tugging at his lips. “She’s got great taste in reality TV. Even if it’s brain rot.”

“Wow,” you muttered, looking away before he could see the stupid smile tugging at your own lips. “Backhanded compliment much?”

Dr. Grey set his pen down slowly, watching the two of you like a scientist who’d just discovered a new species.

“I see,” he said carefully. “So despite your disagreements, there’s clearly… affection here.”

Both you and Alex opened your mouths to protest at the same time—

“Affection?” you squeaked.

“Definitely not,” Alex said too fast.

But your hands were still suspiciously close on the couch cushion, pinkies nearly brushing, and the way Alex’s knee pressed against yours told a very different story.

Dr. Grey leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth twitching just slightly, like he was onto something.

And for the first time all session, you were genuinely terrified.

For the first thirty minutes of the session, you had been proud — no, smug — about how well you and Alex were pulling this off. Sure, there were some hiccups: the cookie debacle, the chamomile lie, the oat milk meet-cute that sounded less romantic and more like a dietary restriction. But overall? You thought you were killing it.

Until Dr. Grey leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and hit you with the calm, measured tone of a man about to end your entire career.

“Y/N. Alex.”

You both froze like students caught passing notes.

“Yes?” you said, your voice doing that embarrassing crackle thing.

“I want to be honest with you,” Dr. Grey continued. His eyes narrowed slightly, sharp despite the kind smile he’d been wearing all session. “I don’t believe you’ve told me the truth about your relationship.”

Silence.

You could hear the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights above you, the way Alex sucked in a sharp breath beside you, the sound of your own soul trying to yeet itself into another dimension.

“Excuse me?” Alex said, finally, a nervous laugh slipping through.

Dr. Grey didn’t flinch. “You’re not a couple. Are you?”

You and Alex spoke at the exact same time.

“Yes, we are—” Says you.

“No, we’re not—” Says Alex.

Your heads snapped toward each other, eyes wide.

“You traitor,” you hissed.

“I panicked!” he hissed back.

Dr. Grey sat back, steepling his fingers again like some kind of judgmental Batman. “Well. That clears things up.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Oh my god.”

“Okay, okay, hear me out,” Alex said, holding his hands up like he was negotiating a hostage situation. “Technically, we’re not a couple. But! We’re auditioning for the role of one.”

You kicked his shin. “Don’t make it sound like community theatre.”

“What else do you want me to say? ‘Hi, Dr. Grey, we’re two psychos from Tinder who thought it would be funny to prank a licensed professional?’ That sounds worse!”

Dr. Grey’s mouth twitched like he was fighting the urge to laugh. “That’s… exactly what you’ve just admitted, though.”

You groaned, sliding down in your seat until your head hit the back cushion. “We’re going to hell.”

“Correction,” Alex said, pointing a finger at you. “You’re dragging me to hell. This was your bio idea.”

“Like you didn’t swipe right!”

“Because it was hilarious!”

The therapist cleared his throat, and both of you snapped back to attention like guilty schoolchildren. “So let me get this straight,” Dr. Grey said. “You matched on Tinder… devised a fake backstory… and booked a therapy session. For fun.”

“…Yes,” you muttered.

Alex, apparently deciding to lean into the bit until the bitter end, added, “It’s kind of a social experiment, if you think about it.”

Dr. Grey stared at him for a long, withering moment. “I’m not sure that makes it better.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your whole body buzzing with embarrassment. Beside you, Alex shifted like he couldn’t decide whether to bolt for the door or keep digging his grave.

And then, you laughed.

A small, stupid giggle bubbled out before you could stop it. Alex turned to you, wide-eyed, like you’d just lost your mind. Which, maybe you had.

Because soon the giggle snowballed into full-blown hysterics, your shoulders shaking, tears stinging your eyes.

Alex lasted all of five seconds before he cracked, too. His laugh was loud, unrestrained, contagious. Within moments, you were both doubled over on the loveseat, wheezing like hyenas, while Dr. Grey sat across from you, looking like he was reconsidering every decision that had led him to this profession.

“This is— this is the worst idea we’ve ever had,” you gasped, clutching your stomach.

“The best idea,” Alex corrected, wiping at his eyes. “We actually made it thirty whole minutes before getting caught. That’s a record.”

“Are you keeping score of fake couples?”

“I am now!”

Dr. Grey pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have to say, in my twenty years of practice, this is a first.”

“Happy to make history,” Alex said, still grinning.

You were still laughing when you finally sat up, cheeks aching, chest heaving. Alex was watching you with that stupid boyish smile again, eyes crinkled at the corners. And you hated it.

Well, you didn’t hate it. That was the problem.

The session ended mercifully soon after. Dr. Grey, to his credit, didn’t kick you out on the spot. Instead, he sighed, scribbled something in his notebook, and said, “For future reference, couples therapy works best when… You are, in fact, a couple.”

You and Alex nodded solemnly like kids being scolded.

“Understood,” Alex said.

“Totally,” you added.

“Please don’t book another session under false pretenses,” Dr. Grey finished, his voice flat.

“Got it,” you both said in unison.

And with that, you were free.

The second the office door clicked shut behind you, you and Alex collapsed against the hallway wall, laughter exploding out of you again like you couldn’t hold it in.

“Oh my god,” you wheezed, doubling over. “We actually did that. We actually wasted a professional’s time.”

“We’re criminals,” Alex agreed, tears in his eyes from laughing. “We’re going to be blacklisted from every therapist in the city.”

“Do therapists even have a blacklist?”

“They do now. We’re probably at the top.”

You leaned your head back against the wall, still catching your breath. Alex was standing close, too close, his shoulder brushing yours. When you turned to look at him, he was already looking at you.

The laughter died down, leaving a charged silence in its wake. His smile lingered, softer now, almost hesitant.

And before you could talk yourself out of it, before your brain could scream bad idea bad idea bad idea, you leaned forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t a long kiss. Just a quick, impulsive press of your lips to his, tasting faintly of oat milk latte and bad decisions. But when you pulled back, his eyes were wide, his mouth curved into a stunned half-smile.

“…What was that?” he asked, voice low.

You shrugged, trying to look casual despite the way your heart was sprinting in your chest. “A thank you. For committing to the bit.”

“A thank you,” he repeated, still grinning.

“Yes.”

He tilted his head, studying you, and damn it, why did he have to look at you like that? “You know,” he said slowly, “we could… actually do this again.”

“What, lie to another therapist?”

“No,” he said, laughing. “I meant… a second date. Like, a real one. No fake backstory, no chamomile lies.”

You blinked at him, surprised. “A real date?”

“Yeah. Dinner, maybe. Or—” he smirked—“we could go to a coffee shop. Make it canon.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he said, bumping your shoulder lightly, “you kissed me.”

You shoved him playfully, but your cheeks were still warm. “Fine. One real date. But only because I want to prove to you that cookies are communal.”

“Deal.”

“Deal,” you echoed, shaking his hand like you were signing a legally binding contract.

And as you walked out of the building together, still laughing, still buzzing from the chaos of the afternoon, you couldn’t help thinking: maybe the joke had gotten away from you.

Maybe the joke wasn’t a joke anymore.

𑣲 things unseen and heard I @/unbloatedandalone04

the one where you overhear bradley talk about you to jake and decide to give him the space he apparently wanted.

𑣲 punishment I @geminiwritten

after performing an impressive but reckless stunt in front of an admiral, you're sent to be babysat by maverick under the cover of a 'tactical training specialist' which means no one can know just how legendary you are... but hangman isn't playing nice and rooster is too nice to ignore

𑣲 playing games I @/geminiwritten

you've been best friends with rooster for years and you're both obviously in love with each other, but he refuses to cross that line... until you accept some help from hangman and he takes the game just a little too far

𑣲 torture I @make-me-imagine

Rooster makes a bet with Y/n that if he can beat Hangman's flight time on a new training course, he gets a kiss. Y/n agrees, but this means no kisses for Rooster until he wins.

𑣲 wrong number I @roosterforme

Bradley was planning on a quiet night at home with a beer and a basketball game on TV. When he receives a text from a wrong number, he's left looking at a beautiful photo of you. Now he just needs to persuade you to ditch the guy you meant to text and focus on him instead.

𑣲 red flags, green flags I @/roosterforme

Hangman complains about his date’s red flags, but Bradley thinks this girl sounds amazing. 

𑣲 boys night in I @/roosterforme

The boys make Bradley self conscious about you, and you give them a formal dressing down.

𑣲 like i can pt2 pt3 I @sometimesanalice

After yet another bad date and tired of swiping on apps, the Dagger Squad steps in to help you out by setting you up on a series of blind dates. Much to Rooster’s dismay.

𑣲 bad idea I @/sometimesanalice

After being deployed, all Bradley wanted was to have a fun night out with his friends and let loose. That is until he sees the woman who broke up with him, who he still isn’t over.  At his bar. With another man. And then he is in the mood to make some bad decisions. 

𑣲 bedside manner I @/sometimesanalice

You were expecting the perfect summer afternoon with the Daggers, but when a game of dogfight football takes a turn for the worse, you’re left with a bleeding head and an aching heart. And it’s up to Bradley to show you his bedside manner.

𑣲 between friends I @/sometimesanalice

Bradley and you don’t talk about that Spring Break. But a single question asked during a night out at the Hard Deck might just change things between the two of you forever.

𑣲 for the plot I @/sometimesanalice

Things aren't looking too good for you, sitting alone at the Hard Deck waiting for a man who might not show. Until Bradley Bradshaw sits down across from you and turns your entire night upside down.

𑣲 the boyfriend experience pt2 I @notroosterbradshaw

𑣲 you don’t get to taste the honey without the sting of the bee I @notroosterbradshaw

Rooster doesn’t get jealous, but you do. And it debilitates you how blasé he is about it. 

𑣲 sleep clothes I @fandomlit

a power outage allows rooster (and unfortunately, the other men on base) to see you in your sleep clothes.

𑣲 i will wait right here I @lewmagoo

in which four pilots find themselves in a hospital waiting room

𑣲 it’s gonna break your heart one day I @/lewmagoo

in which bradley bradshaw lives to fly another day

𑣲 trouble in paradise I @sunlightmurdock

After the most painful break-up of his life, Rooster is stationed in Hawaii for the next six months. Alone, away from home and hurting, he finds comfort in the arms of a stranger.

𑣲 hands to yourself I @/sunlightmurdock

𑣲 first impressions I @ohcaptains

at the induction day for the newest recruits of the Golden Warriors of VFA 87, rooster assumes you’re a civilian, instead of, you know, a member of his team? you see how far you can push it before he figures it out. 

𑣲 nightly routine hcs I @siempre-bucky

you thought you had the twin's nightly routine down to a science but you didn't know there was a part they only did with their dad.

𑣲 show me I @tongue-like-a-razor

𑣲 i’ll show you good, restore your faith I @se7entyrell

Your relationship with Bradley is new. Really new. Like, 'haven't let him smell your morning breath yet' new. But when he gets a call telling him that his mom is dying, you find yourself driving him to San Diego in the middle of the night, preparing to meet his entire extended family during the worst period of their lives.

𑣲 stranger I @promisingyounglady

drunk hookup, no names exchanged, bradley is a pussy eating king.

𑣲 the marksman I @ohtobeleah

When Bradley Bradshaw, the most senior chief sniper with the NCIS, is called out to a hostage situation, he comes face to face with his greatest fear in life. His fiancée is on the hostage list.

𑣲 an angels discretion I @/ohtobeleah

When Bradley gets a call to say you’ve been involved in a major car accident, his whole world is turned upside down.

𑣲 m.u.r.p.h I @/ohtobeleah

An undisclosed pregnancy that you and your husband try keeping a secret ends up being the reason you end up in hospital during a PTI session with the Dagger Squad.

𑣲 webb of unfortunate events I @/ohtobeleah

Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw was and always would be the love of your life. When the pair of you are brought back to Top Gun, neither of you expected Pete Mitchell to be your instructor—a series of unfortunate events leads to your hospitalisation, with Rooster by your side.

𑣲 summer love I @/ohtobeleah

Falling in love with the Hard Decks new barkeep wasn’t on Bradley Bradshaws 2023 bingo. What else wasn’t on that bingo card was that the barkeep was a Floyd…..

𑣲 terms of endearment I @/ohtobeleah

They always say when you aren’t looking for love it tends to find you. So when you and your daughter turn up in Fighter Town, Bradley Bradshaw is instantly infatuated. With reluctance to trust and harbouring a bad past, you don’t make it easy for the fighter pilot to love you.

𑣲 cuckhold I @/ohtobeleah

𑣲 soul meet body I @goldustwomun

you begin to question whether there’s something wrong with you when bradley refuses to touch you, little did you know you’d got it all wrong.

𑣲 that’s my wife I @thesewordsareallihavetogive

Rooster and his coworkers drew the short stick and ended up on a commercial civilian flight across the country for specialty flight training in Key West. A certain someone makes the flight and travel woes well worth the trouble for Bradley.

𑣲 so, we meet again I @thelightofday

𑣲 what have you done? I @mrsbbradshaw

Pete's daughter is as wild as him, she's also as passionate as him. However, an incident during high school drove them apart until they were called back to Top Gun. The uranium mission too, took them from each other, leaving her helpless as she couldn't do anything to make the situation better and save the people she loves.

𑣲 mind the gap I @katcoquette

you're nervous about making it official with Rooster because of your 13 year age gap and meeting his friends only makes it worse

𑣲 you said you’d grow old with me I @blue-aconite

Bradley Bradshaw had been in her life since she was 16 years old. Her rock, anchor in a bad storm, shoulder to cry on. Her best friend. It felt like they had known each other forever, two pieces of a puzzle. She could talk to him about everything.

𑣲 you did what to my bronco?! I @fandomxpreferences

Jake and Natasha convince you to pull a prank on your husband.

𑣲 emergency contact I @leascorner

“I changed my emergency contact, just so you know.”

𑣲 little wallflower I @bradshawsbitch

Bradley had seen you sitting on your own many times, and was bewildered as to why no one was talking to you.

𑣲 salon’s barber I @angelbby555

Bradley comes to bother his wife all week with haircuts and washes when you take over your mother's hair salon.

𑣲 leave an impression I @/angelbby555

The admiral's daughter is teasing Bradley about his push-up game. But once he does the push-ups with you sitting on his back, you are left speechless.

𑣲 my roommate or girlfriend? I @/angelbby555

After living with your boyfriend for 5 months, the spark started to fade.

𑣲 personal space pt2 I @warnersister

you love your personal space. Unfortunately, Bradley also loves your personal space.

𑣲 show me the way home, honey I @/warnersister

The men at top gun love a bit of sweetness, turn out a bit of helicopter honey was just the right amount.

𑣲 sundress season hcs I @munsster

“La carta, right?” Carlos asks. He kisses his teeth and tilts his head. He does that weird jaw thing that’s long been a habit of his whenever he’s thinking, his own mop in his hand. “It’s just a woman with a letter.”

You don’t even need to glance at the metal plaque beside it—you know the facts by heart. One forty-one by eighty-three point five centimeters. Oil on canvas. Pedro Lira’s The letter.

“It’s more than that. It’s about what you can’t see,” you start, gesturing appreciatively. Distantly, you hear the last cleaning cart squeaking away onto the next room. “She’s hiding the letter behind her. She’s alone, but she’s facing the door, and you can see light coming from there, so someone is coming. Someone who’s not meant to see the letter she’s received.” You exhale. You’ve seen the painting in your textbook for weeks, but there’s no denying how all the more breathtaking it is in person. “It’s an anti-portrait. We get to see her secret, but not her face.”

A beat passes. Two. Carlos exhales impatiently. “No, I think it’s just a woman with a letter.”

You spare a glance at Leclerc, who seems to agree. “Et tu, Charles?” You shake your head with a disappointed sigh. “You two have no appreciation for fine art.”

Charles chuckles. “Oh, trust me. I have plenty.” He glances off to the side and something crosses his gaze, his expression growing more serious.

Charles is looking at you when he asks the question all three of you had been waiting for. “Ready?”

You feel the telltale buzz of static in your ear. Alex’s voice is loud and clear. “Alarms are off and exit route is clear. Eighty seconds start now.”

By the corner of your eye, you can see the red light of the camera flickering off. The regular cleaning crew has long deserted the room, leaving all three of you in your matching gray coveralls and black cleaning crew caps.

Eighty seconds.

You know the plan by heart because it was drilled into your head more times than you can appreciate. You know the service exit you’re supposed to take, the angles the cameras are facing, the amount of time it will take from the hallway to the inconspicuous car that will be waiting for you in the back alley. A clean break, Max had insisted. All as long as you make it out before your window of time is up.

Charles reaches for the painting, sparing one last glance at the cameras before taking it into his hands. You resist the urge to tell him to be careful with it. It’s beautiful, yes, but one scratch and the value decreases exponentially.

Satisfied, Carlos says, “Let’s go.”

The world turns red in a blink. You flinch at the loud, blaring noise.

Shit. Shit.

“That was not eighty seconds, Alex!” you hiss, wincing at the ear-piercing sound of the security system loudly announcing your unwelcome presence.

“The alarm is off!” Alex shoots back.

“Clearly not!”

“Everything’s fine on my end. Whatever tripped the alarm—that’s on you,” he retorts, and that’s easy to say from the safety of the meeting room, away from the absolute shit show that is about to unfold.

“Putain,” Charles curses.

The plan was simple. A clean break. You wouldn’t even need to run—just hide the painting in the cleaning cart and walk calmly to the service exit.

The sirens are making your spin. The red is dizzying. Burgundy. Amaranth. Crimson. To make matters worse, you’re certain you hear footsteps hurrying along the halls.

Then, as if on cue—“Stop right there!”

“Me cago en mi puta vida,” Carlos swears, and seeing the security guards standing a room’s length from you finally makes your survival instincts kick in.

“I am not going to jail for this,” you say—and you fucking bolt.

Carlos and Charles are hot on your tail—but so is security.

The walls bleed red with the lights. Carmine. Rosso Corsa. You make a sharp turn left. Service exit. Service exit.

“Alex, if the car’s not there, I’m slicing your fucking arm off.”

“Less talking and more running,” Alex responds, his voice sounding even more staticky than before as all three of you barrel down the narrow tunnel. Your steps are loud, too loud, and you have enough sense to duck your head to avoid getting hit by an industrial pipe.

A loud clang echoes behind you, followed by a sharp shout. Seems one of the security guards wasn’t as lucky.

“Door’s up ahead,” Alex informs you.

Carlos doesn’t waste time glancing behind before he pries the heavy metal door open. Given the loud, shrill sound the door makes, you gather it’s not as easy as he makes it look. You quietly thank the day Max had the foresight to hire Carlos as well.

As promised, there’s a car awaiting for you—a sleek red car with a loud rumbling engine.

“What is this?” you ask breathlessly. This isn’t subtle. This is the opposite of subtle.

“Just get in.” Carlos opens the passenger door and takes his seat. You swallow the other comments resting on your tongue and hurry onto the backseat. Love it when a plan comes together.

As you’re climbing onto your seat, you catch a glance of the driver behind the wheel—someone who is decidedly not the Aussie you know. In fact, it’s someone unfamiliar and younger—much younger.

Your entire face twists as you latch your hand onto the back of Carlos’ headrest. “Are you kidding?” you ask rhetorically as Charles haphazardly climbs onto his spot. You glance at the Spaniard with disbelief. “Who’s this—your nephew?”

The driver ignores you, rolling his eyes. “Who’s this—your wife?” he parrots back. You’re fairly sure you can see the white stick of a lollipop poking out from the corner of his mouth.

Both Carlos and you accidentally meet each other’s gazes. Carlos scowls. You shudder, sliding back onto your seat. “Gross.”

Carlos exhales exasperatedly. “Just drive, Lando.”

The engine rumbles even louder than before, and the car dashes out of the alley. You lay back against the headrest, only to catch a glance of the driver in the rearview mirror.

Charles peers at you, arms empty now that he has left the painting in the trunk. Buildings and street signs blur past you. “What’s with all the complaints today?”

You glare at him. Alarms. Security. Fleeing on the least inconspicuous car to have ever been made—and the police probably well on their way. “Max is gonna have all of our asses. We’re freakin’ fucked.”

The car turns sharply at an intersection, making your head slam against the window. Pain sparks from your temple near immediately. “Fuck!”

“Y’should watch your head,” Lando calls out, and you can see the conniving little smirk on his lips on the rearview mirror. He doesn’t spare you a glance as he shrugs. “And your mouth.”

To say Max isn’t happy with you all would be the understatement of the century. The silver lining, you suppose, is that he hasn’t yet started yelling.

There’s still plenty of time, though.

You watch as Max runs a hand through his face exasperatedly. You shift on your spot. The warehouse feels distinctly colder than it did when you left earlier today.

Carlos stands beside you, body wired and tense. Annoyed. He glances at Alex before finally asking, “What was with the alarms?”

Alex straightens on his chair, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I was, uh, checking that.” His chair spins to the side a little. He pointedly looks away from Max. At this point, you know that even making eye contact with him at in ill-timed moment could be enough to finally spark his temper. “My working theory is that the museum must’ve done a few security upgrades. Something that wasn’t in the original blueprints that Charles gave me.”

Charles arches a brow. “So, it is my fault?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Your face scrunches. “Why?”

Alex shrugs. “Well, maybe the blueprints were a little dated, but that doesn’t mean Charles is to blame for—”

“No, I mean—why would a museum upgrade their security system so recently? So suddenly?”

Lando clicks his tongue, legs resting on a table by the corner of the warehouse. “Maybe they’ve seen the news,” he supplies, vague disinterest dripping from his tone.

You fold your arms over your chest, jaw ticking. You narrow your eyes at the new driver. “Or maybe they were tipped off.”

Lando’s brows knit-together as he meets your gaze. “What’re you looking at me for?” he scoffs. “I’m no snitch.”

Max calls your name, and you stifle a flinch. “That’s enough,” he says with an air of finality. You bite the inside of your cheek. “You’re staying to check the state of the painting. I want you to arrange a meeting with the buyer you’ve got lined up. Text me the information when you get it.”

“Fine—I mean, yeah. Sure.”

Carlos takes that as his cue. And now that you’ve all changed out of your gray coveralls, with him now wearing his usual long-sleeved black tee, he reaches for his duffle bag and slings it over his shoulder. He shares a look with Max as he straightens. “I’ll be waiting for my cut,” Carlos says pointedly.

Charles follows shortly, lightly nudging your shoulder. “See you next week?” he asks you, and you nod.

And then, as per usual, all that’s left is Max, Alex, and you. Well. Plus the new uninvited presence. You side-glance at Lando, who’s still scrolling on his phone, biting on the plastic stick of his lollipop. His legs rest on the table, recklessly swinging back on his chair. You resist the urge to tell him to cut it out before he falls and breaks his face.

Before you can fish for another argument, your phone buzzes in your hand, and the screen lights up with a notification from Alex. You furrow your brows at him, to which he subtly tilts his head towards the new driver. You tap the file he sent you.

It’s a police record.

Lando Norris. Your eyes skim through it. Illegal street racing. Reckless driving. So, he’s been arrested before.

“Alex,” Max calls.

“Hm?”

“The security system. Check what’s different.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Alex responds, face scrunched up. “I’ve said it a hundred times—that’s just cinema bullshit. I need the updated schematics to do a full review. I also need to see it in person, or at least to be in the vicinity. Movies always make it seem so easy but it’s really not—”

“Albon.”

The sharpness of Max’s tone makes him puff out his cheeks. “Tomorrow. I’ll go tomorrow to see it in person.”

Max nods, his index and thumb rubbing against his eyes. He strides towards Alex, leaning over to see his computer screen. “Walk me through what went wrong today.”

Alex and Max’s voices settle into the background as you turn your focus back to the new face in the warehouse. Charles, Carlos and Alex didn’t seem all that surprised about Lando’s presence—which begs the question, were you the only one that wasn’t told, or simply the only one that cared?

You’re sitting down across from Lando before you can think better of it.

“Street racing,” you say, and he doesn’t even raise his gaze from his phone. You inch closer to him, tilting your head. “That’s what you were doing before this? Street racing?”

Green eyes flick up to you. There’s an unreadable glint in his gaze you can’t seem to place. “Did you do a background check on me already?” he drawls. “I’m flattered.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What’s with the change in career paths?”

He pulls his legs off the table, leaning his torso towards you. Lando shrugs, assessing you. “What’s with the sudden interest?”

“I wanna know who I’m in bed with.” Lando scoffs a laugh, and you don’t miss the way his eyes deliberately drop across your frame. You can practically see the comment resting on his tongue, so you quickly correct, “Who I’m working with.”

Lando clicks his tongue, appearing uninterested. “I don’t work with you. I work with Carlos—for Max now, apparently.”

“Mhm. Semantics.” You wave him off. That’s not the information you’re here for. “How many jobs have you pulled with him?”

Lando straightens at that, faux-surprised expression falling on his face. Finally, it seems, you’ve piqued his interest. “Oh, he hasn’t told you?” The corner of his lips twitches upward into a smirk. He lets out a low whistle. “Sounds like trouble in paradise to me.”

You give him a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Team chemistry’s at an all time high. We’re fine.”

Lando reaches beside you for his keys, and you feel his scent wash over you. Some expensive cologne. Sweat. Pine. He arches a brow, looking annoyingly smug. “Clearly.”

His chair screeches against the floor as he stands up and heads out. Before he does, you call out: “Did you at least win a few races?”

Lando chuckles, walking backwards as he gives you a self-assured shrug. “What do you think?”

Sunlight seeps through the overhead skylight as you stride down the gallery. Today, your outfit is a far cry from the gray coveralls Max had you wear two weeks ago. Instead of looking like the cleaning crew, today you’re wearing expensive clothes provided by Max—from where, you never ask—to play the part of the interested potential buyer. Nothing too showy, but classy enough to blend in among the other buyers wandering around in the gallery.

Charles wanders around the opposite side of the room, not wanting to seem like the two of you arrived together. He studies the angles of the cameras, the amount of security guards posted around the halls while you study the paintings. Even with your sunglasses on, you can tell the paintings from a distance. A Bogdanov-Belsky by the exit, a Caillebotte at your left, a Sisley on your right.

You stop your walk around the room as you find yourself face-to-face with a Theodore Robinson work that seems familiar, but you can’t quite remember the name of. You read the plaque recently installed next to it. A Trout Stream, Normandy.

“So,” Charles prompts, moving to stand beside you as he analyzes the painting in front of you. He looks nothing like he did a week ago—definitely not like someone who was stealing a prized piece of artwork with you. A matching pair of sunglasses are perched on his nose. “Thoughts on the new driver?”

You roll your eyes. “He’s a pain in the ass,” you mutter, tilting your head as you move onto the next painting. It’s a Monet. You sigh, turning to Charles. “I miss Danny.”

Charles chuckles at that. “I get it. But Lando… he’s a decent enough driver—rough edges and all.”

You’re not sure you believe it all that much. Still, you murmur, “And that’s all we need, right?” You click your tongue, tilting your head appreciatively. “She’s beautiful.”

Charles nods, watching the painting. “She really is.”

“Vue de la tour Montalban,” you hum. The one you’d been keeping an eye out for. “I have to say, it’s not my favorite Monet. It even feels out of place in this gallery, doesn’t it?” You kiss your teeth. “Can you believe she’s going for three million euros?”

“Auction is in two weeks.” There’s a thrilling look spreading across Charles’ face. He meets your gaze. “How’s three million split six ways sound to you?”

Now that brings a smile to your lips. “Make it rain.”

There are many upsides to working with Max. He’s meticulous. Likes to make sure you understand the layout of the place before throwing you into action. He always has a plan, if not, then an outline to be worked upon. He’s fast, and all you need to do is keep track of what he says about the job and learn it by heart. You appreciate that about him—that feeling that he always seems to value other people’s time. At least, you think that’s it. It could also be that he’s always in a rush to get things done and move on with them.

Today, the layout of the warehouse feels remarkably like being back at school. You sit on a chair with a desk attached to it, along with a notepad and a pen in hand. Usually, you don’t have an issue—usually. You take notes, you finish them at work, you do your research, and you’re done. But today—today your notes are not nearly as thorough as you’d like them to be.

Lando’s leg is bouncing against your chair. It makes your jaw tick, your concentration dwindle. Your chair creaks, and your patience frays.

You spin your head around, frustration evident. “Do you mind?”

Lando is relaxedly sprawled against his chair, pen tapping incessantly against his desk. He doesn’t even have anything to write on. He raises a brow at you, tilting his head. “What’re you on about?”

“You’re kicking my chair,” you hiss. You think you hear Alex snort, but you make a point to ignore him. “Cut it out.”

“What? ‘M not even doing anything.” Lando rolls his eyes, and there’s just something about him—an aura of smugness that seems to ripple from him in waves—that grates at you. You bite your tongue, lock your jaw, and turn around to face Max, who thankfully hasn’t cut his explanation short.

Max projects two pictures of the gallery. Hallways, rooms, camera angles and security placement—all courtesy of Charles and the gallery’s Instagram page. Your pen scratches on the yellowed paper before the bouncing against your chair starts again.

You whip your head around. “Are you five?”

He has his pen cap between his teeth when he responds with a shrugged: “What’s your problem?”

You scoff in disbelief. “My problem?”

“Lando,” Carlos says. Lando’s jaw ticks as he turns his gaze away from you, and it’s only then that you notice the slight furrow of his brows, the faintest traces of confusion embedded there.

For a moment, he looks like he’s going to defend himself. His leg bounces in its place, accidentally nudging against your chair again. He seems to opt for a different option, and instead, he says, “If you think the cops are expecting another robbery,” he starts, slowly, “wouldn’t it be smarter to steal from some low-security gallery? Or a museum with an eighty-something old security guard?” He licks his lips, running a hand through his curls as he leans back against his chair. “I just—doesn’t an auction seem too high profile?”

Charles shares an amused smile with you before he twists around in his chair to face Lando. “That’s the beauty of it.”

His jaw ticks. “Enlighten me.”

“It’s a rich people auction,” you say, as if that explains it. Lando stares at you, as if to say, you’re doing this on purpose. And yeah, maybe you are. Maybe you like seeing him not looking so smug. “Rich people think they’re untouchable. Like they exist on a whole different plane. They’ll do adjustments—showy things, like making more security guards stand at the entrance—but nothing that will inconvenience their precious costumers.

“No security system updates. No metal detectors. Nothing,” Alex adds with a relaxed shrug. “Works in our favor.”

Lando taps his pen against the desk. You’re enjoying this more than you should—finally seeing him realize he might be out of his depth. Or, at the very least, that he’s the outsider here.

Finally, he shrugs, leaning back against his chair. “If you say so.”

Strokes of green and viridian. Splashes of the pale purples and pinks of orchids. Touches of white jasmines and buttery-yellow tulips. The floral scent of hibiscus and roses always helps you concentrate—and, truly, you cannot bring yourself to understand why people go out of their way to study in noisy coffee shops when flower shops are always quieter, more welcoming environments.

Maybe it’s just you. Though, you suppose it helps that during most days it’s just Ollie and you.

You re-tie your apron as you turn the page on your art book, where you find a description on Claude Monet’s Vue de la tour Montalban. You lean closer to the counter, shifting your notepad as you write down, oil on canvas. 61.2 by 81.7 centimeters. Executed in 1874. Pending history of provenance. You draw a little asterisk there to remind yourself to check that later. Buyers rarely care for the past ownership of paintings, but in the case they do, it’s always useful to have it researched and ready.

The bell from the shop dings, and you don’t bother looking up. At this hour, it’s usually kids that never buy anything—or customers that take too long to decide and make a hundred turns around the store. Still, you chime, “welcome! Let me know if I can help you with anything.”

Your attention is still set on your art book, reading the small note underneath the painting’s description. Monet’s first trip to the Netherlands was not a pleasant journey in search of new subject matters, but a necessity of politics. After Monet, his wife Camille and their baby spent the Franco-Prussian War—

A man stops just behind the counter, setting down a bouquet of pink roses. It forces you to look away from your work and put on your customer-service smile. “How can I—”

Your entire body grows cold, ice pricking against your skin. Those smug, annoying green eyes peer back at you, brows raised in slight surprise and lips curved upward.

“Oh, look who it is,” Lando drawls, looking disgustingly amused. “What is it, sweet little florist by day, art thief by night?” He drums his fingers against the counter, turning his head to scan around the shop. “It’s a nice place you got, by the way. Do you own it, or just work shifts?”

Finally, you find your voice. “What the hell?” Your thoughts are running too fast for you to properly process them. How is he here? How did he find you? “You need to leave. Now.”

Lando leans against the counter, arms folded over it. He’s not looking all that different from the other few times you’ve seen him. Black hoodie, dark jeans. He has the hood down this time, revealing unruly curls that somehow look in disarray but in a stylish manner.

Lando narrows his eyes. “What? So you can run background checks on me, but it’s wrong when I do it?”

You barely have time to spare a glance and check whether Ollie is in the near vicinity when you reach for the strings of his hoodie and yank him down to your level.

You glare at him. “What if I showed up to your place of work, huh?”

Lando snorts, unmoved by the sudden closeness. “I don’t work. Y’think driving cars for Max is a side-gig? I don’t double as Uber.”

“You are way out of line just by being here. Do you have any idea—”

Ollie calls your name from the back, making you stiffen. You let go of Lando’s clothes and turn around, hoping you don’t look as on-edge as you feel.

Ollie stands by the hydrangeas, matching white apron tied around his waist. “Hey, everything okay?” he asks softly, momentarily glancing at Lando. Ollie stands straighter, jaw tensing, as if trying to intimidate him. He turns back to you, traces of concern evident in his voice. “Is he bothering you?”

You blink. Then, you smile. “Ah. No—we’re okay. Thanks, Ollie.”

He nods, though unconvinced. He spares Lando one last look before going to water the lilies.

Ollie is barely out of earshot when Lando grins. “Someone has a crush,” he says in sing-song tone. It makes your eye twitch. “I get it. The whole girl-next-door, girl working at the flower shop vibe must work wonders for you.”

Your jaw ticks, a retort already posed on the tip of your tongue—but you can see Ollie lingering out of the corner of your vision. He’s a worrier—usually, it’s a good trait that favors him. He’s never late. The flowers under his care rarely ever die. He’s lended you his keys more times than you can count. But the last thing you need right now is another set of ears and eyes on Lando.

You bite your tongue until it bleeds. You smile, reaching for his pink roses. “Will that be cash or card?”

Afternoon air feels cold inside the warehouse as you pace, fists angrily clenched at your sides as you finally stop.

Max raises an unimpressed brow from his seat. “Are you done?”

“He went to where I work, Max!” There’s anger in your voice, indignation—but also something you haven’t quite placed yet. You still can’t get over Lando’s sheer audacity. “Not even Charles has that information.”

Alex raises his hand from his seat, noodles stuffed into his mouth. “I do.”

“That’s not the point.”

Max sighs, blue eyes scanning the printed documents you gave him. All the relevant information you could get on the painting you’ll be stealing from the auction—from the name to the possible prince ranges to the material of the frame. His eyes flick up to you, uninterested. “I’ll get Carlos to talk to him.”

Your jaw twitches. “Should’a bashed his fucking nose in the second he stepped in.”

“Don’t,” Max says, waving his hand, never looking away from your notes. “That could severely impair his ability to drive.”

“And we need a driver.” Alex supplies helpfully.

“Do your best not to damage him, yes?”

Your voice is quiet and barely restrained when you reply, “No promises.”

Lando is late. Which isn’t good—for a number of reasons. Starting with the fact that you’re stealing the painting from the Wolff auction tonight. It’s quite a sight you’re left with as you all wait for Lando to show up. Carlos and Max are wearing black suits and matching bow ties, while you wear a black silk dress and flats. Alex, on the other hand, is lucky enough to stay wearing a baby blue hoodie and jeans while he lounges in front of his monitors.

“If he doesn’t get here soon, we’re gonna be behind schedule,” Alex notes.

You fold your arms over your chest, a knowing scoff escaping you. “Didn’t I say he was unreliable?”

“He’ll be here,” Carlos says gruffly.

The door to the warehouse slides open as Lando steps in, looking out of breath. “Sorry! I’m here.”

You don’t realize you’re staring until Lando throws you a look that says what are you looking at? His hair is more messy than usual, the buttons of his dress shirt halfway undone as he fixes his suit jacket, no tie in sight. “Hell has frozen over.”

Lando rolls his eyes. “I couldn't find a tux on such short notice. I had to borrow it from a friend.”

“Why are you wearing a suit? You’re the getaway driver. Drivers don’t need to dress up.”

Lando clicks his tongue. “Y’know, for once, we’re actually in agreement, sunshine.”

“There’s been a change of plans,” Max states.

“Change of plans?” Max never changes his plans. Ever. He’s thorough, he’s precise—he doesn’t make changes because he doesn’t miscalculate. “Why?”

Max runs his ringed fingers across his jaw. “Charles isn’t making it tonight.” Your brow twitches. You’d assumed the reason Charles wasn’t here already was because he’d be meeting with you at the auction. “Some detective brought him in for questioning. He’s fine.”

“Is he?” Lando asks.

Max arches a brow, as if surprised Lando was the one to question him. “He will be, once we pull off this job without him and cops rule him out as a suspect.”

You start running the scenario in your mind. It doesn’t work—surely Max has realized that it doesn’t work. “I thought you said this was a four person job. Distraction, two for extraction, look out.”

“It is.” Max glances at Lando.

The protest is on your tongue before he can elaborate. “No, no. He is not replacing Charles—”

Lando seems just as opposed to the idea, protesting, “I’m the driver, breaking into auctions is not in my job description—”

Max pinches his nose, raising his hand to silence the two of you. “It’s either Lando or Alex.”

You don’t even blink. “Then it’s Alex.”

The man in question flinches in his chair.

“That’s not—it can’t be Alex, I need him shutting down the security system remotely and erasing any trace of us ever being there.”

“I don’t get why you can’t just contact Danny.”

Carlos shrugs. “Last I heard, he has the feds on his ass. We shouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole.”

“Really?” You sigh. “Damn. I liked Danny.”

“Forget about Daniel,” Max says, exasperated. He meets your gaze. “Lando’s coming with—either get on board or get out.”

The car ride to the auction is quiet. Until—

“Are you even aware of the plan?”

Lando rolls his eyes so far back he probably gets a glimpse of his brain. “Are you even aware of the meter-long stick you’ve got up your arse? It’s a wonder you can even sit down—”

“Ya, suficiente. You two are acting like children,” Carlos groans into his palm, looking out the window.

“She started it,” Lando mutters, parking the car into the alley. For once, he’s chosen a vehicle that’s actually inconspicuous—no neon paint or an overly-loud engine, but just a sleek black car.

“We’ll go in first. Wait five minutes after us, so we don’t go in as a group. Carlos and I will go out the back,” Max explains. “Remember—eight security guards. You just need to distract the two that are posted outside of the room, and we’ll handle the rest.”

“Got it,” Lando says.

Max and Carlos step outside of the car, closing the doors behind them. Lando drums his fingers against the wheel, watching the two walk up to the entrance of the auction building. You stare at him from the backseat. A moment passes.

“Could you really not find a tie?”

Lando twists in his seat. “Can you lay off?” He glares at you. You meet it evenly. He’s the first to look away, muttering under his breath.

You roll your eyes. Instead of responding, you reach for your clutch, open the door of the car, and exit.

“Oi, five minutes are not—”

You open the door to the passenger seat and sit down. Lando looks at you weirdly, so you ignore him. You open your clutch, sifting through its contents. “Button up the rest of your shirt.”

“So, you’re giving orders now too, sunshine?”

“Quiet being so difficult.” Reluctantly, Lando does as you tell him. “And stop calling me sunshine.”

Lando scoffs, lips curving up into a smirk. “Why? I think it’s fitting. What with your sunny personality and all.”

You roll your eyes—and, really, that’s starting to become a habit whenever you’re around Lando. Finally, you pull out a rolled-up black tie from your clutch. You straighten it, making sure there are no visible creases and that it looks presentable enough.

You turn to Lando, and not trusting him to put it on properly, you wrap it around his neck. He leans closer to you, and you can feel his breath fanning against your forehead

“Why do you have a tie just on you?”

“It was for Charles,” you say, intent on making the perfect Windsor knot. “He had asked me to bring one for him. Guess it’s your lucky day.”

Lando snorts. “Yeah, right. Lucky.” It occurs to you at that very moment that Lando might not have experience with this type of job. That he might be nervous. You’re starting to consider offering some words of encouragement when Lando interrupts. “So, you and Charles, huh?”

“Me and Charles, what?”

“Y’know.” He shrugs. “You’re always paired up. You seem close. You had his tie in your purse.” You finish with his tie, but don’t pull back. Lando’s green eyes suddenly feel scrutinizing. “If you’re keeping it a secret from Max or something, you’re doing a shit job at it.”

You furrow your brows. Then, realization. A laugh bubbles out of you, and Lando has the sense to look surprised. “Charles and I aren’t… we’re not together, or anything. We’re friends.”

“…With benefits?”

You pull away from him. “You’re disgusting.”

Static sparks in your ear and Alex pipes up, “Look out and distraction. Can we get a move on?”

“Yep, on it,” you respond.

Getting inside is no issue—not when you both already look the part and Alex has gotten your fake names on the list. The hallways are well lit, a handful of collectors and potential bidders still wandering around, taking in the artwork that will be up for auction in an hour or two.

You’re about to get into position when you spot it, just out the corner of your eye. Forest greens. Splashes of blue. Bold strokes of red.

You’re walking up to the painting before you can think better of it. After tonight, it’s probably going to go into some rich person’s private gallery. You trace the metal plaque installed beside it—not that you need to read it, anyway. You know everything about it already.

Lando strides and settles beside you, hands inside the pockets of his slacks.

“Anémones, by Claude Monet,” you say absentmindedly. It’s part of a large collection—forty paintings with similar motifs—though you doubt Wolff managed to get possession of any others. Most of them have been tucked away from the public, belonging to miscellaneous private collections. “You know, I think this one is one of my favorites of his. He spent around four years just painting flowers for this collection—once, he actually said, I perhaps owe it to flowers for having become a painter.” More quotes of his come to mind, unbidden, from those late nights you spent studying to get your degree. What I need most are flowers, always, always.

You sigh, pulling away from it, feeling Lando’s attentive eyes on you.

“It’s tiny,” Lando says, as if the painting has personally wronged him.

“It’s not about the size.”

He chuckles. “D’you find yourself saying that a lot?”

The urge to smack him is strong. You stifle it. Instead, you turn to the artwork once again. Try to commit each brushstroke to memory—to appreciate the fact that, at least, you get to see it in person. One of the perks of the job, you suppose. “It’s just—sad. It’ll probably never be seen by anyone else again. Maybe it’ll even end up in some warehouse, gathering dust.”

“Why don’t you buy it, then?”

You exhale, tilting your head. “‘Cause it’s probably going for over 1.5 million euros.”

Lando coughs loudly, as if choking on air. He draws a few eyes your way. “1.5 million? For some shitty little painting of flowers?” Disbelief is evident in his voice. “Why would anyone spend that much to throw it in some warehouse? Scratch that—why would anyone spend that much period?”

“Rich people shit,” you murmur with a shrug, careful not to be overheard. “Auctions are for art collectors, sure—but there’s also uninformed millionaires with money to spend. And when there’s more of those—well, these things tend to become a dick measuring contest among them.”

Lando furrows his brows. He pokes his cheek with his tongue, thinking. “This isn’t the painting we’re here for, though.”

That snaps you back to reality. “No,” you say, sobering up. “It’s not.” But maybe a part of you wishes it was.

“Are you in position?” Alex asks through your earpiece. You hum in response, but don’t move.

Lando arches a brow, expectant. “So? Are you the distraction?”

This isn’t happening. “Yeah, Lando. I’m gonna bat my eyelashes and flash the security guards.” He blinks at you. Oh, he’s fucking clueless. “God, get a grip. I’m lookout. You’re distraction.”

His eyes widen comically. “What?” he asks, a little too loudly. “Is that true?” he hisses.

You can practically see Alex shrugging from the comforts of his seat. “You’re a lot more reckless than she is. You make for a better diversion.”

“What—What do I do?” His Adam’s apple bobs. “I don’t know how to be a fuckin’ distraction!”

Your smile drips with saccharine. “But you do it so naturally.”

Lando inhales deeply, and then moves towards the center of the room. Besides him, there’s a table with champagne glasses and hors d’oeuvres. He lingers there, awkwardly, occasionally glancing at the two bodyguards posted outside of the room Max and Carlos have to get into.

You wince, tilting your head. It’s like staring at a car crash—tragic, terrible, but you can’t look away.

“He’s floundering,” you say. “Oh my god. Just pull on the freakin’ table cloth and break the glasses. What are you doing?”

Lando approaches one of the security guards, as if trying to establish conversation, but it doesn’t seem to work.

Unbelievable.

“We’re gonna miss the window,” Alex tells you.

You close your eyes, swallowing a groan. Damn it. “I’m going in.”

As Lando goes back to the table with the appetizers, you make a show of picking up one of the champagne flutes. Lando furrows his brows as he sees you, and you gesture for him to step closer to you.

He runs a hand through his curls, tugging at his hair. “Look, I don’t think I’m—”

“Oh my god, why do you keep following me?” you ask loudly, drawing the attention of multiple potential buyers and art collectors.

Lando’s eyes widen, glancing around. “What are you doing?”

You yank your hand back. “Let go of me!” you exclaim, making more heads turn. You can feel the eyes of the entire room on the two of you, all meaningless conversation ceasing near instantly.

“I’m not touching you,” Lando hisses.

A man side-steps you. A security guard, if the uniform means anything. He looks down at you. “Miss, is this man bothering you?”

Lando forces a smile, moving his hands in an attempt of a placating gesture. “This is all a big misunderstanding—”

“Sir, I’m gonna need you to back up.” He gestures at the other security guard to join. He settles behind Lando, a hand resting on his shoulder to prevent him from doing anything rash. The older security guard turns to you. “Ma’am?”

You widen your eyes. “Thank you so much, sir. He won’t stop following me. I’ve told him I’m not interested but he keeps—”

Finally, Lando seems to catch on to what you’re doing. “She’s lying, she’s a liar,” Lando declares loudly, dragging out the words. He makes a gesture as if trying to wave off the security guards. “She was all over me like a minute ago.”

You’re certain you hear a gasp somewhere in the room. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to swallow a laugh. Oh, is this what we’re doing now? If Lando thinks you’re one to back down from a challenge, then he’s sorely mistaken.

“That was before I found out you were engaged!” you cry out, whipping your head back to the security guard, reaching for his shirt dramatically. “Can you believe it?” you ask, and the man blinks down at you blankly. “His fiancé is probably at home, wondering why he’s stuck at work—meanwhile he’s feeling me up in a closet!”

You watch as Lando bites the inside of his cheek. He coughs to cover up a laugh.

“It was a very nice closet.”

“You are unbelievable—”

“Okay, I’m going to have to ask you two to leave,” the first security guard says, all too aware of the sudden quiet that has fallen over the room.

“Me? But he’s the one that—I came for the auction, I was—”

“Ma’am, please, it’s better if we handle this outside.” The way his palm latches onto your shoulder tells you it’s less of a suggestion and more of an order.

“Outside? But I don’t want—”

“They have it,” Alex says.

“—on second thought, going outside sounds divine.”

Lando lets himself be pushed by the security guard, who is decidedly less gentle than the one guiding you. Before leaving, however, Lando turns to the crowd and calls out, “You might want to send your coats to the cleaners. Or burn them.” He’s shoved by the security guard. “You folks have a good night!”

By the time the two of you are outside, escorted by security, you and Lando are still bickering. “You always do this, you have to make a scene out of nothing—”

“I’m making a scene? Maybe I should tell Tara about how it was my name you were saying when you—”

The doors to the auction building close, and your faux screaming match ceases. Lando stares at you. You stare a him. Your lips break into a smile, before a barely-stifled laugh sparks out of you and Lando follows suit.

“I don’t think I knew heists could be this fun,” you say between giggles. The two of you start walking towards the car, ready for when Carlos and Max arrive with the painting in tow.

“Yeah,” Lando grins. “Me neither.”

The two of you fall into easy step, side by side. The knot you made for Lando’s tie is starting to come loose and your black dress is starting to itch. When his hand accidentally brushes with yours, you find it doesn’t bother you all that much.

Lando is unlocking the car when realization rolls down your back like a cold bucket of ice.

“I was supposed to be lookout,” you say blankly, stiffly.

Shit.

“Do you have any idea how fucking unprofessional this was?” Max barks at you. You feel glued to your spot, something like a knot forming in your throat. Your cheeks feel hot, your hands clammy. Usually—usually, you’re never at the receiving end of Max’s anger-induced reprimands. You don’t mess up. Not like this, anyway. “We could’ve been arrested. Carlos nearly was arrested. Cops could have my fucking face in their radar now. Do you even understand what that means?” His jaw twitches, a muscle tensing as he glares at you. You stare at the floor. “We had a plan. You were supposed to be lookout. You nearly fucked up this entire operation.”

Your throat feels dry, your stomach in knots. You lick your lips, your voice weak when you try to apologize. “I’m—”

“It wasn’t her fault,” Lando protests.

Max’s eyes narrow in his direction, with Lando sitting over one of the tables of the warehouse. His jaw looks like it’s one misdirected comment from splintering in half. “She should’ve known better,” he growls.

Lando hops off the table, tie and suit jacket long discarded. He scoffs, doing a quick once-over of Max. Seizing him up. It’s not a good idea. “Yeah, maybe, but you don’t have to be a dickhead about it.”

“Lando.”

“What?” he asks, turning to you with disbelief written all over his face—as if to say, are you really gonna let him speak to you like this? “He’s being a prick.” Lando steps closer to Max, putting some distance between the two of you. He works his jaw with his knuckles, green eyes narrowed. “If your plan didn’t work out like you wanted, then maybe the problem isn’t her—maybe the problem is you.”

Max’s cold, calculating gaze sweeps over Lando, before a scoff escapes him. He shakes his head, as if discarding a thought. “You’re out.”

Lando huffs. “Fine by me, prick.”

“Not you.” Max’s gaze flicks to you.

The warehouse falls silent. You watch as Alex freezes on his chair, confusion and disbelief clear in his face.

Understanding feels remarkably like trying to digest a pile of stones. Hard to swallow. Heavy in your gut. You don’t trust your voice, yet you hear yourself asking— “Are you serious?”

Max looks unfazed. “You’ve proven you’re unreliable. I don’t work with unreliable people.” His voice is nothing but cold when he repeats, “You’re out.”

“Maybe this isn’t a decision we should—” Alex tries.

“But it wasn’t her fault,” Lando repeats loudly, frustration bleeding into his words.

“You will create a line of contact with the buyer we had agreed on. I will wire you your part of the money,” Max continues, as if he hasn’t just dropped a bomb on you. You feel like you’re going to throw up—worse, you think you’re going to cry. “But after that, I don’t want to see you around here anymore.”

You clench your fists at your side, trying to keep your hands from trembling. Is this all it takes? One mistake? It’s unfair, you think. It’s so fucking unfair. But Max has never particularly cared for fair—only for results. And today, you might’ve cost him the one thing he values above money: his identity. All it takes is one cop to make the connection, to linger on Max’s presence a moment too long, and this all unravels. He already said Charles had been taken in, that Carlos nearly got arrested. There’s too much heat at the moment to afford any loose ends.

Still.

You laugh. It’s a bitter, bitter thing. It coils inside your chest, around your ribcage. You feel pinpricks behind your eyes, but you’ll be damned if you even shed a single tear in his presence. “You know what? Fuck you, Max.”

You feel tremors in your bones—loss, maybe. Frustration. Embarrassment. Anger.

In the end, you walk out of the warehouse with your head held high, and Lando following just a few steps back.

“Fuck you!”

The metal door slams loudly behind you.

The drive home is quiet. Lando buckled his seatbelt silently, jaw tense and knuckles tight around the steering wheel. You didn’t speak, so neither did he.

Droplets of rain fall against the windshield, the clouds bleeding into different shades of indigo. Finally, the car skids to a halt. The drop-off point. A place that is neither too close nor too far away from your apartment—not close enough to give away any personal information, but not too far that you’ll have to spend a long time walking home.

You stare at the dashboard, at the smeared traffic lights that bleed into one another through the window.

This is it. It’s over.

“I’m sorry,” Lando says quietly, motionlessly.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“No, it was. Fuck,” Lando squeezes his eyes, tugging too harshly at his hair. The silence lifts, paving the way for a frantic sort of planning. “I’ll explain it to him. I’ll make him listen—”

That almost draws a laugh out of you. “You can’t make Max do anything. Nobody can.” Your face crumples like paper, frustration tearing you apart at the seams. You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard. “How could I make such a stupid, stupid mistake? I know better than that.”

“Stop it,” Lando says harshly, sharply, “you didn’t make a mistake—you were great. If anything, this whole plan was doomed the moment he decided to make me replace Charles.”

You huff a laugh. Lando leans his head against the headrest, pursing his lips, as if considering something. Silence settles once again. You can hear the rain pattering against the roof of the car. Drip. Drip. Drip.

“I should tell you,” Lando starts. “It was an accident, that day I went to the flower shop.” He turns to you, shoulders dropping a little. “I didn’t know you worked there.”

A scoff scratches against your throat. “Yeah, right.” There’s no real malice behind your words, not anymore. Just exhaustion. You feel worn to the bone. Exposed. “You were just getting flowers, and it just so happened to be the flower shop I work at?”

“I didn’t know,” he insists, stammering, “It’s—It’s near my place.” He runs a hand through his curls again, as if that’ll help him convey his thoughts more clearly. “Running into you was an unlucky coincidence and I was—I was being a dick.”

Your brow twitches. “Are you… apologizing to me right now?”

“You’re sure as hell not making it easy.”

You chuckle. “Right.” You slump your head against the car seat. Surprisingly enough, you find you believe him. Maybe it should bother you more, that he knows where you work. Until a few days ago, it did. You’re not quite sure why it doesn’t anymore. At least now you know he didn’t do it to get under your skin.

Exhaustion makes you honest. “Did she like the flowers, at least? Your girlfriend?”

Lando squints, then laughs—a weak sound, tired—as he shakes his head. “I, no. No, the flowers were for my sister. She, uh…” he drums the pads of his fingers against the steering wheel, “She likes roses, and she’d just had a baby.”

“So, you’re an uncle now,” you note.

He shrugs. “Guess so.”

“Congrats.”

“Thanks.”

“And, for the record, you were. Being a dick.” You exhale, tilting your head towards him. He meets your gaze evenly. “But I was also an ass to you. Multiple times. So… yeah.”

The corner of his lips curve up into a smile. “Was that an apology?”

“Take it or leave it, hotwheels.”

“I’ll take it.”

You click your tongue. “Since we’re speaking now, I should probably warn you to steer clear of the flower shop.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Yeah, ‘cause of that, but also because I lied to Ollie and told him you were a piece of shit ex of mine.”

“Woah,” Lando straightens off his seat, “you told your boyfriend I was your ex?”

You roll your eyes, and the weight of the day feels a little lighter on your shoulders. “Ollie’s not my boyfriend, he’s my coworker. And he had a few questions after you left—figured it was a good lie in case you ever tried to come back again.”

Lando scoffs. “Please. Like the kid could take me. He waters plants for a living.”

You squint. “I mean—he is taller than you.” You shrug. “You’d be surprised.”

You can feel Lando’s eyes on you. Lingering. Tracing your features. “Why’d you work there?” he asks, softer this time. “You clearly don’t need the money.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You mean other than you’ve been pulling jobs with Max for a while?” He gestures at your hand. “I’m pretty sure that little bracelet of yours is worth more than you’d make in a year.” You glance down at it. It’s a small, barely noticeable silver chain. You bought it with the money from your first heist under Max. “Selling flowers doesn’t exactly sound like a lucrative business.”

You think about it for a moment. “I worked there when I was younger. The owner—she’s too old to take care of it now. It almost feels like it’s my own place in the world, you know?” You sigh, rolling your eyes at yourself. “I don’t know, maybe I just need to be a normal human being for a couple of hours a day.” As soon as the words leave your mouth, they’re tinted with a sarcastic scoff. “Like there’s anything normal about me,” you mutter, suddenly annoyed.

You rob museums and millionaire-funded auctions. You spend hours at your day job studying paintings you’re planning to steal and sell. Your best friend is a lockpick and a pickpocketer that has stolen your wallet multiple times for fun. You use your art degree and your contacts to fence stolen paintings for money.

“Who cares about normal?” Lando says, as if it’s the most natural response in the world. “Normal’s boring.” He looks at you with an expression you can’t quite place.

Lando’s eyes are pretty, you realize with startling shock. Not quite green, but not hazel either. There are splashes of blue there—daubs of brown in a sea of green. You can feel yourself lingering—maybe he can feel it too.

“I should go,” you say, reaching for the handle of the door. It’s still raining outside. The cold air rushes inside the car like a rippling wave.

“I don’t have one, by the way,” Lando says suddenly, abruptly. He grimaces, his nonchalant act faltering. “A girlfriend, I mean. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

You can see from the way his face twists up that he regrets ever speaking. You shake your head, and to your own surprise, you find yourself smiling.

“See you around, Lando.”

Weeks pass by slowly. Mornings stretch into dull afternoons, days feeling grayer and grayer as winter starts to roll in. You try to make a routine for yourself, something to keep you from focusing on that throbbing emptiness you feel in your chest whenever you stop.

So, you don’t stop. You arrive at the shop hours earlier and leave at long after sundown. You trim bonsais and water plants and throw away flowers that have long since dried. You wipe the windows. You scrub down the counter. At some point, you find yourself staring at a pair of scissors and wonder whether you should cut your hair.

You start bringing your art textbooks back to work. There’s no heist to prepare, no painting to study—but you let your mind wander, just occasionally, as you study the different artworks. Kahlo, Bracquemond, Malharro, Lira. If Ollie notices any changes with you, he’s smart enough not to mention it.

It’s not like you need the money—though it’s always a pleasant addition. You’ve saved enough so that if you don’t live extravagantly, you could manage. But you miss the thrill, the rush of adrenaline it gives you.

The only time you let yourself linger is at night—when you stare at your phone for a moment too long, unsure whether you’re waiting for a text from Max or a text from Lando.

Neither ever comes.

You received a text from Alex, a few days after your unceremonious severing of ties—a text he undoubtedly sent behind Max’s back. It was an apology—something short, sweet, and enough for you to appreciate it.

The one person you’ve been talking to consistently is Charles. He must’ve been the last to get the news—and a part of you can’t help but wonder how he reacted. He’s more level headed than most of you, but still.

“I could quit,” he told you one afternoon, over the phone. You could imagine the concentrated pinch of his brows, the displeased turn of his lips. “We used to manage just fine before, when it was just us.”

“I’m not asking you to leave.”

“I know. That’s why I’m offering.”

You sighed, going quiet for a moment. “It’s fine, Charlie. I mean it.” A beat. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

Charles had just grumbled something in French, and that was that. You saw the news a few days after that—another auction house, a painting robbed from right under their noses. What surprised you was that the painting they stole—a Camille Pissarro—wasn’t even the most valuable work of his that had been on display that night. It almost managed to cheer you up a little. Their loss.

“Are you sure you don’t need me to close? I can stay a little longer,” Ollie says, untying his apron and hanging it behind the counter.

“I’m sure, Ollie,” you say, shaking your head. “Go home. It’s getting late.”

Ollie hums, bidding you a quick goodbye before exiting the shop to go get his bike. He’s a good kid, you think. You’re still not quite sure what you’ll do once he graduates.

The bell rings, and you find yourself fighting off a smile as you hang your apron beside his. “Did you forget something?” you call out.

You hear Ollie’s footsteps draw closer to the counter. Slow, measured. Then—

“Actually, I was hoping to get a suggestion.” You turn your head around so quickly you nearly give yourself whiplash. And there he is—decidedly not Ollie—standing in the middle of your shop like he belongs there. Lando’s hair looks longer, tousled, curls unruly as ever. He still wears that black hoodie of his, paired up with black jeans and sneakers. He’s tilting his head at you, waiting.

“We’re closed,” you say blankly. And, really—it’s jarring, seeing him here after expecting not to see him again unless he was showing up on the news.

“I figured,” he says. His fingers drum against the counter, green eyes with a mischievous glint. “Then again, I’m not really here for the flowers.”

Your mouth feels dry. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” he says honestly, earnestly. It makes something jump inside your chest. Something curls inside your gut—a feeling distinctly opposite to the bottomless pit that’s been churning in your stomach for over a month.

“Did you, now?”

“You haven’t exactly made it easy,” Lando says, curious eyes scanning the place. Still, you can see the growing grin in his lips. “You did warn me off visiting this place again.” He shrugs. “S’not like I had your number.”

You’re not sure why that makes your lips quirk up, gaze tinged with amusement. “Not like it would’ve been that hard to get it.”

He hums, sidestepping the counter as he strides closer to you—close enough that you can see that mischievous glint dancing in his green eyes. Mischievous, but paired with something… softer. “You just love arguing with me, don’t you?” Lando asks, head tilted.

“Not anymore than you do,” you respond.

Lando leans closer, eyes flickering down to your lips. You can feel his breath fanning against your cheeks. His hand brushes against your waist—slowly, tentatively.

“You know, it’s been a shit show without you,” he says quietly. Like a secret only you’re privy to. “Not that he would admit it. I’m pretty sure he got scammed with this last buyer—”

You lick your lips, reaching up for the strings of his hoodie. “I don’t wanna talk about Max,” you murmur. It’s not out of resentment, either—but looking at Lando under the warm light, cheeks rosy and lips pink, Max might just be the last thing on your mind.

Neither of you are sure who makes the first move—it’ll be something to argue about later. There’s nothing gentle or soft about the way Lando kisses. It’s teeth on teeth, tongue on tongue—a competition on who can be the first to draw blood. Still, you can feel him smiling against your lips, his hands splayed around your waist as your arms reach up around his neck. His teeth pull against your bottom lip. Your fingers pull against his hair. You’re the first to draw a sound out of him, making you grin.

When you pull apart, both your lips are glossy and rosier than they were before. He looks breathless. You imagine you do too.

“You can be really infuriating, you know?” Lando asks.

“Have you looked in the mirror recently?”

He scoffs a laugh. “You just can never let me win, can you?”

“Definitely not.”

Before you can help yourself, you’re bringing him closer to you again, pressing your lips against his. Your tongue darts against his bottom lip, making him hum.

He pulls away first, eyes dazed. He looks down at your lips again then back up at you, as if restraining himself. “Let me take you out,” he says abruptly, voice a little wrecked at the end, “like on a proper date.”

You smile as you press your nose against his neck, lips trailing over the skin. He shudders, and it only eggs you on.

“Yeah?” you tease, voice breathy and quiet. Lando groans, moving to capture your lips with his again. “Where will you take me, hotwheels?” you ask between kisses.

He grins, green eyes alight. “Anywhere you want, sunshine.”

By the time Lando leaves, night has fallen outside, and closing time has long since passed. At last, it’s just you in the flower shop, lights turned off and windows locked.

You’re about to lock up and leave for the night, when you notice a small package you hadn’t seen before tucked into a corner, just beside the door. You kneel down, curious. It’s wrapped in a brownish paper, paired with a Fragile! Handle with Care sticker. You furrow your brows. There’s no way this is Ollie’s.

You wonder whether you should call him. Ask if he forgot a package. The thought dies as quickly as it appears. Curiosity gets the best of you, and you find yourself tearing at the brown paper.

The first thing you see is strokes of green. Perfected brushes of red and blue. You don’t believe your eyes. The gentle unwrapping becomes more desperate, urgent. Once it’s completely off, it’s unmistakable.

Anémones by Claude Monet. Inside your shop. In your hands. You’ve gone insane. There’s simply no other explanation for it.

You don’t know how long you sit there, on your knees, staring at the wooden frame in your hands. You don’t blink—afraid that the moment you do, it’ll vanish like you never had it in the first place.

You move your hand, only to feel something odd behind the frame. You scramble to turn it around, spotting a small, tiny slip of paper tucked behind.

You unfold it. There’s a phone number scribbled on it, followed by: No more excuses.

Then, on the other side: I think I’m starting to get why you liked this one so much.

You blink. Did Lando—

Fuck, he did. How did he get it? When did he get it? Your fingers trace the painting gently, as if it’ll turn to dust with the minimal pressure. Your body slumps forward slightly, disbelieving. This is yours now.

You drive home following every traffic law to ever exist. You signal as you turn, body taut like wire, unconsciously acting as if there’s already police eyeing you suspiciously. It’s only once you’re inside your apartment that you allow your shoulders to drop and gently place the painting on your rug.

A part of you wants to hide it under your bed. What if someone finds out? But even looking at it now, you know you could never do that.

You try to bite down a smile, but it’s futile. Maybe you could ask Lando for ideas on where to hang it. The thought feels remarkably like sunlight warming your chest.

You’re floating a bit, mind drifting anywhere other than your apartment. You still can’t quite believe it. All those thefts, all those fenced paintings and sculptures—it never occurred to you that you could keep one as your own. Lando did that.

When you reach for your phone to text him, you find that there’s another message already waiting for you.

It’s not from Lando. It’s from an encrypted number—one you’re all-too familiar with.

There’s a job that you could be useful for.

Are you in?

"No."

"But—"

"Still no."

"You didn't even let me finish!"

You look up from your laptop to find Carlos Sainz giving you his best puppy-dog eyes, leaning against your desk in the Williams garage. It's a look that probably works wonders on most people, but you've built up an immunity. Mostly.

"Let me guess," you say, trying not to smile. "You were about to invite me to dinner. Again."

He grins, unashamed. "Actually, I was going to suggest breakfast this time. You know, mix it up a little."

"Carlos."

"What? Breakfast is very professional. People have business breakfasts all the time."

You give him your best unimpressed look, the one you've perfected after two years as William's chief strategy analyst. "And would this be a business breakfast?"

"It could be," he says hopefully. "We could discuss... race strategy?"

"We do that every day. Right here. In the garage. Where we work."

He drops into the chair beside your desk, and you pretend not to notice how good he looks in his race suit, sleeves tied around his waist. It's unfair, really, how someone can be both adorable and devastatingly handsome at the same time.

"You know," he says conversationally, "most people would be flattered that their driver keeps asking them out."

"Most people don't have to maintain professional relationships with their drivers."

"Ah, but I'm not just any driver. I'm your favorite driver."

You snort. "Charles is my favorite driver."

"You wound me, mi corazón." He clutches his chest dramatically. "After all we've been through?"

"All we've been through is you interrupting my work to ask me out seventeen times—"

"Twenty-three times," he corrects.

"You're keeping count?"

His smile turns softer, more genuine. "Of course I am. I'm hoping you'll say yes before we reach fifty."

Something warm flutters in your chest, but you squash it down. "Carlos..."

"I know, I know. The Williams rule." He sighs. "'No dating within the team.' But rules are made to be broken, no?"

"Says the man who got a penalty last race for track limits."

"That was different! The wind—"

"Sainz!" James' voice cuts through the garage. "Stop distracting my best strategist and get to your engineering briefing!"

Carlos stands with exaggerated reluctance. "This isn't over," he warns you playfully.

"It never is with you," you call after him, fighting a smile as he walks backward, still watching you until he nearly trips over a tire.

Emma, your assistant, slides into the seat Carlos vacated. "You know," she says thoughtfully, "the Williams rule isn't actually written anywhere."

"Don't you start."

"I'm just saying, have you seen the way he looks at you when you're explaining race scenarios? Like you're explaining the secrets of the universe instead of tire degradation data."

You feel your cheeks heat up. "He's just... intense about racing."

"Right. That's definitely it. Nothing to do with how he brings you coffee every morning—"

"He brings the whole strategy team coffee!"

"—or how he only sits next to you in briefings—"

"That's because I give the best feedback!"

"—or how he literally lights up every time you walk into a room."

You bury your face in your hands. "I hate you."

"No you don't," she says cheerfully. "You hate that I'm right."

The problem is, she kind of is. You've been fighting this attraction to Carlos since your first day at Williams, when he'd introduced himself by accidentally spilling espresso all over your carefully prepared notes and spent the next hour helping you recreate them, making you laugh despite your initial irritation.

Twenty-three asks later (apparently), and it's getting harder to say no.

Later that afternoon, you're focused on simulation data when a sandwich appears on your desk.

"You missed lunch," Carlos says simply.

You blink at the sandwich, then at him. "I had lunch."

"Coffee is not lunch."

"I'm fine, I'll eat later—"

"You get grumpy when you don't eat properly," he says, pulling up his chair again. "Remember Monaco? When you threw a pen at Alex?"

"He deserved it! He wouldn't stop talking about how cereal is a soup."

Carlos unwraps the sandwich and holds it out expectantly. You take it with a sigh, knowing he won't leave until you eat.

"This doesn't count as a date," you warn him.

His eyes crinkle with amusement. "Sharing a sandwich in the garage while you pretend not to like me? No, this is just Tuesday."

You take a bite to avoid responding, then make an embarrassing sound of appreciation. It's your favorite – prosciutto and mozzarella from that little deli down the street.

"You remembered," you say softly.

"I remember everything about you." He says it so simply, like it's the most natural thing in the world. "Like how you take your coffee, and which pen is your lucky pen, and how you scrunch your nose when you're concentrating really hard..."

"Carlos..."

"And how you always say my name like that when you're trying not to smile."

You throw your napkin at him. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Probably." He makes no move to leave. "But I like it here better."

The garage bustles around you, mechanics and engineers going about their work, but somehow Carlos has this way of making it feel like you're in your own little bubble.

"Twenty-four," he says suddenly.

"What?"

"Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?"

You should say no. You always say no. But...

"Carlos, I—"

"Before you say no," he interrupts quickly, "just... think about it? Really think about it. Because yes, maybe dating within the team is complicated. But isn't everything in F1 complicated? We manage million-dollar cars going three hundred kilometers per hour. We coordinate hundreds of people across different countries. We deal with rain and red flags and rival teams."

He leans forward, and his eyes are so earnest it almost hurts. "But we do it all because some things are worth the complexity. And this?" He gestures between you two. "This feels worth it to me."

Your heart is doing that fluttery thing again. "That was a good speech."

"I practiced it in the mirror."

You laugh despite yourself. "Of course you did."

"Is it working?"

You look at him – really look at him. At the hope in his eyes, the nervous way he's playing with his watch strap, the soft curl falling over his forehead that you've always wanted to brush back.

"If," you say slowly, "and this is a big if... if I said yes, what exactly would you have planned?"

His whole face lights up. "Well, I know this amazing little restaurant in Maranello. Very private, incredible pasta. We could talk about anything except work. I could tell you about growing up in Madrid, you could tell me about your family. Maybe afterwards we could walk through the old town, get gelato..."

"You've really thought about this, haven't you?"

"Only about a hundred times." He grins. "So..."

You take a deep breath. "If – and I mean if – I said yes... you have to promise me something."

"Anything."

"If it doesn't work out, we stay professional. The team comes first."

"Always," he agrees immediately. "Although it will work out."

"Oh? You're that confident?"

His smile turns softer. "I've never been more sure of anything."

And maybe it's the way he's looking at you, or maybe it's Emma's words from earlier echoing in your head, or maybe you're just tired of pretending you don't feel this too.

"Okay," you say quietly.

He blinks. "Okay?"

"Yes. To dinner. Tomorrow night."

For a moment he just stares at you, like he can't quite believe it. Then the biggest smile breaks across his face, the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"Really? You're not joking?"

"Don't make me change my mind, Sainz."

He jumps up, practically bouncing with excitement. "You won't regret this, I promise. I'm going to plan the perfect evening. It will be amazing. You're going to fall so in love with me—"

"Carlos!"

"Right, sorry, getting ahead of myself." But he's still beaming. "Tomorrow night then? Eight o'clock?"

You nod, fighting your own smile. "Eight o'clock."

He backs away, still grinning, and this time he actually does trip over a tire. You hear him apologizing to the mechanics in rapid Spanish, but he doesn't stop smiling.

Emma appears as if by magic. "Finally!" she exclaims. "I thought I was going to have to lock you two in the simulator room."

"It's just dinner," you mutter, but you can feel yourself blushing.

"Sure it is." She hands you a file with a knowing look. "Just like it was 'just coffee' when he started bringing it to you every morning, and 'just being nice' when he waited two hours at the track in Malaysia because your flight was delayed."

"Whose side are you on?"

"The side of love, obviously." She dodges your swat. "And maybe the side of the garage betting pool."

"The what?"

But she's already walking away, humming what sounds suspiciously like the Italian national anthem.

You turn back to your work, trying to focus on lap times and tire strategies, but your mind keeps drifting to tomorrow night. To dinner and walks and gelato and the way Carlos looks at you like you're his favorite victory.

Your phone buzzes with a text:

Carlos: Twenty-four was my lucky number anyway 😉

You bite your lip to hold back a smile.

You: Don't push your luck, Sainz

Carlos: Too late. Already the luckiest man in Maranello 💙

And despite all your rules and reservations, you can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, you're pretty lucky too.

Lashing out the full ammunition of her gun on to the soldiers in front of them, Natasha wrapped her free arm around Y/N’s waist, supporting her before she collapsed on the floor. Steve was screaming in his earpiece, but Bucky couldn’t hear him over the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears.

Covering for Natasha, Bucky also shot whatever was left of his ammunition in front of him while they moved to a cover place; he didn’t even look to make sure his shots were going in the right direction - and they probably were not. His eyes were on Y/N at all times.

As soon as he felt like no other bullet could hit them, Bucky dropped his gun and helped Natasha lean Y/N against the wall. His first reflex was to take his jacket off and press it hard against her wound. She hissed in pain, yet he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. Against his palms, the materials of his jacket had become sticky, absorbing all of the blood that was coming out of her body.

“Bucky”, her voice called him out.

Bucky’s eyes were still staring at her belly that was shaking with every pump of her heart. He couldn’t look at her face, not when he needed to focus on keeping her alive, just a little bit longer while Steve found a way to bring them a med jacket that would stop the bleeding in an instant or that Natasha finally found one in this fucking bag they were carrying for this mission.

“Love,” she reached to his cheek to have him turn and look at her. She grimaced at the blood that was now covering his cheekbone and beard.

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

Bucky shook his head no; tears falling down his cheeks without being able to control them. She looked so livid that for a moment he thought she was already dead. He would have liked to seem cool headed and yet, his own hands had becoming shaky, betraying his own fear. As she seemed to notice, she put one of her own very shaky hands above his, squeezing them ever so slightly from the lack of force.

He was losing her.

“You’ll be fine,” she reassured him with a weak smile.

No, he wouldn’t be fine. He couldn’t be fine. He couldn’t live without her. She had brought so much joy and love to his life when he thought he was going to finish his days lonely, in a world he didn’t know anymore. She had only smiled at him, and he had fallen head over heel for her. In only a couple of years, she had brought him back to life. She made him: catch up on all the new music; watch all the episodes of that stupid medical TV show in which everybody ended up dying; discover all of the food possible - Sushi, Thai, Italian, Chinese, you name it; appreciate the Avenger’s gathering, their found family like she said. And she even made Tony’s horrible gala more bearable.

Yes, she had literally changed his life. Bucky was now realizing he had never really told her. How he owed her his life. And at this instant, while her breathing became even more difficult, he wanted to scream for someone - anyone - to help her. If only had he believed in God, he would have prayed for his mercy. He would even have given his life only for her to live.

“I love you,” she said, and Bucky had no time to answer her back.

She was dead.

Bucky sat up abruptly in his bed, eyes wet and hair stuck to his forehead by his sweat. It took him a minute to remember to breathe, but all he could do was gasp for air in between sobs. His chest was aching. Aching from the burn the lack of air did to his lungs. Aching from the heartbreak. Aching from the feeling of loss.

“Bucky?”

The mattress besides him shifted and one of the bedside lamps was switched on. Bucky’s eye fluttered open for a couple of seconds, trying to adjust to the sudden bright light. All his senses were in alert. He could hear the voice of the city in the background. He could feel the linen fabric against his skin. He could feel the warmth irradiating of him - it was much warmer than the outside of the warehouse, where he was only a couple of minutes ago. He could smell the magnolia fragrance Y/N always sprayed on their pillows before they went to bed.

It felt like home.

It was only then that he realized where he was. In the Avengers’ compound. In his room. In his bed.

“Oh, Bucky,” Y/N sighed.

Y/N, who was previously sleeping next to him, reached out, slowly, just like she had learned to do, as to not to startle him. By now, she had made acquaintance with his nightmares, though they came less and less as times had passed. Yet, the sight of him, tangled in the bed sheets, hair all other the place, crying, made her heart ache.

“I-” Bucky tried to explain, but words got stuck in his throat and another sob hit him abruptly. He knew that Y/N in front of him was very much alive, yet he also felt like a piece of her somewhere else wasn’t. And it broke his heart.

“Hey, hey,” she shushed him. “It’s okay.”

She took him in her arms, stroking his hair and rocking their bodies slowly in an attempt to calm him down. All while Bucky was holding on to her as if his life depending on it, crying on her shoulder, even wetting her pyjama top with his tears.

Although she had been woken up by way worse; like the nightmares where she had all the trouble in the world to bring him back to reality, or the ones she had to physically neutralize him to calm him down, she had to fight back her tears from seeing him in this state. Just like every other time, she would give everything she had just to be able to lighten his burden.

She held him until his breathing evened and even after, when he started slowly to fall asleep. She continued holding him even closer as she promised herself to continue to hold him until the end of times, if it means bringing him some well-deserved peace.

Months later, Bucky found himself with déjà-vu.

Walking first, closely followed by Y/N, he was escorting her to a warehouse in a port somewhere in eastern Europe. Natasha was a few feet behind, covering their backs. All until then had gone according to Steve’s plan. That, of course, was before a first bullet landed in the concrete wall behind him, only a few centimetres away from his face. Before he knew it, the three of them were under the fire of the militia guarding the warehouse.

Now, with a dozen of men in from of him and only his body to protect Y/N, Bucky realized why this situation felt so similar. It was exactly like one of his nightmares had started. The only one he had ever had about his girlfriend. The same one in which, in only a couple of seconds, a bullet would strike through her stomach, and he would watch her bleed to death. The same one that made him so afraid of falling asleep in fear of reliving it again that he went to Banner, so he could give him something - anything - to make him sleep and stop having nightmares.

There was irony in this, he thought; all those nightmares about his time in Hydra and he refused any medication, like he thought he had to endure all these memories. Yet, he dreamed of losing her one time, and he was begging to never live this again. He would never close his eyes again without taking his medications. And he promised himself he would do anything, everything, to protect her.

Guns were firing all around them and all they could do for now was lashing out their ammunition on them in return, praying that it would hit a few of them and leaving the three of them unarmed. Steve, waiting in the aircraft that had brought them here, was trying to get them air support all while telling them to try and find a way out in their earpieces. With the insurgents now on their tail and head, stuck in an alley between two warehouses, it was nearly an impossible mission. Oh, that he wished he had Sam’s wings now, or that his friend was here to grab her and get her the fuck out of here.

Out of nowhere, a hand grabbed his jacket to bring him backwards and Y/N’s arm appeared in front of his eyes to take down a man a couple of meters away that Bucky hadn’t seen before. She winked at him playfully as she turned from him to aim at another man on her left, totally unaware that she had just saved his life when he should have been the one saving her.

Only a minute later, he heard yet another bullet split through the air, the one that he knew was coming right in her direction. That time, he knew exactly how it would end. However, he had decided a long time ago that today was not the day his worst nightmare would come true.

Bucky did not hesitate a mere second. He moved to his left, purposely on the bullet’s path. The bullet struck him right in his gut and yet he didn’t feel a thing, only hearing the cry of horror that Y/N made when she saw his body take a few steps back under the impact.

A quick look behind him made his blood run cold. Y/N was standing there, eyes stuck on his belly, a look of pure shock on her face, a look that Bucky was mirroring at the perfection. He watched her weapon fall to the ground at the same time as both of her hands reached to catch him before he collapsed onto the floor.

One of his hands reached out to the new formed hole in his belly. He had no need to look at it; he knew the bullet had struck through a major artery and that probably more than two ounces of blood was leaving his body with every heartbeat. He would be dead in a matter of minutes.

His other hand grabbed her vest, holding on to it as if his life depended on it. Lashing the full ammunition of her gun on to the soldiers in front of them, Natasha wrapped her free arm around his waist, helping Y/N to support his weight. Steve was screaming in his earpiece, but Bucky couldn’t hear him over the sound of his own blood leaving his body. All he could do was stare at Y/N, trying to force into his memory this last sight of her as his breathing became unsteady.

“Stay with me,” Y/N commanded.

Bullets continued to be fired in their direction and Natasha was the only one with a gun now. Yet, they were able to retrace their steps and bring him to safety without being hurt by some kinds of miracle.

As soon as they sat Bucky against some wall, one of Y/N’s hands went on top of his, pressing hard on them. It made him winced, and it was the first time in the last couple of minutes that he felt any kind of pain. Her palm was quickly covered in his blood, yet she did not seem to react to it as her voice was still steady as she instructed him over and over again to “hold on”.

Bucky wanted to talk to her - tell her that she was going to be okay, she was the strongest person he knew after all - but her face was looking the other way. All he could see from his limited eyesight now was that the bag she was previously carrying was now at his feet and her other hand was deep in it, probably looking for the medical kit.

Feeling his last strength leaving him, Bucky focused to produce what he knew would be his last effort. He put one of his hands on top of the one Y/N was pressing against his belly and squeezed it ever so slightly. As he was fighting to keep his eyelids open, Y/N’s face finally turned to his. He saw her lips moving yet he didn’t understand what she was saying. He suddenly remembered her face, in his nightmare, as she was dying in front of him; he remembered the helplessness he had felt. He wished for Y/N not to feel the guilt, not to be angry at the world for taking him away from her – he had had a long life, a very happy one all the time he had been with her.

As his eyes started to close, Natasha quickly replaced Y/N’s hand with both of hers, trying to contain the bleeding for a little longer as Y/N was opening the med jacket she had finally found in the bag.

The last thing he heard was Y/N saying:

“Bucky, it’s going to hurt.”

His whole body felt like it was on fire, yet Bucky didn’t regret a thing. Sure, now that he was thinking of it from his hospital bed, it seemed like he could have only pushed Y/N out of the way, sparing them both the struggle of this situation. He hadn’t fully realized until after the bullet was deeply lodged inside of him, that the serum running through his veins wouldn’t prevent him from bleeding to death.

Steve, who had been there when Bucky woke up from the anaesthesia, had told him that Y/N hadn’t left his side one minute during the Aircraft ride, the surgery he had underwent to get the bullet out and stitch him up (of course, she wasn’t in the surgery room, but waited just outside) and waited in his hospital room for him to wake up.

With her arms wrapped around her legs so she was in some sort of foetal position, Y/N had finally felt asleep, exhausted. The small frown on her face and the shudder of her figure from time to time indicated that she wasn’t having the best sleep of her life, probably dreaming about the events of those last thirty-two hours.

From the dark circles under her eyes and the lack of colour on her cheeks, he could only imagine the fear he had inflicted on Y/N. Though his intent was to protect her in the first place, he had only caused her more ache.

For this, he would never forgive himself.

“Bucky?”

Softly, he smiled at Y/N’s sleepy eyes, trying to reassure her silently. From the way the corner of her mouth twitched as she stood up and the clouds he could see in her eyes, he understood that he did not look better than she did. After all, he had loose a significant amount of blood and his whole torso was wrapped tightly in a bandage against the hot skin of his wound. If he looked as bad as it hurt, he could only comprehend her reaction.

“I thought I had lost you,” she murmured as she had made it to his bed.

Standing next to the bed, Y/N had never looked so small and fragile to him. While he could still see her determined face while she was attending his wound before losing consciousness, her mask was now falling apart. Slowly, he grabbed her hand and kissed her knuckles.

“I thought I would lose you,” Bucky explained as if it was a reason enough to have let himself get shot instead of her.

Y/N shook her head in response, tears falling down her cheeks. She leaned on to his side to hug him gently, trying the best she could not to touch his stomach and cause him pain. Bucky held her as if his life depended on it; all while she cried in silence, her face hidden in the crook of his neck.

In all those years together, it had always been the other way around: Y/N comforting Bucky after his nightmares; Y/N dealing with Bucky single-handedly when he didn't feel worthy of love and happiness after all the pain he had caused as a Super Solider. She had been so strong for the both of them and now, she was letting it all go.

How was he wrong to assume she could put up with all his pain and sorrow. He knew now more than ever what a wonderful woman she was, and he would make a point to reminder her every day for the rest of their life.

“Don’t you dare pulling anything like this on me ever again,” she sniffled against his neck.

Years of experience have him calm, cool, and collected despite the team troubles. Flippant, some headlines say. Mad Max, others. But you know he's probably just tired. Tired of the media, of the FIA, of the churning conflict between him and Lando -- something you all knew was coming someday, but maybe not so suddenly. The longest season ever continues to drag and drag and drag.

"Twenty seconds was...Christ, Max," you say. You know what happened, of course. You watched what you could, saw the sharp moves around the corner and heard the radios. It never gets easier, watching him take risks like that. Usually, everyone else backs off, but McLaren can see victory on the horizon and won't let it go. You can't blame them, either of them, you just wish it was all a bit less tense.

"I know," he says, voice raspy over the connection. "I -- well, you know how I feel about it. Don't want to say anything in case the FIA is tapping my phone."

You laugh into your hand so you don't disturb the other people in the airline lounge, not entirely used to places like this, still. Max has told you over and over that it's absurd for you to spend your own money when you're coming to see him all over the world. When you told him you moved things around so you could come to Brazil, he booked you the nicest ticket, per usual.

"Oh, ha, ha," you say. "Don't give them any ideas, Mr. Community Service." You sigh. "Do you need anything? Be honest."

"Aren't you at the airport already? Your flight should be leaving in --" A pause, like he's checking his watch -- "forty minutes."

You glance up at the departures screen. He's right, but you don't give it to him so easily. "Know my schedule, do you?"

"Well, I booked your ticket, so I should think so."

"Your assistant booked it, you mean."

He hums and you picture him in his hotel room, maybe at the window, looking over the city. "I know your flight information. Don't be silly."

"I mean it, Max," you say again. "Is there anything I can do to make the weekend better?" It's a bit of a useless question and you expect him to answer with a snarky get me a new car or apply for the position of steward.

But he doesn't. He clears his throat.

"I'm just glad you're coming," he says, softly. "I've missed you."

You never doubt how Max feels about you, but he must be pretty tired to admit it like this. He's all about actions, this man. Making sure you have what you need when you're at the track, arranging your travel, remembering your schedule. He shows you how much you matter, and that's more than enough. He never wants to make you feel bad for having a life beyond being his girlfriend. And this doesn't, not really. It just makes you ache, fills your chest with the hopeless affection you've felt for him for so long.

"I've missed you, too," you reply. "But I'd like to be useful."

"Oh, I can think of a few things, then," Max says, all of a sudden all cheek. Such a boy, sometimes. A boy in love.

You can't help but laugh, face hot. "Hush, you!"

He huffs. A few beats of silence, the comfortable, well-worn kind. Sometimes, when he's halfway across the world and up late on the sim, he'll call you just to hear you breathe.

"Max?"

"I -- do you remember what you did for my birthday?"

He'd wanted something small, quiet. There was a lot of work to be done with the team but three weekends off meant you had a little time to yourselves. A few days hardly leaving his place, a dinner with some of the guys, a cake you made yourself, hand-delivered in bed. Gifts for a very wealthy man are difficult, especially since Max doesn't seem to want much.

"Oh, the pillow with my face on it?"

Max laughs. The lounge loudspeaker announces that your flight is going to board soon, so you gather your things but keep your phone wedged next to your ear.

"No, the other thing," he says. He clears his throat and summons some of that World Champion courage. "The letter."

You'd written him a fairly long love letter, thinking it would be a nice thing to carry to the races you couldn't be at this fall. It was tempting to be embarrassed about it when you gave it to him the morning of his birthday, but his cheeks had gone pink and he'd buried his face in your neck.

"Oh, that," you say. The airport is busier outside the lounge and you push your case in the direction of your gate weaving between. people.

"You could write me another, maybe."

Max is direct. He is honest, at work and at home, but this surprises you a little.

"You do know I'm about to get on a plane to see you, right?"

He huffs, and you imagine his cheeks pink, eyes bright. "You asked!"

"I'll write you another love letter, Max Verstappen," you assure him. "I'll write you a hundred."

"One is a fine start," he says firmly. "You should be boarding soon, and I've got to go to the press conference. Text me when you've landed?"

"Of course," you reply, eyes rolling though he can't see. "I'll see you soon, okay? Love you."

"Love you, liefje."

On the plane, you tear out some pages from your journal. You'd prefer to have some nice stationery like what you wrote on for his birthday, but maybe this is more romantic, more real. Making do with that you've got because he asked.

In the last one, you told him your memories of when you first met. How your stomach swooped when you made him laugh, how his blue eyes wouldn't leave your dreams. In this one you tell him about when you first realized you loved him. How absurdly early you were sure, how badly you wanted to tell him for weeks. The way you remember every second of when you blurted it out -- his face, his smile. His voice in your ear, telling you over and over, geliefde, ik houd van je, zo veel. I love you, so much.

"You're working hard on that," someone says. You look up at your seatmate, a woman a few decades older than you with a heavy accent.

You feel a little like you've been caught doing something illicit, but you just smile at her. "For my boyfriend," you tell her. "A love letter."

She flattens her palm over heart and sighs. "How lovely," she coos. "I hope he takes care of you, too."

We take care of each other, you want to say. You could tell her about how he sends you postcards from every country he goes to after you told him you like to put them on your fridge. You could tell her how sometimes you text him during his streams to make him laugh on camera. How he remembers your favorites, how he saves you his special team gear, how he sends you flowers all the time. How he likes to sit on the couch, your toes under his thigh, fingers around your ankle. How you've been learning Dutch and how he patiently corrects your pronunciation. You could go on and on and on.

"He does," you say instead.

__

The plane lands safely in Brazil, but the pilot tells you that there is no open gate and that you'll be sitting for a while. You text Max.

stuck on tarmac, will be later than expected! :(

He must be in media responsibilities still because he doesn't reply until you finally get off the plane.

go relax at the hotel. i'll see you for dinner!

You find your ride easy enough and take a deep breath. The letter you wrote on the plane feels heavy in your pocket, and you just want to see Max. To be near him again. To give him this small thing he asked for.

"Excuse me," you say to the driver. "Do you think we could go to the track, instead?"

You text Max's assistant to say you're headed there, hoping it's not too much of an inconvenience. You're told he's almost done, maybe an hour left, and when you arrive you're led to his driver rooms. His shit is everywhere, per usual. Max is quite neat except in here -- Carmen once told you that George is the same. Clothes strewn about, his race boots unlaced and left in the way, warm-up equipment in a pile. On the table are a few of his things -- his wallet, a notebook, some papers.

Wait a second. One of those papers looks...familiar. It's been folded in three, the envelope it came in nowhere to be seen. His name is scrawled on the blank side in your hand and when you tug it from the pile you can see that it's creased, the edges a little more worn than when you gave it to him a few months ago. Max Verstappen, three-time World Champion, actually carries around the love letter you wrote him. Brings it to the track. It's darling. You love him so much. You pull the new one from your pocket and set them side-by-side on the table where he'll find them.

You ask to be taken to the pit wall, please, so you can see whatever the drivers are doing on track. Some dedication, you're told. The timing ends up being perfect and you get there just as they're finishing. You lean on a gap in the barrier where, on Sunday, crew members will be holding timing signs as the drivers zip around the hot pavement. The crowd in the stands is loud, as always, and maybe you imagine it but it seems to get a little louder when you look out.

The guys are talking amongst themselves and a few of them wave at you. You spot Max as he turns away from Charles and you can't help but grin. His eyes meet yours under his cap and his entire face chances, softens, and he breaks into a jog. You lean out over the concrete ledge and meet him in a kiss that's more two smiles pressed together than anything else.

"This is a surprise," he says when he pulls away. Eyes sparkling, he shows no signs of rejoining the other drivers as they head to whatever their next thing is. Photos, probably.

"I missed you," you tell him. "I've left you something in your room."

"Oh?" He straightens the lanyard of your credentials with careful fingers.

You reach for him, palm on his cheek. His stubble tickles and he leans into it ever so slightly. It doesn't feel like there are thousands of eyes on you, not even a little.

"Yeah," you say. "As promised." Someone calls his name. "Go on, then. I'll be waiting."

He kisses you again, a quick brush of his lips on the corner of your mouth.

Later, you'll wake from your nap in the hotel room to those same kisses on your cheeks, your forehead. Max will gather you in his arms and tell you all the moments he almost told you he loved you, how he could hardly believe when you said it first. You'll tease him for how many times he's read that first letter and he'll cheekily say that's why he needs more. And you will write him more, you'll write him as many as he wants. As many as you can, for the rest of your lives.

“Jake!”

The sea of people in front of them seemed to split in half to let them collide in one another. The said Jake let his bag fall to his feet to catch a flying Y/N, lifting her from the ground as if she weighted nothing. Her hands found the back of his neck and her head found the crook of his neck, reuniting their bodies as if they were only one mind.

“Hey sweetheart,” he sniffed her hair, intoxicating himself from her perfume.

Jake let her down reluctantly when he realized they were in the way of other people reunions. After swinging his bag over his shoulder and dragging her near a row of seats, he finally took a good look at her, dark circles under puffy red eyes and hair all other the place. He dried her tears softly and kissed the top of her head, something he was sure he hadn’t done since they were in high school and that fucker of Chad had broken up her heart - thinking of it now, it seemed like it was a lifetime away. However, he knew that in this moment there was no sadness in her tears. She was crying probably a little happiness to seeing him again, but most certainly a lot of relief to have him alive in front of her.

He took another step back to have an even greater look at her. Y/N was exactly how he last saw her one year or so ago, and exactly how she looked like even all the other times he had to leave. She did not seem to age, and he was sure that the fine smile lines she was now wearing had always been there. It brought comfort to his heart to know that whatever would happen, she would always be waiting for him. He knew it was also selfish, but he had made peace with those thoughts a long time ago. These were moments that he was collecting in his mind for when he was somewhere overseas, fighting for his life.

“My my, did you grow up a few inches?”

“Oh, shut up!” Y/N laughed and tried to nudge him in the ribs. Jake easily grabbed her right elbow to bring her closer in another embrace, so very glad to be home, even only for a little while.

Ventilation was swinging litters of hot air into the car's cabin as it was a rather chilly night for October in Texas. The full moon was lighting up all the roads in front of them, just as if it was making sure they would get home safely.

During the drive, the main discussion turned around how excited everyone would be to have him there. Y/N and her parents were the only ones to know about Jake’s surprise visit; they had only known for about three days before his flight landed that he unexpectedly got a week of leave. They would surprise his family later that day for lunch - only after they both had a rather long nap to make up for the sleepless night.

Jake had seen his family a couple more times than Y/N this past year and a half. Even if he considered Y/N to be family, this wasn’t exactly the rule of the administration. Blood family had some more privileges, like sometimes visiting for the holidays. His mother and one of his little sisters also visited him in Singapore when he was stationed there for an exercise in the Taiwan Strait; they had booked a vacation to be able to see him there. Y/N, at that time, had been unavailable - she had her own life after all.

It was what Jake found the more difficult; to keep up with her life. Most of her friends were common friends from high school. With her going to a different university and later with her different jobs, some of her friends were total strangers to him. However, they all seemed to come and go into her life, leaving more or less damage.

“I am sorry about you and Nick.”

Y/N finished getting back to the right line of the highway and removing the blinker, before glancing quickly in Jake’s direction. He was looking at her, with an expression she couldn’t quite read, but that she understood as some kind of gladness. She sighed while turning her focus back on the road.

“You can lie better than that, Jake.”

“Well, didn’t like the guy so…”

It had been a couple of months now than her longtime boyfriend Nick and she had broken up. What confused Jake the most was how this was not a topic for discussion. She hadn’t called crying; she did not seem to be angry. She just announced it to him like it was nothing and directly switched subject. He hadn’t found a way to bring it back on the table, so he asked their friends and family. They all had the same answer; she was doing fine. She seemed to have continued her life just like nothing had happened.

“Was it him-”

“It was me,” Y/N cut him off quickly abruptly, leaving Jake with an uneasy feeling. She sighed again, probably realizing how harsh her tone had been. “This wasn’t working out anyway.”

Though she could not see him, Jake nodded back acknowledging her response. He still felt like there were more to it, but he understood that now wasn’t the time to discuss it. Ever since they had known each other - and it went back to kindergarten, they hadn’t had many secrets for one another. And if they had, it was never anything major.

So, he shook off this feeling and gently grabbed her hand resting on the gearshift to squeeze it softly.

“I do am sorry, though.”

“I know.”

It was nearly six in the morning when Y/N pulled up in her parents’ driveway.

The porch light was on, welcoming them, making sure Jake knew he was expected, and it made him smile fondly. It still felt surreal somehow; after everything, he was home. Getting out of the car, he breathed the fresh air of Texas like he hadn’t breathed in years.

Y/N was already opening her trunk, getting out a duffel bag that seemed to contain some clothes for today. Jake jogged toward her before she was able to get his own khaki bag out. She rolled her eyes, smiling, when he gently slapped her hands away to take care of it.

“Mom set up a spare bed in my room,” Y/N informed him while walking to the front door. “Just like the old days.”

And nothing in the house had changed either.

The hallway was still a drive along memories with all sorts of pictures hanged upon the wall. Y/N’s parents wedding portrait. Y/N’s baby pictures. Y/N on the day of the start of her first kindergarten year - just before they met each other. A couple more of first day of school pictures - this time with him in it as well. A couple of family vacation pictures. And along with them, a couple of pictures of events he wasn’t even there to attend. Y/N’s university graduation, her parents’ thirty-year anniversary celebration party, her first promotion celebration dinner…

The kitchen was still on the right, the living room on the left and straight ahead the stairs to the bedrooms. Y/N’s bedroom still had Justin Timberlake poster hung up on the walls along with some pictures of friends and family. The teddy bear he won for her at the funfair when they were not even ten stood on her bed. Jake swore that if he opened the dresser, he would still find the shelf that was for his stuff back then.

Without many words, both of them got ready for bed. Y/N took the en-suite bathroom first and when Jake got back in his sweatpants, she was already in bed, cuddling Mister B the teddy bear. His chuckle made her look up to him with sleepy eyes and quickly look away when she realized he didn’t wear a shirt. He kissed her on her forehead before tugging her more tightly in her sheets and turning off the bedside lamp.

“Do you remember when I couldn’t sleep unless someone was holding my hand?”

Jake only hummed in answer, and even in the darkness of her room, his hand found hers instinctively. Their fingers intertwining immediately, he did just as he had promised when he was only just a kid; he never let it go.

“Son,” Y/N’s father spoke from the other side of the kitchen, “don’t worry about it.”

Jake shook his head, smiling, before proceeding with what he was already doing: loading the cup he had used to drink coffee in the dishwasher. Ever since he had been up earlier that morning, Y/N’s parents had pampered him with all their attention while also being busy preparing lunch. Every time he asked if they needed help, they would assure him he just needed to stay put in his seat.

It had always been like this, for as long as he had remembered. Whenever he had gone over when Y/N and he were still in middle school, her parents had always taken good care of him, making sure the crust of his PB&J sandwiches were cut off, putting on his favourite beddings when they were having a sleepover, drying his clothes in the air dryer when they came home soaking wet from the park. He felt loved in a different way than he did at home, where he had a hard time adjusting to his new family dynamics with his two younger step-sitters. Growing up, they continued on listening to him and caring for him. Y/N’s father was the one he went to for advice before he enrolled. Ever since, and with the little time he had with them every time he came home, it still hit him in the face how much they loved him like he was their own son.

“Do you need help with anything?” He asked once more.

This time, they did not have time to answer. Y/N appeared on the doorstep, changed out of her pyjamas, hair still wet. “The shower is all yours, Jake.”

She watched him go as if she had to make sure he remembered the way to her room. She hadn’t really realized yet that he was really here, with them, and feared that he would just disappear at any minute or that she would just wake up from whatever dream she was having. Somehow this also seemed to be all too familiar, like a play they had rehearsed a hundred time before. It broke her heart a little to know this was most likely not going to happen again before a very long time, that it could actually never happen again.

Y/N got this thought out of her head as soon as it came. She didn’t need to think about this. Not now. Not ever. She just needed to enjoy whatever time she had with him at home.

“He looks good,” her mum stated once Jake had made it to the top of the stairs.

“Yeah, he does,” Y/N spoke softly, eyes lingering to where Jake had been only a couple of seconds before, suddenly wondering if he was really as good as they thought.

When Jake got back to the kitchen the entrance clock had just struck eleven. Only sixty minutes until he would be reunited with his family. It never felt more real, but he couldn’t quite realize it. He was so used of being far away from them, totally disconnected from their realities, hearing their news after everyone else. Yet, he had always found them as he had left them, eyes watering to see him home or gone.

He joined Y/N on the vegetable preparation. Washing, peeling, cutting kept him busy while the anticipation started to build up. All while Y/N’s father asked him about what new manoeuvres he had learned. Being an aviator himself, they could talk about flying for hours to Y/N’s greatest damn; she had the biggest fear of flying - and perhaps the fact that Jake nearly crashed them while flying an old aircraft he had restored with her father when they were teenagers had something to do with it.

“These boys,” Y/N’s mother sighed playfully as Jake and Y/F/N were debating whatever solar planes were the future of aviation. Y/N smiled as she shared a knowing look with her mother, who was getting ready to lay the table in the dining room.

“Mom, hold on,” Y/N called before reaching inside the cupboard next to her, “you are missing a plate.”

“Why? Is Mark coming after all?”

Y/M/N’s face went white in only a second as she realized what she had just said. Not knowing what to do else, Y/N handed her the white plate. Looking sideways to Jake, she hoped he hadn’t heard - she didn’t want him to find out like this, when his whole family was going to be here in the next thirty minutes.

It was already too late though; Jake’s attention had of course switched to their awkward interaction. Her father was quick to step in, wiping his hands on a cloth and moving towards his wife.

“Of course he is, darling. Let me help you bring those into the dining room.”

Y/N watched them disappear before quickly turning back to the carrots she was now cutting in a Julienne, praying Jake would just drop the subject. Ever since she had learned that Jake was having a leave, she had planned their reunion to be perfect. She had purposely lied to his family, pretending to have a very big news to share with them so they all agreed to gather even if the atmosphere was not good. She had made them promise to bury the hatchet, for “her” and most absolutely for Jack. Whatever touchy topics they would have to talk about, they could do it after.

“Why wouldn’t he come?” Jake still asked and, at that moment, she knew that whatever she would tell him would never be sufficient to not draw his suspicion any further. She couldn’t lie to him even if she tried.

“Just been busing with work lately, you know how it is.”

Without letting him time to ask more questions, Y/N went for the stoves to make sure the sauce was still reducing as it should have. She could feel Jake’s eyes burning holes on her back and could only hope he would drop the subject.

“Jake, son,” Y/F/N had just gotten back from the dining room, “would you mind giving me a hand with the roast?”

After taking a last look at Y/N, still very focused on stirring the sauce, Jake turned to her father. It wasn’t until she didn’t feel his eyes on her that she turned to look at him. She watched as her father made him took out the turkey so he could put some more butter on it. Out of the corner of his eye his father gives him a reassuring wink signalling her he had got this.

The bell rang at the exact same moment Y/N put the last plate of hors d’oeuvres at the centre of the table. Shooting a look across the piece, she saw her father squeezing Jake’s shoulder in what seemed to comfort him. She smiled shyly, trying to hide her own nervousness. Thanks to her father, Jake had nearly forgotten about the earlier incident about Mark and the reason he wouldn’t have been able to make it. He hadn’t asked any other questions, and they hadn’t given away other secrets. All was well in the best of all words, or so she still tried to convince herself. It was all that mattered.

“Just like we said, you both stay here, and we’ll bring them for you.”

Y/N watched as her parents disappeared in the hall. She turned to Jake who she now realized he was close at her side - she knew from the way his lips were set in a tight smile that he was somehow nervous. When noises started coming from the hall, Y/N grabbed Jake’s hand without thinking. She needed him to know she was there, that she would always be there, just like they promised when they were younger. It would take much more than a thousand of miles and a few hiccups to take them apart. As if he was thinking the exact same thing, Jake squeezed her hand back.

Jake’s step-dad was the first to enter the dining room. Y/N saw his eyes go from herself to Jake right next to her side, his eyes lighting up in realization. Yet, he didn’t say anything, holding a finger to his lips to let them know he would stay silent while moving further into the room as if nothing had happened. He and Jake had never been particularly close; he was a good man, a good husband, and a good father to his daughters, but Jake’s fatherly figure had always been Y/N’s father.

Next to enter the room was Jake’s youngest step-sister, Sophia. She immediately spotted him, letting out a cry and running into his arms. He crushed his sister in one of those same hugs he gave Y/N when she picked him up from the airport. It warmed her heart to see them like that. Sophia was still very young when Jake had enrolled; she was only just a kid and had grown up with the lack of his older brother. She was looking up to him so much that Y/N had sometimes to remind her that he didn’t have only qualities. He was her hero in so many ways…

Sophia’s reaction got the rest of the family - his mother, Olivia, his other step-sister, and his step-brother, Mark - in the dining room quite quickly. There were a lot of “Jake!” shouted from across the room and loads of tears, happy smiles, and hugs.

“I can’t believe he is here.” Sophia cried again; this time she was in Y/N’s arms. “And I can’t believe you lied to us.”

“Sorry not sorry,” Y/N smiled, tugging a string of her hair behind her ears before bringing her in an even closer hug if it was possible. She wasn’t sure she had seen her this happy in her life, she realized.

Y/N was an only child with a very little family. Over the years, Jake’s family had grown to be her own as well. As children first, as they were always all together at either one’s house or the others. As teenagers when his step-sisters weren’t babies anymore and they had started to be able to play more with them. She remembered helping his mom getting both of his sisters ready for school, all of them celebrating Christmas at her parents or going dress shopping for Olivia’s first prom.

Ever since Jake had been deployed on the West Coast and later overseas, they had grown even closer. There were brunches on Sundays, just the three of them, where Sophia would file them up on her latest dating adventures. There were lunches at Olivia’s office after they had taken a midday yoga class. There were breakfasts with Sophia before her classes began. Y/N had always made sure they were alright, as if she had to do it for Jake.

So far, the lunch had turned out great.

Jake had told them all about his last position and this group of pilots he had been joining overseas. Everyone had started feeding him bits and pieces of what had occurred ever since the last time he’s been home. Olivia and Mark had managed not to fight, which was a miracle in itself, per Y/N’s opinion. Jake’s mom had finally stopped crying. And Sophia seemed to have forgotten about those hard choices she would have to make once she graduated from college at the end of the year.

At least, that was the case until Jake asked about it.

“So, any thoughts yet about what you’ll do next year?”

“No, not really.”

Y/N had already seen that look on Sophia’s face. It was the same one she made when she was hesitating between an avocado toast and pancakes at the place they were used to going to brunch; every time she had been making this face, she had ended up with ordering both. Sophia eyed her tentatively and Y/N immediately shook her head no, silently pleading her not to do whatever she was thinking.

Today was not the day. Jake had only gotten back from abroad hours ago, they would have enough time to discuss it in the next couple of days.

“I am thinking of enrolling,” Sophia stated abruptly.

Boom.

The bomb had landed.

Y/N sighed, mentally cursing Sophia for needing whatever validation from him. They all had talked about this extensively for months on now. Decide to enrol was one thing, accept that one of your relative would do the same was another. She knew how Jake was; he didn’t look like it at first sight, but his family was his everything. He had made the selfish decision that could result in them losing him forever, yet he wouldn’t accept that she’d do the same.

From the deathly silence that came after Sophia’s statement, Y/N rested the cutlery on the side of her plate, bracing herself for whatever had to come. Her attitude made Jake immediately turned to her. She had never seen the wrinkle between his eyebrows this deep before. She didn’t know if it was from dread, disappointment, or anger.

“You knew?”

Jaw tight, Y/N didn’t answer, and Jake huffed - of course, she knew. How could she not? She was here, with his own family, when he was thousands of miles away fighting for his country. She was here, only a ride away, when he couldn’t even remember the last time he had enough telephone network to FaceTime them. She was there, physically with them, when he was just a ghost, present for a few days a year before disappearing for months on hand.

Y/N tried to reach out for his left arm to try and calm the whole situation down, but he moved ever so slightly she couldn’t touch him. The fire in Jake’s green eyes was incandescent. He was angry, with Sophia, with her, with everyone. And to know he didn’t even know half of it…

“Let’s not start now,” his older step-sister stepped in to try and reason him.

“Why?” Jake retorted immediately. “Wanna updates me on what is going on with Mark as well?”

Olivia opened her mouth to answer and as she couldn’t seem to find something to say, she then closed it and lowered her head. She and Mark had officially announced a few weeks before Jake returned that they were going to take some time apart. They had been married for nearly three years and they were having a rough path. They had started couple therapy, trying to make things work. Y/N couldn’t count the hours Olivia had spent on her couch, crying and eating ice-creams.

Y/N knew exactly how she felt like. The deception of thinking she had found the love of her life only to realize it was more complex than this. The sadness of loving someone and it still not being enough for the two of them to be happy. The paralyzing fear of being alone, of never being well enough.

She needed a shoulder to cry onto and a lot of love, and not to be reminded of what a failure she thought she was.

“I am sorry,” Sophia mumbled. Y/N wasn’t sure to whom she was apologizing. Jake? Them?

“You can’t seriously be thinking about it?” Jake half-shouted, pointing her finger at her like he was accusing her of the worst betrayal.

“Don’t say anything you’d regret, son.”

Y/N’s father word seemed to put some sense into him as he leaned his back against his chair, folding his arms against his chest. The distress on Sophia’s face was now palpable and she was on the verge of crying from Jake’s quite violent reaction. Though she didn’t expect Jake to be totally supportive, Y/N had not expected him to reject the idea that much either. She had thought that he would’ve still listen to her reasons, maybe try to talk her out of it, but finally make peace with the idea. Just like they had. Just like they all had when he was in her shoes.

Olivia had regained her composure and wrapped an arm around her sister’ shoulders. The look she sent Jake probably refrained him from attacking again his little sister. Instead, he chose another target for his anger.

“How can anybody be cool with this?”

Before Jake’s mom could speak, Y/N called him out. “Why could you do it and not her, Jake, huh?” She wants to be like you so bad, don’t you see?

“That’s not the same thing.”

Y/N huffed and rolled her eyes.

It made her even bitter. For all the things he hadn’t told her when he had no reason to hide it from her. For him being hurt that they didn’t want to discuss as such important topics over the phone. She would have liked to be sorry to hide all this from him, yet his reaction had only comfort her on her choice.

“You’re being unfair.”

“Am I now?” he laughed. “Excuse me for putting my life at sake and not wishing for me sister to do the same.”

“Did anybody ask you to? If anything, we would all have loved to keep you by our side.”

“Oh, I see. So, this is all my fault, right?”

The daring look he offered her made her heart jump in her chest. Her stomach was in fire; consuming her from the inside. She was tired from the sleepless nights she had for the last few months. And sad about the outcome of this lunch. And disappointed in him. And quite frankly done with his attitude.

Sighing, she gave in and looked away, throwing her napkin on her plate at the same time. Whatever this was, it was too much for her to handle. “If you’d excuse me,” she announced as she moved her chair back. “I am not hungry anymore.”

“Y/N-” he called after her, grabbing her arm to make her stay. She gave him a pained look before abruptly pulling away from his grip.

“Welcome home, Jake.”

Jake’s face appeared once again on her phone screen.

Big bright smile, sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, forehead sun-kissed by the first rays of sunshine of spring. The picture had been taken one of the few times she had fly out to California to visit him. They had such a good time that Y/N used to hold all those memories close to her heart. Now, she couldn’t even look at it.

She couldn’t count the number of texts Jake had sent nor the number of messages he had left on her voice mail. She hadn’t read nor listened to any of them and had even decided to turn off her phone at some point during the night. She needed some time alone to take a breath and to swallow the disappointment that was forming a lump in her throat.

Despite the emotional roller coaster this day had been, she hadn't fallen asleep until late in the night, turning over in the sheet nonstop while thinking of all the comebacks she could have said to his face. And like every other night for months now, when she had finally managed to get some sleep, her worst nightmare had woken her up a couple of hours later.

It only made her feel worse and she cried all the tears in her body. It was like whatever emotion she had retained in the last year had come back to her like a wrecking ball. She was angry for all sorts of reasons all linked to Jake one way or another. She was also very sad of the situation she found herself into, of Jake having spoiled their reunion, of the spectacle she had given in front of her loved ones.

So, when she turned on her phone a few hours later, eyes still puffy and red from the lack of sleep and the crying, she didn’t hesitate to turn down his call when his smiley face appeared on her phone screen. At that time, she discovered the multiple texts and missed calls of her parents and Jake’s sisters. She sent them a quick group message, letting them know she was fine and that she would catch up later. Leaving her phone on the kitchen counter, she got ready for her day.

Her phone rang four more times while she was getting ready. She was now determined to let him know to leave her alone. She was still pissed, and she needed to compose herself. This was without counting on the doorbell ringing when she was about to answer her phone.

Stopping whatever she was doing, she made the few steps from the kitchen counter to her apartment door, opening it without even thinking who she would find behind. Much to her surprise it was the only person she didn’t want to see. Jake. Standing there, phone in his hand.

“Oh, come on!” he exclaimed when she nearly shut the door in his face.

He stopped it before it was fully closed and after a deep sigh, Y/N let him in without even giving him a look. She closed the door behind him, passing him - still without looking at him - and went to the living room. She leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing her arms on her chest much like he had done during lunch just the day before.

Jake stood in the middle of the room, watching around him. It was the first time he was in her new place, the one she started rented after she broke up with her long-term boyfriend. It wasn’t much, only a one-bedroom apartment with a sanitized decor - she hadn’t had the heart to make it her own. It was close to her work and not a too long drive from her parents; it was all she really needed.

Y/N studied him in silence. He must not have had the memo about the Texas weather at that time of the year as he was only wearing a beige sweater, sleeves rolled up. It wasn’t much of a surprise he had forgotten how it was; he had spent so little time home in the last ten years.

When her eyes finally got to his face, she realized he was now staring at her. She tried reading him like she could before, but what she found in his eyes, she couldn’t interpret. Perhaps something had been broken between them. Perhaps there were only so much absence someone could handle. Perhaps they had let the miles come in between them for real this time.

She couldn’t tell how long they stayed like this before he finally spoke.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Long gone was the hope she had that he would apologize.

Jake had never been one to be wrong; he was probably even the most stubborn person she had ever met. Though she liked this confidence in him, she also knew it was hiding something much deeper. His trauma of being abandoned by his father when he was still a toddler. The fear of his loved ones realizing what a failure he was, despite everything he had already accomplished. The fear of never being enough.

He had assured her it wasn’t one of the reasons he had enrolled, and she knew he was lying to her just as much he was lying to himself. But she wasn’t her twenty-something-self; she wasn’t going to protect his feelings anymore. Now that they didn’t have an audience, she could lay her cards on the table.

“Do you mean, just like you didn’t tell us about the ejection seat accident that you had six months ago?”

She saw his face drop ever so slightly before he regained his composure back. She wasn’t the only one keeping things from him, yet contrary to him, the things she was keeping a secret weren’t really hers anyway.

“How would you know?”

“Javy called me that time,” she stated dryly, memories of the call she got in the middle of the night flowing to her head. She still had nightmares about it most nights. “He wanted me to know in case your brain injury worsened, and they had to call your family.”

This secret, she had never told anyone and had carried the weight of it on her own until now. She had smiled and assured everyone that all was fine for the days - sixteen in total - they didn’t hear from him; how could he, he had been literally in a 24h surveillance at the hospital. She had had Javy on the phone to report every little detail he had of Jake’s evolution. She hadn’t had sleep for weeks straight and had nearly cried when Jake had called him after a very busy and unexpected mission he took part in - another way for putting he had just got cleared from the hospital.

“It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing, Jake! You got banned from flying for six weeks. Six fucking weeks!”

“And yet, it wasn’t the first time I ended up in the hospital, nor was it the last time. You know that’s part of the job.”

Y/N snorted.

Like hell she knew. The job description went with never being in the same time zone as your loved ones, missing every single milestone in their life, putting his very own safety at risk so they could all be free and safe, and omitting all details of the national security missions to which he was taking part. She was pretty sure though there was no line in his contract about lying about his health, especially when he could have died, to his family.

For some reason, this whole situation had made his absence even worse. She realized he didn’t feel safe to let them know when things had gone bad; if this time she had known, she couldn’t even imagine all those other times Javy hadn’t been there to inform her. It had awakened a visceral (and most likely also irrational) fear in her. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him and she still wasn’t ready to accept it.

“Why is this such a big deal when you knew what was going in here and didn’t even tell me?”

If she hadn’t been this tired, Y/N would have probably walked to him to slap him. How could he compare his near-death experience to his sisters’ decisions? How could any of it be equivalent?

“This was not my truth to tell,” she only replied blankly.

Yes, she wasn’t very proud of hiding things from Jake and lying on purpose. But she wasn’t thirteen any longer and when people confided in her - when she promised she wouldn’t tell him anything - she wasn’t going to go running to her best friend to spill all the tea.

“Will you then tell me the truth about what really happened between you and the other dickhead?”

“I already told you everything,” she answered dryly, a little bit too quickly for it not to be suspicious.

“I don’t believe you.”

Y/N knew from the sound of his voice it was pure provocation. He gave her the same daring look she had just seen the day before - the same consuming flame was in his eyes - and she could see his infamous smirk dawning on his lips. She wondered why he wanted to prove just how right he was - how he was always right - so bad. It made her skin scramble how infuriating he was.

She didn’t answer right away and stared at him, arms crossed on her chest a little bit tighter to protect herself. Everything that was happening was only making her angrier towards him. He had ruined everything, and he had just decided to continue on doing so.

She had dreamt about him coming home for months and months, to have him by her side and now, she could only wish for him to go away. The anger, the pain, the animosity; it was all too much. She couldn’t keep up anymore.

“What do you want me to tell you, huh? How much of a great boyfriend and man he was, but that it still wasn’t enough? How much a horrible person I am for not being able to fall in love with a person that would devote his own life to try and make me happy?”

Jake opened his mouth to respond, but closed it as the words sank in. It all made sense to him suddenly. Why she seemed to be relieved it was all over. Why she didn’t call him after he broke her heart. Why, on the rare occasion he had discussed the break-up with his sisters, they had never talked badly about her ex-boyfriend. He didn’t break her heart. He never did.

She was the one breaking his.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asked, this time his voice much softer.

How could she? When it all started with his accident - that she wasn’t even supposed to know of. When it took her five years of a stable relationship to realize her longtime boyfriend had never have been the person she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. When it took her half of her adult life to understand she had been lying to herself for almost all her life and that even now, she didn’t know her truth from her lies any more.

Knowing the truth, Jake didn’t know what to say. He wanted to feel sorry, he wanted to tell her he was. But was he really? It would be lying to say he didn’t exult when he had heard of the break-up... On the day she introduced him to Nick, they he had discussed - quite vividly - about the country actions in Afghanistan - one of the campaigns he had just come home from - and from that day, Jake had just decided he wouldn’t like the man. He hadn’t been very subtle about disliking him, but in his opinion, Nick had paid him back in his own coin: monopolizing Y/N whenever Jake had her on the phone, making her choose between the two of them when he had had the opportunity to fly her oversea. He still felt nauseous to recall how Y/N had seemed to only look at him every time Nick was in the room with them.

He made a few steps in her direction, going to comfort her, but Y/N only shook her head. She wouldn’t let any of this go so easily. It wasn’t because she had confided in him, that he now knew all the truth from her part, that everything else would be forgotten. There were still a lot of unspoken truth to uncover.

“Why are you really here, Jake?”

“What do you mean?”

“The reason you got this leave, what is it?”

They stood less than a metre away, eyes in eyes. Jake never felt so vulnerable as every time she looked at him as if she could read his soul. He knew she was looking for something. Something he couldn’t give her.

Looking away, he answered, “It’s nothing.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Y/N slipped away before he could even react. He watched as she turned back towards the front door. She opened it without a word and looked into his eyes as she stood leaned against it.

“Goodbye, Jake.”

And this time, he didn’t even try to fight.

Javy: Hey, got Hangman on the phone today. You okay?

Y/N: Did he vent at you for calling me that one time?

Javy: Almost.

Javy: He wasn’t really angry though. Just frustrated I guess.

Y/N: I bet. Wasn’t really the nice little break he must have planned.

Javy: If there is anything to learn from all this it is that truth is better spoken from the person they apply to.

Javy: You should talk to him.

Y/N: Yeah well I’ll see about that.

Jake was very nervous, and he wasn’t very nervous a lot.

In fact, he was pretty sure the last time he was that nervous was when he had picked Y/N up for their senior prom. Just like every year since starting high school, she had been his date - though Chad nearly had taken her away from him, but this dumbass had broken up with her only a couple of weeks before prom. That year, for some reason, everything felt different. High school years were coming to an end, they were both going to different universities. Everything was about to change, and it would never be the same. Jake had dreaded taking their relationship to the next level. If only he had known that despite going to different universities, Jake enrolling and basically the two of them living their life in parallel, their relationship had made it.

More or less so... It had been three days now since the lunch at her parents, two since their other discussion - if he would call this an argument, he was still unsure - and today was the first time he was seeing her since then.

After spending time with his family, he was on his way to meet with some of their childhood friends. Normally, Y/N was one of them and she had been invited. But with the recent events, he didn’t know if she would be here. He had had time to reflect on what had been said and finally had apologized to her voice mail as she wouldn’t let his calls through. He had given her plenty of time and space, sending in only a couple of good mornings and good nights texts, just like he was used to. Yet he didn’t know what to expect.

When he spotted her already sat at the table he had booked, his heart started pounding furiously. It gave him hope not everything between them had been broken.

“Hey,” Jake greeted Y/N softly when he had gotten at her level.

Y/N only nodded, barely looking at him, before continuing her discussion with their friend, Monica, like nothing had happened. Jake swallowed the lump in his throat before continuing to greet everyone around the table.

In all those diners they had had with their friends when he had been home, she would have been sat next to him, so close but merely touching. He would have had his arm resting nonchalantly on the back of her chair. He would have whispered all sorts of things in her ears, and she would have laughed open light-heartedly at every single one of his jokes.

That night, she was sat as far as possible from him and he had difficulty focusing on the group discussion, his mind going back to her every time. He probably went the whole evening looking at her not so subtly in the hope she would like to give him a look. She did not.

“You good?” Matt, sat at his side, asked him after the main course.

“Yeah,” Jake answered though the little tremor in his voice didn’t reflect confidence.

“Just give her a little time. It’s just a lot, y’know.”

Jake only nodded.

The problem was indeed just that: time. His flight back was in two days now and she was supposed to be his ride. He knew she would be able to drop him off without speaking a word, while he sat there in the agonizing silence. He was sure he was not able to do it for a couple of hours, he couldn’t imagine what it would be to not have her speak to him every again. He couldn’t get back to combat with Y/N still mad at him. He needed to fix things. He had been able to do it with his sisters; he had to do it with Y/N.

Indeed, the lunch had finished soon after Y/N’s dramatic departure. His sisters hadn’t spoken another word to him, and Y/N’s parents had tried to maintain some semblance of a conversation. Jake had taken a quick walk to clear his mind before going to his parents.

He had sat down with Olivia first and then Sophia, so they could tell him everything that had been going on. He sat there listening to what they had to say until they were done. There had been a lot of crying on their side (only a tiny little bit on his side - most likely because he had a dust in the eye, he would say). In the end, they had hugged and laughed and remembered that they loved each other and that nothing could be more important than that.

He had realized Olivia seemed much more at peace, somehow differently but also similarly to Y/N’s. She had so many plans on her side - buying a house, planning a trip to Europe, getting a puppy – as if she had just discovered she could be a unique person outside her marriage and she genuinely was happier.

The talk with Sophia had been a little bit more sensitive. The idea of her enrolling made his blood boiling, but he had remained calm – or at least tried to - and listened to her reasons. If he was afraid to see himself in her, her reasons were solely different than his. She didn’t want this only to do like him; it was more that he had paved the way for her. He had made her promise to think some more about it - at least, graduate from college before deciding anything - and he had promised to be supportive. He would have some work on himself, but he would cross that bridge when he’d get there.

They had of course talked about Y/N and how she was carrying the whole family on her shoulders. She always made sure everyone was alright, answering her phone at 3 a.m. to pick up Sophia from a frat party gone wild, welcoming Olivia in her tiny apartment - giving her the only bed to sleep on the couch, despite her protest - the time she turned things round after Mark and she had decided to take some time apart. She even made sure their mother was alright when his step-dad was away for business, bringing her homemade meals that she only had to heat up and keeping her company.

If he always knew what an amazingly caring person she was, it only proved him right. He would be forever grateful she was the first person to have talked to him on his first day of kindergarten. He would be forever grateful for the woman she was. If he was honest with himself, it all made him love her even more.

He wasn’t ready to watch her from afar - well, from much far away than his current position - but he would do it (or at least try), should she ask him to…

After what seemed to be an eternity, the evening finally came to an end.

Jake didn’t get the opportunity to speak to Y/N though he hesitated multiple times to just call her out or walk to her and demand that they had a chat. She was currently bidding goodbye to everyone in front of the restaurant, and Jake was watching her attentively to ambush her just as soon as she was finished. He didn’t care if he would be rude to anyone by not saying thank you for coming and goodbye; he needed to talk to her.

After she hugged Monica and promised to let her know when she got home safely, she reached for her car key in her bag and made her way to her car without even looking at him. Jake took his luck and followed her. He called after her, but she refused to acknowledge him.

“Can we not?”

“Why?” she turned around suddenly. “Want me to tell you anything else?”

“Y/N, please.”

She only raised an eyebrow before turning back and continuing walking. Too bad for her, Jake wasn’t one to give up this easily. He followed her lead up to her car that she started to unlock to get in. A wave of panic got through him as he could feel her slip away from his fingers and he didn’t want that. If they didn’t have this talk now, he was not sure they would have it at all.

“I only have two days left,” he said, interposing himself between the closed door and her. “Please.”

Y/N froze at only a few centimetres away from him. She seemed to think about what options she had. Unfortunately for her, there just wasn’t much as she couldn’t make Jake move even if she wanted to. So, she chose the reasonable choice. She crossed her arms over her chest and listened.

“I-” he sighed, passing a hand on his face, frustration clearly visible on his face now. “There has been an incident. We lost two men.”

Y/N’s arms immediately dropped to her side; the mask she wore on her face cracked. She could have been angry he lied to her, yet again, but this time, it was too serious. People died. The command had given them time off because of it. It only reminded her it could end at any time. She really could lose him.

“Jake,” she sighed.

“I-”

His voice broke and Y/N didn’t hesitate to go in for a hug. Out of habits, his arms found her waist and he buried his face in her hair. He breathed her perfume in, trying to ground himself and not totally lose it. She was his rock. There were no ways he would still be here if it wasn’t for her waiting for him at home.

He couldn’t lose her.

“I can only imagine the worry I cause you all,” he muttered in her hair. “I didn’t want to add anything to it.”

Y/N grabbed his face with both her hands and forced him to look at her. She wore a small frown on her eyebrows and determination in her eyes. While she was touched he wanted to spare their feelings, not knowing what was going on was even worse. She couldn’t count the number of times she had thought he was dead when an unknown number had called her phone. In order to support him the best way they could, they needed to know.

“Getting you back in one piece is our priority,” she started, voice bold as if she wanted him to engrave her words in his head. “That’s why we are keeping things to ourselves. We don’t want you to worry about us when you should be solely focused on staying alive.”

Jake half-smiled in return, which made Y/N relax a bit. Her hands fall on his shoulder as he kept her close to him, so close that there was no space between their two bodies. They had realized they wanted the exact same thing for one another: for them to be safe and sound.

“I worry about you all, all the time. I worry about you, all the time,” he confessed, his voice still low.

Jake reached out to tuck a loose string of hair behind her ear and Y/N instinctively leaned in his touch. It was like this between them, easy and pure. It always had. Sometimes - like these last past days, they were so caught up in life they seemed to forget what they had was so unique. Every time they had found their way back to each other.

“I left you alone while I am off, living my dream.”

“Don’t say it like you could have made any other choice, Jake.”

“I don’t regret it,” he answered right back. “Yet if I had to do it all over again, there are a lot of things about you that I would do a whole lot differently.”

Y/N nodded slowly, her heart rate slightly going up. If they often shared I-love-you’s more out of habits than anything else - though they were always genuine, Jake had never really expressed out loud how he felt about her, and from the electricity in the air - totally different from the explosive tension that had built up until now, she could feel there were more to it.

“It’s never too late, they say,” he smiled softly, his hand making it to the back of her neck.

Y/N hold her breath, searching in his eyes if he was being serious and if he was really wanting to finish the conversation they had started the night of their senior prom. If he wanted to do it right here, right now in a parking lot. It was a conversation that could have totally changed their life if they had it. A conversation for which they every so often imagined what they would have said if fear hadn’t stopped them.

If there were much younger back then, nothing now had changed at all.

“I’ve always been yours,” Y/N whispered. It would be lying if relief hadn’t wash over Jake. Of course he had known - he had always known - yet, hearing it was another thing.

“I know.”

Y/N’s bright eyes saw his eyes dove down to her lips, only a dozen of centimetres away she realized now, then back to her eyes. Her cheeks were burning up from the anticipation of what was to come. Yet, lost in each other’s eyes, none of them moved.

At that moment, the world could have stopped that they wouldn’t have noticed. Nothing else but them mattered.

Bucky could see the ambush from a mile away. She wanted him to pick a particular piece of paper, the one right in front of him. His mind raced through a million of possibilities yet, he couldn’t see why she would act suspiciously. This was just a stupid Secret Santa, one of the too many that would be organized around the world that year. There was no reason for her to trap him. No reason at all…

Still, he couldn’t get himself to pick up the paper directly in front of him. He was smarter than this, he thought; he wouldn’t fall into whatever trap she had lay for him. He rather selected the one piece right at the back; just because it felt like the most rational thing to do. As his hand went to get the paper, he couldn’t help but notice the sly smile that appeared on Natasha’s face. He tried to change his take for the middle piece – the one he had thought she wanted him to select in the first place – but she playfully slapped his hand away.

“You touched it, it’s yours.”

The redhead winked at him as she handed her the tiny bit of paper. A lightning of dread struck Bucky as he understood he had indeed felt into a trap. Unfolding the white paper with his thumbs, his heart missed a beat when he read the name written on it. No doubt now why Natasha had done this on purpose.

It was all because of… Y/N.

Y/N was a Stark employee. She worked on Branner’s team in another wing of the compound and their paths would have never crossed if it wasn’t for Nathasha. Bucky was not sure how it started however, for a while now, the redhead had been teaching a self-defence course every Tuesday night for the Stark Industries employees. Bucky, Steve and Clint had come to help a couple of times and one of those nights was when he was paired with Y/N for an exercise. He spent the night teaching her how to get rid of an attacker if they got their neck from behind.

Afterwards, he seemed to meet her again everywhere: in front of the compound, at Tony’s gala or even at some other Natasha’s courses. They immediately took off. Y/N was doing most of the talking and he liked to hear her voice. They talked mostly about books. She lent him some of the most recent New York Times best sellers and he found for her his favourite’s volumes of poetry – some of the ones that he wouldn’t admit to Steve he had read, back in the days.

Before they met, Bucky had never seen her in the Avengers’ wing, yet Y/N seemed to go more and more to that side of the compound. She went to have a quick break, exchange a book with Bucky or put a cake she had cooked in the kitchen. And this, of course, had not escaped to Natasha’s sharp eyes. Ever since, she had made it her aim of the year to get them together – or at least to get Bucky to confess to Y/N what she thought was his undying love for her.

Bucky could not lie; he indeed found her attractive, both inside and out. Yet, he knew he was just a friend for her. And even if she had the same feeling as him, he was not sure if he wanted to be in a relationship right now… He had a long list of reasons as to why not. He was just accustoming to this life back in the United States. He was gone for long periods of times, working with the Shield on breaking down Hydra. And most importantly, he was risking his life for a living.

He sighed and crumpled the paper in between his fingers, conceding that Natasha had won and that now, he just had to find a gift for Y/N.

A week before the Stark Industries Christmas party – the event at which they would exchange gifts, Bucky was still thinking about what he would buy for Y/N. He had already spent all his free time looking for the perfect gift, but nothing seemed good enough for her. The first thing he had thought about was books. He knew she would always like one however, he didn’t want to buy her some random books. No… he was looking for something a bit more personal. Something that would put stars in her eyes and that would show her how much he appreciated her. Even only as a friend.

Only one week to go before the party and he started to feel a bit panicked. He had even considered asking Natasha for help – this was how stressed he was. However, he quickly made up his mind as he knew she would have liked that a little too much and she would have never let him live it down.

So, when he woke up that morning, he had decided that today was the day. He would finish that report for Steve, and he would search all the Internet for a gift. He would not leave his desk until he had found something.

Three hours later, a headache was slowly crawling right behind the bone of his forehead, and he couldn’t think straight anymore. When he looked up from his laptop screen, he realized he had skipped lunch and that his stomach was rumbling. He would take a break and when he would get back, he would definitely decide on what to buy.

Arriving at the Avengers compound’s kitchen to pick up something to eat, Bucky stopped on the doorstep. Y/N was facing back, making herself what Bucky guessed was a tea. Ever since he randomly took the paper with her name, he had tried to avoid her. Not that it was hard, she was locked in one of Banner’s lab most of the time these days and he was also busy working with Steve on the mission they planned early in the next year. It was not that he did not want to see her. He just felt like anyone could see on his face that he was literally petrified by the idea of offering her something that she wouldn’t like. And he also was pretty sure he couldn’t keep a personal secret even to save his life.

Now that she was slowly turning to the other side, he had no other way than to speak to her. He also knew it would be suspicious if he continued avoiding her for too long.

“Hey Y/N,” he said before going straight to the fridge. Too busy examining its content, he didn’t realise she didn’t respond and only look back to her when she let out a cry, startled to see him there. She had her earphones on that she was now taking off after the original surprise of seeing him.

“Sorry, I hadn’t realised,” he stuttered while pointing to his own ears. He mentally faced palm himself for acting like an idiot. He hadn’t realized that she was wearing workout clothes and probably was just back from a run around the block, just like she did sometimes.

“No worries,” she smiled, “I know I’m not supposed to be here, I’m just picking up a tea and I’ll be gone.”

He waved it off; none of them minded that she used the kitchen – it was made to be used after all. “Good run?”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Wouldn’t run a marathon, but it clears your head, you know?” Bucky didn’t know, but he could imagine the feeling, his own demons always pretty much present in his own head. They stayed silent for a bit, each of them trying to find a subject for discussion.

Eventually, the fridge beeped loudly, complaining its door had been opened for too long. Bucky leaned forwards to grab some random ingredients to make himself a sandwich while Y/N grabbed her cup of tea and the Tupperware in front of her before making her way out.

“Hey Bucky,” Y/N said just as she was about to leave the kitchen. “I know that we are not supposed to tell who we got for the secret Santa and everything… but would you like to go to the city this weekend? I’ve got some ideas, and I could really help a man’s opinion.” Bucky’s lack of respond made her continue: “I mean, if you’d like. And I could always help you pick up a gift for your Secret Santa as well.” Her cheeks heated up as she realized what she had implied so she was fast to mumble: “If you haven’t already, of course.”

Through he knew this wasn’t a good idea – how could he buy her a gift while she was here – Bucky did the only thing he could do right now – he nodded.

It went without saying that Bucky did not find a gift for Y/N that afternoon. Instead, he spent it imagining the worst scenario about their trip to the city. He couldn’t believe he had accepted and while he thought of excuses not to go, he agreed that it would be a little too suspicious. Once again, he could only resign himself to going on with the flow. After all, it could be a good thing, who else better than Y/N could tell him what she would like…

This was how he ended up picking up Y/N on an early Saturday morning and driving to the city. She had suggested going to a mall and while the idea to visit one on the last weekend before Christmas was not very appealing, he still didn’t have any idea of what he would buy for her. So, he could only agree.

Y/N took advantage of the drive to go through a playlist of the 2000’s songs and educate Bucky on all the most iconic songs. Obviously, Bucky didn’t know any of them, but they had a good laugh when he pointed out a couple of ambiguous lyrics and Y/N realized what they actually meant for the first time.

“Alright so for whom are you looking for?” Bucky asked after they entered the mall. Y/N looked back to him with a startled expression, as if she didn’t expect to have to tell him it seems. “I can keep a secret,” he assured her in return, and she shook her head with a smile.

“Let’s say… My secret Santa is a man,” Bucky nodded, he did know that much, “In his late twenties. Not fond of technologies. Amateur of arts. Doesn’t like attention. Dresses casual, more practical than fashion.”

He laughed, imaging she was talking about Steve and his infamous combination of Jean-T-shirt-Jacket. “Any gift ideas you were thinking of?”

“I was thinking about an accessory. Not something cheap though. An accessory that would go with everything, be of good quality and last a lifetime. Something…” she thought, “Timeless. You know… like a belt or else,” she shrugged.

Bucky nodded, a serious look on his face. He had heard a small weakness in her voice as she was explaining what she was looking for. She was anxious about picking this gift. She wanted to select the right thing. She wanted this present to be impactful. And he was going to help her figuring it out.

“I think the best option is to have a look at what we have here and then we can take it from there. What do you think?”

Y/N nodded, and they happily made their way through the mall. Thankfully, there weren’t too many people at this early time in the morning. They did a couple of menswear shops, asking the sales assistant for advice and inspecting whatever they were suggesting. None of them found something promising.

After the sixth shop, Y/N seemed on the verge of giving up, while Bucky had made it his mission to help her find something. The truth was, if she found something, he was hoping she would forget they were also here for him to find a gift. So, Bucky bribed her by promising her a sandwich before he entered the seventh store.

This one was a vintage store, not a thrift store but a store proposing clothes and accessories inspired by second half of the twentieth century. Y/N went on to ask they showed them the belts they had. The saleswoman happily obliged and got back to them with a dozen of accessories. They ruled out the cowboys’ ones and were left with only four. All black or navy blue. All tanned leather. They would all go with a casual jean or a more formal outfit. Their differences resided only in the details. A most subtle buckle. A few inches larger. A different seam. A different texture.

Y/N stared at them frowning, a small wrinkle in between her brow. Even now, she wasn’t sure which one to pick out. If she was listening to herself, she would probably buy them all. One never had too many belts, did they? Bucky detailed the expression on her face and could help to think she looked cute.

“If this is for the person I think it is,” he didn’t want to say Steve, even if he had no doubt it was him. After all this was supposed to be a secret, “I would go for this one.”

“What about this one?” Y/N pointed out the navy one.

“I personally like it better, but I don’t think he would.”

“You’re sure?” Y/N asked, still chewing on her lower lip.

“One hundred percent,” Bucky acquiesced.

Y/N took all four belts and went to the cashier to pay. Bucky listened from one ear as Y/N and the saleswoman chitchat for a bit. He had a look about what other clothes they had in display and made a mental note to go back sometimes for a bit of shopping for himself.

A couple of minutes later, Y/N was back at her side with a bag containing her gift in a nice white wrapping.

“Thank you so much for your help!”

Y/N gave Bucky a hug with one arm – the one that wasn’t holding the bag – and she seemed to put all her gratitude. When she pulled back, the line between her eyebrows had disappeared and she looked relived, totally pleased with herself.

“Lunch?” Bucky asked.

Just like he had promised, they got a sandwich, a lemonade and sat for a bit. They talked for a while; and for once, about something other than books. They discussed work and somewhat bet on whom was going to offer a gift to whom. When they lifted their head from their sandwich – or their lack of – to be precise, the mall was now teeming with people doing their last-minute shopping. Y/N grimaced and stated her dislike of the crowd, to which Bucky could only agree. How would she be happy to get home after they were done. Bucky then understood under the lines that she had indeed not forget about helping him find a gift for his own Secret Santa.

“So, now,” she talked as she brushed her hands on her pants after having thrown away their sandwiches packaging.  “What about you? What are we looking for?”

“I have no idea,” instead of lying, he had decided to be honest at least. “Not that I don’t know the person, I just… don’t know what to get them.”

“Man, woman?”

Bucky was grateful she did not ask him directly who it was. “Woman,” he indicated.

Thinking, Y/N had a look around her as if the shops around were going to give her the solution to all her problems.

“Books?” She suggested, looking back at him. Bucky could help but grimaced; he had already ruled out this option himself. She had already a quite impressive collection of books and while she would like this, it would be way too easy to offer her one.

“Alright, no books then.” She looked around some more, and her eyes landed on a jewellery’s shop. “A jewel, maybe?”

Bucky’s face went blank. He had not thought of this, but it suddenly felt like it was a lot. Who would buy you jewel for a silly Secret Santa? Not a coworker, he was sure of it. It would be too obvious, and besides, he would be offering it in front of everyone. If he were to do that, he was sure Natasha would call him out in front of everyone and he would rather not.

“No worries, doesn’t have to be an engagement ring!” She laughed and God, what a nice sound to hear, he thought. Her playfully making fun of him didn’t ease the restlessness in his stomach though.

“Could be simple earrings or a brooch. What do you think?”

That, Bucky thought was a good idea. Something discreet and that she could wear with everything, yet something that would emphasize her natural beauty. It seems like the best idea he had never had. So, they made their way to the first jewellery’s shop and were quick to make their way out of it. It had too much gold and their jewelleries were too big, too flashy, not her type at all.

They tried a second one where everything seemed so cheap that Y/N wondered out loud if people were really buying from there – once again, Bucky could only agree. They tried a third one in which the salesman immediately took them for a couple. Their cheeks went hot as if they were teenagers caught making out under the bleachers of the gymnasium. After they had denied, they separated to inspect the displays.

Bucky looked over a couple of display cases. When he saw that hair jewellery, he knew it was exactly what he was looking for. A piece discreet, she could use to have their hair up when she was doing experiments in the lab. A jewel she would also be able to wear for a more festive occasion. The only problem was that Y/N was only a couple of meters away and he had no ideas how he would be able to buy it without her knowing it…

“Found something you like?”

Bucky jumped, not having seen Y/N coming back to his level. She had already had a look at the other side of the shop, but nothing had quite caught her eyes. Bucky mumbled something about a pair of earrings he had seen. They were simple, a simple loop, quite small and in a silver. Truth be told, he only thought they were okay, but it wasn’t like he had a lot of options anyway.

Y/N examined them through the Plexiglas and Bucky fiddled with his fingers, obviously anxiously waiting for her opinion.

“Lovely,” was all she said.

“You’re not convinced,” Bucky retorted, a bit bitter.

“No, no,” she shook her head and pointed at her ears. He then realized she didn’t have her ears pierced.  “Couldn’t wear them personally as you can see. But these are really lovely, Bucky. Simple and would still go with everything. It’s a good choice.”

Keen to be done with it, Bucky called after the salesman and let him he would buy those ones. He specifically asked for a receipt ticket, in case the person didn’t like them – after all you never knew, he said. In reality, he was already planning to go back before the party and exchange them.

Y/N flashed him the biggest smile when Bucky had retrieved his purchase, and they made their way back to the car. As a gentleman, Bucky opened the car door for her and his cheeks got as hot as hers when she thanked him.

“Thank you as well, for everything! I don’t know how I would have done without you.” Indeed, he would have never found her gift had she not dragged him in this jewellery’s shop.

“Next time, I suggest we do it earlier in December though. The crowd was a nightmare in there.”

Bucky watched as his coworkers, one-by-one, exchanged gifts. There were the most banalities. Some teas. A book. A new cup. A travel-sized bottle of perfume. It only made him more anxious. His own gift sat on his lap seemed to weight a ton. Was this really a good idea? Finally, he blamed himself for not having bought this Christmas novel that was recommended by all bookshops in town. At least, he would have been sure Y/N would have liked it…

Bucky was so lost in his thought that he did not realize right away that it was now Steve opening the gift he had received. A small black box that looked way too small for a belt to fit in it. He frowned as Steve discovered a small iPod Nano and got up to give Tony a hug.

He instantly searched for Y/N, whom he found sat a couple of seats from him. She caught his eyes as if she had been waiting for him to look up at her. Her lips twist into a strange, somewhat nervous smile that Bucky couldn’t quite comprehend. Frowning, he watched as she took the package in front of her before getting up.

Heart racing, he watched as she made her way to him. Only realising what he thought was really happening as she handed him the white package with a sly smile. He unwrapped the package knew exactly what this was in it. Just to think that he thought he had helped to pick out his own present.

To his surprise, he discovered another belt in the box, the one he had really liked that day.

“I asked the saleswoman to get the one you liked when you weren’t watching,” Y/N explained, cheeks definitely as hot as his.

Bucky had to clear his throat. He felt all kinds of emotions looking at the belt in his hands. It was a lot of them, none that he could identify. It created a storm inside of him, though it wasn’t one of those storms that would destroy everything in its path. No… It was a good storm. One of those that had hotness embracing you, making you fell love. And he simply couldn’t believe it. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry that I- well, I kind of lied to you. I just wanted to get you something- something nice.”

“I know,” he said, taking the package on his lap. “I did too.”

“Me?” Y/N asked as if she couldn’t believe it.

“Yes, you.”

She laughed as she opened it and saw that instead of cute earrings there was a hair jewellery in it. Of course, he didn’t offer her the earrings, she wouldn’t be able to wear them.

She looked back to him with incomprehension in her eyes.

“I went back to exchange it,” Bucky explained, chuckling nervously of this whole situation and coincidence. “Do you like it?”

“Yes! It’s beautiful. Thank you so much!”

Y/N kissed his cheek and hugged him. Her embrace was like the storm actually surrendering him this time. Around them, everyone continued to exchange gifts, but Bucky couldn’t care. They probably had never been this close. His nose was in her hair, and he could smell the perfume of her shampoo. He never wanted to let go.