2000s baby ♡

he reaches out, pinching the fabric between his thick fingers, looking at it with disgust. it was boring and completely swallowing your body shape.

“since when do you get so boring?” he spoke up. your face falters. looking back at the white dress youre holding. a faint blush covering your face in embarrassment.

“last summer you wore a bikini top to a bonfire. now youre trying to dress like.. this. if you dont want to show off, fine. but i know your real style.” he guilt trips was right. you immediately panic. thinking youre losing your 'cool' girl image on his eyes.

“you think it looks bad?” you put the white midi dress back into the rack.

“it looks cheap.” he lies answered smoothly.

“you wanna be the girl everyone stares at, right? try this one on.” he grabs a white ribbed mini dress instead. its.. very tight, scoops low on the chest, and the hemline ends on your inner thigh.

you paused. “ray, thats.. way too short. if i bend over, everyone’s gonna see everything.” you look at the dress, not sure. your face flushes hot.

rafe stares at you, gaze slowly getting dark. he smirks possessively. he leans his head down to your ear. dropping his ‘bestfriend’ act. “then dont bend over unless im standin’ right behind you.”

you gasp, brows furrowing. well, its not unusual for your bestfriend to whisper you weird things. hes just like that! a little perverted but you love him.

“youre so pervy.” you roll your eyes and giggling. he steps back, handing you the dress. “go try it on.” he orders lazily. you grab the dress and step inside to a massive, private fitting room.

once you put the dress on, you stare at yourself in the mirror. turning around to see how it looks from the back. it looks so short and tight. almost suffocating your body. you cant help but to admit you indeed look sexy in this. glad youre bestfriends with rafe, he always picks out the best for you!

and not long, rafe enters the fitting room with you there. you ask nervously, “does this look good?” you show him the front and then turning around.

rafe doesnt say anything. he physically cannot speak. his eyes goes hungry, tracking from your collarbone, down to the swell of your tits in a cleavage, then to the dip of your waist and hip, finally to how barely it covers your plush thighs and ass. you look innocent in white, yet so disrespectful.

“its fuckin’ perfect.” he compliments. theres something about rafe that makes you feel.. weird. everytime he conpliments you or stares at you, you always feel shy. maybe its because hes just intense like that.

“thanks! but im not sure—”

“keep it. you look pretty.” pretty, he said. there it was. mostly, guys and your stupid exes call you ‘hot, sexy, fine’. never ‘pretty and beautiful’. its weird ‘cause.. considering of how pervy you know your bestfriend is. but hes got a kind heart.

you stare up at rafe with a smile, heart fluttering. “aw, rafe. you always find a way to make me feel so entirely seen.”

rafe’s smile didnt reach his eyes, it stayed sharp and hungry as he dropped his gaze back to the short dress. he felt a dark thrill. feeling like he was the only guy who actually gets you and treats you right.

you take a shaky breath, fingers digging at the hem of the dress to pull it over your head, “uhm, okay. ill pick this one. just go wait outside so i can change back into my clothes.”

rafe doesnt even move towards the door. he reached over to the small hook on the wall and grabs the black micro string bikini. he brought it here before she even enters the fitting room. what the?

“try this one first.” he stares back at her. “fits your style, no?”

you stared at the bikini he held in his hand, eyes going wide. “i have to take my bra off to put that on. get out, ray.” you command softly.

rafe lazily looks down at you. tilting his head and brows furrowing in confusion. “just put it on.”

“im about to take my clothes off..?” you hiss, cheeks burning.

rafe sighs in exhaustion, “y’know, if youre that insecure about your body right now, we can put it back. thought it would look good on you, but if youre going to be weird ‘bout it.. whatever.” classic rafe, hes always dramatic!

before he could left, you let out a gasp. “im not insecure!” you argued gently, a small smile coming out. you take the bikini from his hand. “fine, ill put it on. but i want you to turn around. or, look at your phone, whatever.” well you know rafe’s definitely hooked up with a lot of girls and see them naked but still, hes your bestfriend. your rafe. you feel shy undressing under his gaze.

you take the white dress off over your head. leaving only in the pink lacy panties and bra. obviously youre not taking your panties off whenever youre trying bikinis on.

your fingers moved behind you, unclasping the bra. and just then, you quickly grab the tiny black triangle top to cover your tits.

you dont know the fitting room has three-way mirrors on every single wall. youre too busy putting the bikini on, not realizing rafe wasnt staring at his screen. he stares right at you. eyes taking in your soft skin, curve of your waist, and the way your thighs press against each other. pink undies? how cute. makes him want to ruin you.

he noticed how your fingers fumbled against the bikini string. your face confused.

“ray, i cant get the knot.” you admit, looking back at him.

he shoved his phone back into his pocket, walking closer to you. “drop your hands, ill do it.” he closed the distance, tall frame towering over you.

he reached his thick fingers to the nape of her neck. blood rushing violently on his head (and dick) that he actually feels dizzy. he takes the bikini strings and tying it slowly. he could see your tits from up here.

the air felt so thick. dont know maybe from how tense you were or the fact that his dick is throbbing. hes thinking about groping your tits from behind, and bending you over in here. he would cover your mouth to keep your moans quiet and muffled from making the staff suspicious. bet you’d get so cockdrunk. he jerked off at the thought of you for a lot of times before.

then, he brings the second set of strings down to her back. he pulls them really tight.

you squirm, “rafe, wait, thats too tig—” a gasp left your mouth, from how warm his broad body is, pressing against yours.

“if its loose, youre gonna spill right outta it. wouldnt want any other guys oglin’ at you, hm?” he tied the knot on your back carefully. his bruised knuckles from whatever fight he got—brushing softly into your bare back on purpose. once hes done, he pats your right hip. “there. told you it’d fit you.”

you stare at your reflection in the mirror infront. suddenly realizing how big his frame is swallowing you from behind. your gaze tracks down to your body—from your pink panties to the micro bikini top, but then directed at rafe.

he stares back from the mirror. making a long eye contact seconds after seconds. he leans down, his chin pressing against your bare shoulder. you dont even realize both of his hands are gripping the sides of your waist, not tightly—but firm enough.

“youre wearing this under the white dress tomorrow,” rafe dictates, tone flat. his eyes bored, but then dropped to your body again. smirking secretly. he lifts his chin off your shoulder.

“and when other guys say you look so good, youre gonna tell ‘em i picked it out for you. understood?” his big hand grabbed your chin, making you look and turning up at him.

he loves making you his doll. putting his name on your aesthetic and demanding you to brag about it to the rest of the island.

overwhelmed, flustered, and so obedient.

your lips part slightly. you give a tiny nod as you stare up at him.

“put your clothes back on. im paying for everything weve picked out.”

His hair is flattened on one side from sleep and curling wildly on the other, a line from the pillow still faintly visible along his cheek. The thin chain around his neck catches the grey morning light coming through the window above the sink each time he reaches for something, flashing briefly against his chest before settling again.

He’s been trying to make coffee for six minutes. She’s been preventing him from completing any individual step for more than twenty seconds.

Garrett reaches for the mugs. She hooks her foot more securely around the back of his knee and pulls. It doesn’t move him far, because he has the stability of a building designed to withstand coastal weather, but it gets his attention. 

He glances over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth already shifting. “What?”

She lifts her brows. “Nothing.”

“Your foot’s trying to climb into my pants.”

“It likes you.”

Garrett turns properly then, abandoning the mugs with the weary acceptance of a man who understands the coffee is no longer the main task. His hands settle on either side of her thighs, palms warm against the cold stone counter, and she catches his chain between two fingers before he can say anything else. 

It’s a gentle pull, barely enough pressure to bring his mouth closer, but Garrett follows immediately, chin tipping down until his breath moves warm over her face.

“Needy this morning,” he murmurs.

She studies the chain rather than him, thumb moving over the small metal links. “That’s rich.”

“Is it?”

“You tried to follow me into the bathroom.”

“You were gone a long time.”

“I was brushing my teeth.”

His mouth twitches. She gives the chain another small pull, and Garrett leans in the last inch without making her ask. 

The kiss lands soft and warm, morning-slow rather than hungry, his mouth tasting faintly of toothpaste and sleep. His hand slides from the counter to the outside of her bare thigh, thumb passing once along the hem of her shorts while she kisses him again because the first one feels too brief now that she has him there.

The new title hasn’t changed the mechanics of Garrett’s mouth. It hasn’t altered the weight of his hand or the rough-soft brush of his curls beneath her fingers or the way his body fits into the space between her knees like it has been doing so for months without formal permission. 

Still, something in her keeps testing it. Pulling him back when he moves away. Touching the chain at his throat. Catching his shoulder when he turns toward the cupboard. 

Because he’s her boyfriend now and her body has interpreted that as unrestricted access to his general vicinity.

Garrett seems to have reached the same conclusion. He kisses her once more, then presses his mouth to the corner of hers, her cheek, the warm place beneath her ear where the jersey collar slips wide over one shoulder. 

His hand spreads over her thigh as she tips her head to give him room, and the small pull through already-tender muscles makes her inhale differently.

Garrett stops. It’s almost irritating, how quickly he catches it. His mouth lifts from her neck, eyes moving over her face with the immediate focus of someone who’s spent enough time in hospitals around her to believe every bodily sound comes with follow-up questions.

“You sore?”

She looks at him. “You’re smug.”

“I’m asking.”

“You’re asking smugly.”

“Can you answer, baby?”

Her fingers stay looped loosely in his chain. “A little.”

Garrett’s mouth curves.

She narrows her eyes. “Don’t.”

He kisses her forehead, the smile still pressing into her skin. “You want ibuprofen?”

The question comes out so sincerely practical that a laugh slips through her before she can stop it. Her throat objects halfway, roughening the sound, and Garrett’s grin deepens into something unbearable.

“Oh, wow.”

She presses her palm over his mouth. “Don’t.”

Garrett kisses the centre of her hand.

“That’s not an invitation to become worse.”

His fingers circle her wrist, holding her hand against his face as he says, muffled into her palm, “Your voice is gone.”

“My voice is fine.”

“You sound like Dean after a three-day bender.”

She pulls her hand away to glare properly. “I worked an eleven-hour shift yesterday.”

“Mhm.”

“I was tired.”

“Right.”

“The heating dries out my throat,” she argues. 

“Baby.”

She catches his chain again, hard enough this time to bring his mouth down before he can finish whatever deeply self-satisfied contribution was coming next. 

Garrett laughs into the kiss, one hand sliding behind her neck while the other grips her thigh more firmly. She bites lightly at his bottom lip because he deserves it. He makes a rough sound and steps closer until the soft fabric of his sweatpants brushes between her knees.

The coffee machine clicks off behind him. Neither of them moves.

Then a floorboard groans in the hallway, followed by the dragging sound of someone approaching the kitchen with no meaningful interest in surviving the morning. 

Garrett pulls back by half an inch. She keeps her fingers around his chain, mostly because releasing him would suggest shame and she’s currently too comfortable for that.

Dean appears in the doorway wearing black sweatpants, one sock and no shirt, his hair standing up at the back as though he’s been electrocuted. He makes it three steps into the kitchen before seeing them. 

His gaze moves from Garrett standing between her knees to her hand wrapped around Garrett’s chain, then to the coffee machine like it has personally betrayed him by placing this scene along the route.

“No,” Dean says.

Garrett doesn’t turn. “Good morning.”

“It isn’t.”

She smiles at Dean over Garrett’s shoulder. “Morning.”

Dean’s expression changes immediately. “Morning, sweetheart. Sleep okay?”

Garrett pulls back enough to stare at him. “What the fuck?”

Dean ignores him and crosses to the cupboard, opening it with the careful dignity of a man refusing to engage with something below his moral standards. “There any coffee?”

“I just made it,” Garrett says.

“Great.” Dean reaches for a mug, pauses, then glances at Garrett’s bare back. “Didn’t realise you still had the upper-body strength. Good for you, man.”

Her face warms instantly. Garrett lets go of her thigh and turns around, placing himself between her and Dean as though modesty can be installed retroactively by shoulder width. “Can you not?”

Dean blinks at him. “Can I not get coffee?”

“You know what you’re doing.”

“I’m standing six feet from the kitchen counter because there’s a private event happening near the mugs.”

She presses her lips together.

Garrett looks back at her, catches the beginning of the laugh in her face and points one warning finger. “Don’t encourage him.”

“I haven’t said anything,” she says smiling.

“That’s because you can’t,” Dean says pleasantly, pouring coffee.

Garrett’s head snaps toward him. “Dude.”

Dean brings the mug to his mouth and blows across the top with complete serenity. “What?” Dean’s eyes widen with exaggerated innocence. “I was expressing concern about the house’s dry air.”

She folds in on herself, laughter catching silently in her chest as she presses her forehead to Garrett’s shoulder. His skin is warm beneath her face. 

Garrett mutters something that sounds like unbelievable and reaches automatically, one hand settling at the side of her neck to hold her there even while he glares at Dean.

Another set of footsteps sounds on the stairs, quicker and heavier. Logan comes into the kitchen in a backwards cap and a faded Bruins shirt, scratching one hand over his stomach. 

He stops beside Dean, takes in the arrangement and looks toward the ceiling. “Huh,” he says. “Still structurally intact.”

Garrett’s shoulders tighten. “Morning to you too.”

“I genuinely thought your headboard was going through the wall.”

“That headboard’s cheap,” Garrett grumbles.

“That headboard’s loud,” Tucker says from the hallway before appearing behind Logan, hair rumpled, grey hoodie pulled over sleep shorts. He carries his phone in one hand and looks more awake than the rest of them. “Or it was last night.”

Garrett turns enough that she can see his face. “Why does everyone keep talking about the headboard?”

The three boys stare at him.

Dean takes another slow drink of coffee. “Did you smack your head?”

She makes the mistake of laughing aloud. Her voice cracks visibly enough that Logan’s mouth drops open.

Garrett points at him immediately. “Don’t.”

Logan shuts his mouth, cheeks puffing as he holds the comment inside. His eyes water with the effort. Tucker looks toward the refrigerator with the strained neutrality of someone witnessing a minor car accident. Dean lowers his mug and bites down on his own knuckle.

“Oh my God,” she groans, putting both hands over her face.

Garrett steps closer at once, crowding between her knees again as he reaches up and catches her wrists. “Hey. They’re assholes.”

“No,” Dean says. “You’re the asshole. We’re witnesses.”

“Hostages,” Logan corrects.

“Tucker made popcorn,” Dean adds.

Tucker’s brows pull together. “I was hungry.”

“You made enough for everyone.”

“You were all downstairs.”

“Because nobody wanted to risk the upper floor.”

Garrett looks at Tucker. “You too?”

Tucker has the decency to appear slightly apologetic. “The vents carry sound.”

“The vents,” Logan repeats darkly. “A design flaw.”

Garrett releases one of her wrists but keeps hold of the other, thumb passing over the inside as he turns back toward the boys. “Okay, why are you all chirping me?”

Dean glances toward her. “Because you’re here.”

“So is she.”

All three faces change. There’s only a small, collective stillness, like Garrett has asked why they don’t kick puppies for sport and the room has to recalibrate around the moral deficit required to form the question.

Dean lowers his mug. “Don’t be dumb.”

Garrett frowns. “What?”

“We’re not chirping her.”

“Why not?”

Logan looks offended now. “Because we have manners.”

Garrett stares at him. “You told a campus cop his moustache looked like a cry for help.”

“He was harassing Tuck.”

“He asked Tucker to move his car,” Garrett argues.

“It was the tone.”

Tucker opens the refrigerator and peers inside. “Also, she’s our friend.”

Dean points his mug toward her, careful not to spill. “She’s basically my little sister.”

Her hands lower from her face. “Basically?”

Dean looks at her with immediate sincerity. “Emotionally. Not biologically. I would’ve remembered you at Christmas.”

“You got Tucker a gas-station gift card for Christmas.”

“He loves fuel.”

“I do drive,” Tucker says, taking the eggs from the fridge.

Garrett’s still looking between them, genuinely bothered by the imbalance. “She was up there too. Louder than me, actually.”

The comment earns him a smack to the stomach. 

“No,” Logan says.

Garrett’s brows draw together. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean I didn’t hear anything.”

“You just said–”

“Heard you,” Logan says. “Loud and clear. Like a fucking podcast.”

Dean nods. “Mostly you announcing relationship updates.”

Her stomach drops with a warm, humiliating lurch. Garrett’s hand tightens reflexively around her wrist.

“What relationship updates?” she asks grinning, though her voice comes out rough.

Dean’s mouth twitches. “Couldn’t tell you, sweetheart.”

“Selective hearing,” Tucker says, setting the eggs on the counter.

“It’s a trauma response,” Logan adds.

Garrett looks at all three of them, then back at her. His expression has gone from annoyed to openly betrayed. “You were saying it too.”

The boys look away simultaneously. Dean studies the inside of his coffee mug. Logan becomes fascinated by the magnets on the refrigerator. Tucker opens a drawer and begins searching for a spatula that has lived in the same place for two years.

Garrett’s eyes narrow. “Oh, fuck all of you.”

She laughs again, quieter this time, and lets him step back between her legs. He places both hands on her knees, looking up at her like she has personally failed to defend him in court.

“They love me more,” she whispers.

“Apparently.”

“Maybe I’m nicer.”

“You’re not.”

Her foot hooks around the back of his calf again. “Maybe I’m prettier.”

Garrett’s gaze moves over her face, then drops briefly to the jersey hanging loose over her body and the small strip of thigh above the cotton shorts. His annoyance softens around the edges in spite of himself. 

“Yeah,” he says. “That one’s probably true.”

She catches his chain and pulls him in. This kiss is smaller, mostly the press of her smiling mouth to his, but Garrett’s hand moves to her waist like no part of him understands the concept of casual contact anymore.

Dean makes a disgusted sound into his coffee. “See, this is what I mean. She’s being cute. You’re disgusting.”

Garrett kisses her once more before turning his head. “I’m making coffee.”

“You stopped making coffee ten minutes ago.”

“The coffee is made.”

“For her,” Logan says, spotting the second mug near the machine. “You made exactly two coffees.”

Garrett follows his gaze. “Make your own.”

Dean lifts the mug he is already drinking from. “I did.”

“Then why are you still talking?”

“Because your girlfriend’s funny.”

Garrett’s mouth presses together. She can feel the retort building in him before he gets it out, but Tucker interrupts by setting a pan on the stove.

“Eggs?”

“Yes, please,” she says.

Garrett glances at her. “You hungry?”

She makes a considering noise. “Starving.”

Dean opens the bread bag and takes out two slices. “You want toast?”

“Oh– I’m okay.”

He puts the bread in the toaster anyway. “That wasn’t the question.”

Garrett gestures toward her as though presenting evidence to a jury. “There. Chirp her for that.”

Dean gives him a flat look. “We’re feeding her.”

“That’s not chirping,” Garrett frowns.

“She works eleven-hour shifts and thinks crackers are a food group,” Logan says, reaching around Tucker for the orange juice. “There’s no sport in it.”

“It’s actually sad,” Dean adds.

She presses one bare foot against Garrett’s stomach. “Defend me.”

Garrett catches her ankle, palm circling it easily. “Eat the toast.”

“Traitor.”

“Girlfriend.”

The word is quiet, almost absent-minded, but it lands with embarrassing precision anyway. Her toes curl slightly against his skin. Garrett feels it. His eyes lift to hers, and something pleased moves slowly through his expression.

Dean watches both of them and sighs. “I hate that one word has made this worse.”

“You made this worse,” Garrett grumbles. 

“You were excited last night,” she reminds him.

“I was excited that you finally made an honest man out of Graham,” Dean corrects. 

Garrett snorts. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s what people say when a woman saves some asshole from himself.”

“That’s not what happened.”

Dean looks at her. “Is that not what happened?”

She considers Garrett’s hand still warm around her ankle, the coffee cooling behind him because he has once again forgotten to hand it to her, the way he stood outside the hospital asking whether a title could turn him into someone allowed to know she was safe. 

Her chest draws tight around something too soft to expose before breakfast. “Little bit,” she says.

Garrett looks up at her, deeply wounded. “Baby.”

She smiles and draws him closer with her foot until his hips bump lightly against the counter. “But you’re very trainable.”

Logan nearly chokes on the orange juice.

Tucker slides scrambled eggs onto plates while Dean handles the toast with the reckless confidence of someone who didn’t contribute to cooking it. Logan takes bacon from a container in the refrigerator, sniffs it, receives three immediate objections and puts it back. 

The kitchen fills gradually with heat and the warm, buttery smell of eggs, coffee and bread, everyone moving around one another with the unspoken choreography of people who have shared too many mornings in too little space.

Garrett finally remembers her mug. He pours in the small amount of milk she likes without asking, stirs it once and places it into her hands. She takes a sip and makes a soft sound of approval.

“Good?” he asks.

She nods, and he reaches up to push a piece of hair behind her ear. The motion is so gentle and ordinary that it catches somewhere strange. 

His knuckles brush her cheek. His fingers linger near her jaw for half a second before dropping to her knee, and he looks at her with the quiet attentiveness that usually comes after pain, bad shifts or arguments, except nothing is wrong. 

Nobody is bleeding. No doors are locked. His father is nowhere near them. Garrett’s only standing in his kitchen on a cold morning, shirtless and sleep-creased, touching his girlfriend because he can.

She takes another sip to give herself something to do with her mouth.

Garrett’s thumb moves once over her knee. “Away game this weekend.”

Her eyes lift to his.

“You coming?”

The question is casual enough that it could almost disappear into the noise of Dean complaining that Tucker has overcooked one side of the eggs, but Garrett’s attention stays fixed on her face. 

She thinks through her schedule first. No placement. Assignment work she can technically carry with her and then absolutely ignore in a hotel room. The drive is manageable. The ticket probably is too. Then the hotel cost arrives.

Her mouth pulls to one side. “I can’t afford the hotel, baby.”

He smiles immediately. It’s the smile of someone who already encountered this problem in his own head and quietly removed it before asking the question. “I’ll sneak you into my room.”

From inside the refrigerator, Logan says, “Whoa.”

Garrett doesn’t look away from her. “What?”

Logan straightens with a yoghurt in one hand. “Your room?”

Garrett’s thumb continues moving over her knee. “Yeah.”

“Our room,” Logan corrects.

There’s a brief silence.

Garrett glances at him. “You can stay with Dean.”

Dean’s head lifts from his toast. “Why am I being volunteered?”

“Because you love him.”

“I don’t love him enough to sleep beside him.”

Logan looks offended. “We’ve shared rooms before.”

“You kick,” Dean argues.

“You talk in your sleep.”

“I narrate.”

“You said, ‘No, officer, the horse consented,’ at three in the morning,” Logan says, shooting him a look.

Dean’s expression remains completely composed. “Sounds contextual.”

Tucker closes his eyes. “Why was there a horse?”

“It was a dream,” Dean says.

“That doesn’t answer anything.”

Garrett turns back to her as the argument begins widening behind him. His hand slides from her knee to the outside of her thigh, warm and steady beneath the jersey hem. “Come.”

The single word moves through her more softly than it should. She looks past him at Logan, who has now begun negotiating room compensation in the form of Garrett paying for all road snacks. 

Dean’s objecting on principle to having his sleeping arrangements treated like a public utility. Tucker’s trying to determine whether the hotel beds are doubles or queens, believing accurate dimensions may restore order.

Then she looks at Garrett. His hair still flattened strangely from sleep. The faint scratch she left near one shoulder visible when he turns. The chain she’s been using as a personal retrieval system all morning lying warm against his chest. 

He’s watching her without trying to hide how much he wants the answer to be yes. Her foot catches around the back of his leg again.

“Yeah,” she says, smiling before she can stop it. “I wanna come.”

Garrett nods once, like something has settled exactly where he wanted it. His hand squeezes her thigh. “Good.”

She lifts her brows. “Good?”

“Yeah.” He steps closer, fitting between her knees again despite having never moved especially far. His free hand comes up to her face, thumb passing lightly over her cheek. “Want you there.”

There’s nothing polished in the way he says it. Only the plain, warm weight of want you there, spoken while Tucker scrapes eggs from a pan and Logan tries to extort minibar privileges in exchange for losing his bed.

Her chest tightens anyway. She curls two fingers into Garrett’s chain and draws him in, kissing him slowly enough that his hand slides from her cheek to the back of her neck.

Behind them, Logan says, “Okay, but I’m serious. Where exactly am I sleeping?”

Garrett’s mouth stays against hers when he answers, “Not my problem.”

“It becomes your problem when I climb into the other bed at three a.m.”

She laughs into the kiss. Garrett pulls back enough to glare over her shoulder. “You do that and I’m locking you in the hallway.”

Dean picks up one of the plates Tucker has made and brings it toward her. “Here, sweetheart.”

Garrett turns back. “Why are you serving her?”

Dean sets the plate carefully beside her on the counter. “Because you made coffee and then spent fifteen minutes letting her lead you around by the necklace.”

She looks down at the chain still curled around her fingers. Garrett looks down too.

Dean gives a small, vindicated nod. “Exactly.”

Tucker hands Garrett another plate. “Eat.”

Logan takes the final one and leans against the opposite counter, yoghurt abandoned. “I still think I deserve compensation.”

“You’re getting a whole room with Dean,” Garrett says.

“That’s not compensation.”

Dean points his fork at him. “You’re lucky I’m taking him at all. What do I get?”

Garrett looks at her. “Privacy.”

Dean follows his gaze, then closes his eyes briefly as though receiving spiritual guidance. “Right. Yeah. Fine. Separate room. Far end of the hall, ideally.”

“Different floor,” Logan says.

“Different hotel,” Tucker adds.

She hides her smile behind her coffee. Garrett catches it anyway, his hand returning to her knee beneath the edge of the counter.

“See?” he says quietly. “They’re assholes.”

“They’re helping you smuggle me into a team hotel.”

“They’re still assholes.”

Dean points his fork toward Garrett without looking up from his eggs. “And yet we’re not the reason she can barely talk.”

Garrett throws a dish towel at his head.

Dean catches it one-handed and places it politely beside his plate. “Violence won’t restore your dignity.”

“I have dignity.”

Logan looks around the kitchen. “Anybody seen it?”

Tucker shakes his head. “Not since last night.”

Garrett mutters something beneath his breath and turns toward her, clearly expecting support. She takes another bite of toast, chewing slowly as if considering the available evidence.

“Sorry,” she says once she swallows. “Selective hearing.”

For one beat, Garrett only stares. Then his hand tightens around her knee, and she laughs as he leans in, crowding her back slightly against the cupboard. 

His mouth finds her cheek first, then the corner of her smile when she turns her face, the kiss warm and full of the grin he’s trying not to give her.

“My own girlfriend,” he murmurs.

She hooks her heel behind his thigh and keeps him there. 

Across the kitchen, Dean groans so loudly the refrigerator hum briefly loses the competition. Logan throws a crumpled napkin at Garrett’s back. Tucker moves the pan off the warm burner.

Garrett kisses her anyway, one hand sliding into her hair and the other steady on her bare thigh, while coffee cools in her mug and the boys complain around them and plans for the weekend form in pieces across the kitchen: tickets, rides, room keys, Logan’s threatened exile. 

The house is loud again now, properly awake, full of cupboards shutting and forks scraping and Dean insisting he never consented to becoming part of anybody’s romantic logistics.

She keeps Garrett close with two fingers in his chain. He lets her.

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.

you scan the backyard, and lock eyes with your target.

reclined on a deck chair, he’s pretending to listen to beau’s teammate bitch about how fucking terrible their offensive line has been playing. 

he’s got a half-drank bottle of miller high life dangling from his hand. the condensation of it is a steady drip, drip, drip onto his levis. 

hunter davenport. 

bingo.

you knew it was a fucking stupid idea. the kind of idea your brain only conjures up after taking a shot of room temperature tequila. 

but just because you know what’s good for you doesn’t mean you turn your ass around. 

no, dean deserves this, some deep dark part of you thinks. he deserves to know how shitty you feel every time you see a puck bunny feening for his attention. 

you march up to hunter. plaster a bright a smile on your face, and convince yourself you’re making the right call. ignoring that rotten feeling in your gut screaming at you to find dean. it’s your body betraying you, you decide. you pull the trigger anyway. 

“hunter! it’s so great to see you. you’re usually never at these things.”

you cringe at the truth hidden beneath your words. he’s usually not at these things because these things are at your boyfriend’s house off campus. your boyfriend who wishes hunter davenport was buried six-feet under. your boyfriend who stays up at night plotting how to do it himself.

you squeeze your eyelids shut, bracing for the retort you’re expecting to be slapped in the face with. some mean, cruel comment that hunter is somehow always armed with. 

you pray for a portal to open up, and spit you out into an alien dimension where you have a shred of confidence. 

you really thought you could flirt to hunter davenport. what a fucking stupid idea.

you’re about to raise the white flag, to be noble and walk away, when hunter’s face breaks out in a wide-toothed grin. 

“hey, trouble.”

oh?

he flashes his canines at you, and you swear his teeth glimmer. his eyes trace the outline of your silhouette, figure accentuated by your mesh mini dress. his gaze lands on your breasts. 

you look down. your nipples are pebbled from the cold air. standing at attention through the mesh fabric. 

you’re quick to cross your arms and shield him from the view he thinks he’s so privy to. the view he sees as an invitation. 

“i didn’t realize dean would let you off your leash with so many people around. must be my lucky day.”

oh. right. 

this is why you didn’t talk to hunter davenport. he was a pretentious fucking asshole.

“i’m not–” you sputter at the comment.

“dean doesn’t.. i’m not on a leash," huffing, you set a hand on your hip.

you can see hunter wracking his brain for some quippy comeback. but the smug look is wiped clean off his face the second a shadow overtakes it. 

you feel someone breathing down your neck, and a heavy arm wraps itself snugly against your middle.

dean.

“what the fuck is going on here, davenport? what are you playing at?” dean’s gaze is hard-set on hunter. 

“dean, chill out. it's fi–” hunter is practically cowering under the weight of dean's stare.

“actually, no. y’know what? get the fuck out of my house. i’ll deal with you later.” dean’s voice is steady and cold. he doesn’t yell. he doesn't need to. he points to the back gate, and hunter has already left with his tail between his legs. 

“upstairs. now.” 

you don’t need to hear another word before you’re sprinting through the crowd of strangers. 

your heart is beating in your throat. the lace trim of your dress is itchy on your skin as you take the stairs two steps at a time. you almost trip over the last one on your way up. 

when you get to dean’s bedroom, you’re blurting out apologies before he even gets the chance to shut the door. 

“i’m so so sorry, dean. i didn’t– didn’t think he’d be like that. i didn’t think it through, i swear,” you hiccup as you plead, throat tight and scratchy — straining just to get the words out.

“please, please don’t be mad.”

dean’s got that unimpressed look on his face. massive arms crossed cooly over his chest. his large frame kicked back with one boot against the door. 

he looks so handsome tonight in a creamy white henley and faded jeans. the mean, unforgiving look in his eyes doesn’t suit him. it makes you burst into tears. this is all your fault. 

“you’re un-fucking-believable, you know that? running off to fucking davenport in my house. didn’t realize you were such a little attention whore. can’t handle not having my eyes on you for two seconds, can you?”

a loud sob escapes you. you wanna scream and plead and promise him you want nothing to do with hunter. you were just being stupid.

but you keep your mouth shut and hang your head. try and convince yourself his words are empty. devoid of any real meaning. you’re jumping through hoops trying to tell yourself your boyfriend doesn’t think you’re a whore.

you sniffle and wipe at the flood of tears pouring from your bloodshot eyes. you look like a wreck, you’re sure of it.

maybe dean’s right. none of this would’ve happened if you’d just been good. 

“i’m just so so sorry, dean. i just– i missed you. you were busy and i–”

he gives you an accusatory look that shuts you right up. he’s not interested in excuses right now, obviously.

you try again.

“i wanna make it better. please, let me make it better. i’ll do anything.”

his ears perk up at that. he cocks his head. “you’d do anything, huh?”

you nod furiously. it’s true. you’d do whatever he asked if it meant he’d stop looking at you like this. like you'd disappointed him. 

“anything you want,” you promise.

dean’s toying with you. pretending to weigh his options. maybe he’ll granting you forgiveness. or maybe he’s planning how to make sure you regret ever going up to davenport in the first place.

he pushes his body off the door. walks a few steps over to the end on his bed and slowly lowers himself down. he sits and stares at you. 

you’re standing in front of him, pulling at the mesh fabric of your dress. tracing the pretty cheetah print pattern of it. distracting yourself by thinking of a happier time — last weekend, when dean had bought you this dress at a boutique downtown. he'd chanted sweet nothings to you in the dressing room.

“crawl.”

“w–what?” your eyes pop open.

he’s got his hand beckoning you forward in a come hither motion. his legs are spread wide and you feel yourself start salivating at the bulge in his jeans. 

“crawl to me.”

you weigh it in your brain.

you and dean definitely weren’t vanilla by any means. he was prone to settling a rough hand around your throat every now and then. slapping your ass in doggy. but you’d never delved into anything teetering on bdsm.

you decide dean knows best. 

you gulp in anticipation, legs shaky as you lower yourself onto your knees. 

it feels so primal, having his eyes on you as you bring yourself to all fours. a natural submission. feeling any sense of power slip through your fingers as the fibers of the rug eat at the skin on your palms. knees scraping against the fabric. your bones aching against the wooden floorboards. 

you move toward him, and you see his hand slip under his waistband. lazily playing with his cock. and, god, you want it so bad. 

the heady smell of him hits you when you arrive at his feet, eye-level with his crotch. it’s a woody musk mixed with the denim fabric of his jeans. you want to bury your face in it. 

“sit.”

you immediately obey. panties completely soaked through. slippery arousal dripping down your thighs.

you’re wet. 

the realization is a sucker punch. you pause. the anxious, flighty feeling bubbling up is like dark storm clouds over your head. 

you like this. 

maybe you shouldn’t. 

you’re reeling. navigating the ocean of your brain a million thoughts per second. thinking that you’re dirty. that this is wrong. thinking why the fuck do you like being treated this? 

and the worst one of all — oh god. dean’s really going to think you’re a whore now. 

“hey, where’d you go baby?” dean’s voice is so soft and shaky it makes your guts tangle into something poisonous. he’s touching your face so lightly, dragging his thumb up and down your jaw. 

“you need to stop? shit. baby, i shouldn’t have pushed you that hard.” 

if it weren’t for the panic attack you were on the brink of, you would’ve laughed.

“no, no, dean i–” you take a deep breath in and muster up the courage. “i don’t– i don’t think the punishment is working.”

“god, baby, i’m so sorry. had a feeling that was too far. smack the shit out of me next time i–” 

“dean, i–,” you sigh. “you don’t understand. i liked it.”

god, what were you even saying? how are you supposed to tell your boyrfiend that you like being punished. that you like it when he’s mean to you.

“sorry, what?” dean stops in his tracks. 

fuck it. 

“i think i like it when you.. um– get mean? how terrible is that. god, you probably think i’m disg–”

“oh, baby.” 

he lifts your chin up. looks deep into your eyes.

you hope he doesn’t see the deep rooted humiliation you feel.

no, it seems like he doesn’t. or maybe he’s putting it to the side for now. because he’d got this fond look in his eye. readjusting himself to lean in closer to you, pressing a kiss against your forehead.

you preen at that, nuzzling your head further  into his hand.

“my girl likes being roughed up a little? likes being on her knees for me?” his thumb forces its way into your mouth and you latch on. swirling your tongue around the digit instinctively.  

“jesus, baby, you’re so fucking hot. just wanna be told what to do, yeah? c’mon then, baby. show me how bad you want me.”

you hear his boot tap against the floorboards, and look down at the laces swinging side to side.

“c'mon. be a good girl for me, baby,” he coaxes. it’s a warm invitation. one you really can’t refuse. you lick your lips at the thought of it. 

taking a shaky breath, you lift your hips, and he’s quick to fill in the gap with his boot. you carefully settle yourself down onto it. wince at the feel of the hard leather against your heat. it’s so much pressure so quickly. it has your pussy throbbing against the laces as you start grinding against it. 

“oh fuck– dean,” you choke out, grasping at his jeans and twisting the denim fabric in your fist. trying to ground yourself.

he leans back with a smirk on his face. 

“ride out your feelings for me, angel. show me what a good puppy you can be.”

you suppose you asked for this. and god it feels so fucking good, riding his boot with his hand tangled up in your hair. your clit snagging between the laces. pussy juices leaking onto the leather. it'll probably fucking stain.

dean’s always been a dirty talker. and you’re lucky it drowns out that little voice inside your head telling you how wrong people would think this is. 

“you wanted to be my puppy this whole time, didn’t you? just needed a little guidance, babydoll. fuck– keep rolling your hips like that. make a fucking mess on me, pup. i’ve gotcha.”

you know you’ve never been this wet before. then dean starts bouncing his leg up and down, and a white hot heat burns in you as the leather vibrates against your core. the coil in your tummy is about to snap.

“dean– can’t. i’m gonna, fuck– dean!” you squeal, pain searing deep in your bones and throttling you headfirst into an orgasm. 

a soft command, let go f’me, puppy, is all you need before you’re squirting all over the black leather of his boot. body convulsing and pretty tears welling up in your eyes.

“you’re such a good girl,” he coos, lightly tapping your damp cheek. “you liked that? making a mess on me?”

you nod dumbly, still grinding out the aftershocks. 

“since you liked it so much, you can clean it up too.”

he raises a brow, daring you. seeing just how far you’ll push yourself for him. 

if he only knew.

you inch yourself backwards. arch your back till your ass is wagging in the air, and you’re eye level with your slick pooling on his boot.

it doesn’t take long before you’re practically making out with it. tongue threading between the laces.

it’s so mindless and oh so fucking hot. you can’t help yourself when you reach down, pushing your panties to the side and rub circles on your raw clit. 

it’s heaven, until you feel the sharp sting of dean smacking your ass and you pout, pulling your hand away from your core. 

Your eyes blink slowly, sleep still lingering in the edges of your body. His room is dark—messy, too, though not as badly as you’ve known it to be. You vaguely spot the outline of his helmets, of weights that have strayed too far from his training room, of the chair the two of you knocked into earlier.

You close your eyes. Exhale. Through the blinds, you can see the glow of street lights and the quiet night awaiting outside. 

He breathes softly behind you. A steady, quiet sigh capable of lulling you back to sleep just as easily. And it’d be so easy, pretending this away. Pretending you never woke up. That you never saw the clock on his nightstand reading 6:01 AM in bright numbers. That the boy with his arm curled around you is something else than what he is.

The fact that his room is starting to feel familiar is a realization that trickles in slowly at the back of your mind. Not a hotel, like you used to. No—as of late, his apartment seems to have become a fixed point in your nights. 

You know the steps to this dance far too well already.

Lando Norris doesn’t do mornings. Then again, neither do you.

(The first time was back in your hotel room in Barcelona. Ages ago, really—before he started seeing that second-to-last girlfriend of his. You had barely stepped into the shower, the feeling of his lips still lingering on your skin, when you heard the door closing behind him).

Falling back into old habits is a slippery slope. One enough friends have warned you about. It’s routine by now—watching him date for a few months, break-up, invite you out, and end up in his bedroom all over again. You’re rebound, you know that. Except after Lando’s latest very public, though quietly messy breakup, he wasn’t texting you the following morning. Wasn’t liking year-old posts of yours on Instagram. Wasn’t sending you innocent messages that eventually became a casual invite out devolving into anything but. You assumed rumors were true— “slag summer” or whatever that means. You’d seen enough videos of him partying with people whose faces didn’t ring a bell, leaving with girls you forbid yourself from looking up. 

It was three of your friends that made the decision for you. Made you a Raya account, told you that you could do better than some fuck boy with a love  for expensive cars. And you did go on dates—just a few, most for the sake of your friends, though some for yours. It’s not like you and Lando were ever serious, much less exclusive. Just sex and a good time. A mutual benefit to getting rid of pent up frustration.

You went on a date with a tennis player. An actor from some upcoming series on Hulu. A handful of influencers. The farthest you got was three dates with a handsome football player. It only took one casual picture with him posted on your story before someone else ended up finding you on Raya.

lando: i think i have an evn better pic of you on my travel cam from that same day lando: want me 2 send it to u? lando: might not b approved under rayas guidelines tho ;)

He’s a bad habit you can’t seem to shake off. A revolving door that sends you right back to where you started. 

You exhale. Shift on the bed to try and locate your clothes, all strewn across the floor of his bedroom. His shirt is nice on you, though. And if you’ll allow yourself something, maybe you’ll decide to keep it—just because it’s cute and expensive.

Once you spot your top and your shoes, you move to get up. Lando’s grip around your waist tightens, a mumbled protest hummed against your back.

Your hand curls around his, gently trying to lift each finger off. In response, he buries his face deeper into your neck. 

“Trying to get away already?” Lando asks, voice hoarse and sleep-worn.

“It’s late,” you say quietly, not wanting to rouse him any more than you have. You wanted to avoid waking him up all together—make it a quick, swift exit. “I should go.”

His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer to him. His nose tickles your neck, lips ghosting against your skin.

“Lando—”

“Stay,” he hums, voice dragging against his throat. His chest rises and falls evenly behind you, like he hasn’t quite managed to wake up just yet. “It’s dark out. I’ll drive you in the morning.”

Your fingers mindlessly tangle through his curls, pulling a content sigh from him. “You don’t mean that.”

Lando mutters something you don’t quite catch. Before you can ask, though, you feel his lips press against your neck in a quiet, bargaining trail. You shiver when his teeth catch on your collarbone. “You can wait a few hours if you wanna leave so badly,” he mumbles, words punctuated by kisses on the slope of your neck—like he’s making it his mission to kiss away the tension caught in your shoulders. “S’it so bad to be seen with me?”

You huff, though there’s no real bite to it. You vaguely register Lando pulling the covers over the two of you. “You’re being unfair,” you murmur back, though your body has already made up its mind, relaxing in his hold.

“Maybe,” Lando says, and you can feel that stupid smile pressed against your skin. Like he knows he’s won. “You love it, though.”

“I’m not calling an Uber in broad daylight,” you say resolutely. His breaths have already evened out.

“Said m’gonna drive you home. Promise,” he yawns.

You turn around, meeting his gaze now. His blue-green eyes are droopy, blinking slowly as he tries to keep himself awake. Your lipstick is still smudged on the base of his throat, curls muzzed with sleep and your own work from early in the night.

“What?” he asks, his fingers trailing mindless patterns on your back.

“I didn’t know that was an option,” you say, brushing away his curls with your thumb. He preens under it, leaning into your touch like he’s starved for it. You think you like this Lando—the one that’s not quite awake yet. “You driving me home.”

“Always has been,” he sighs contentedly. “You just like t’leave before there’s a chance.”

The impulse is to argue. But his eyes are already closing, and sleep is starting to creep up on you too. And he’s not wrong—not really. Every night you’ve spent together—whether at a hotel or here in Monaco—you’ve left long before the sun comes up. A force of habit, maybe.

“Stay,” Lando mumbles, eyes closed and peaceful.

“Okay,” you respond—or maybe you don’t. Maybe it’s just a half-formed, fleeting thought that passes by before you fall asleep.

The next time Lando opens his eyes, sunlight filters through his blinds. He squints, an annoyed half-gran scratching against his throat. He cuts himself off as soon as he notices the warm body next to him.

Your chest rises and falls evenly, hair strewn around your head like a halo. He rubs the back of his palm over his eyes, careful not to disturb you. His apartment already feels warmer—usually, the first thing he would do as soon as he wakes up is open his window before his room starts to feel like a dutch oven. He can’t make himself detach from your side. 

Lando shifts, settling back into you when he feels you stir. He pauses. Closes his eyes for good measure.

A beat passes. Two.

“I know you’re awake, Lando.”

Lando clicks his tongue, pouting as you rise from his pillow, his hand dropping from around you. He should’ve been quieter—let this golden morning stretch like melted sugar.

“There’s no hurry,” Lando hears himself saying before he can help it. He watches as you stretch your arms over your head, his shirt riding up slightly. Lando straightens, trying to go for casual. “Unless you’re supposed to be meeting someone.”

Oh, yeah, real smooth. Really good job there.

You look at him over your shoulder, raising a brow. “Meet someone?”

Lando’s words get stuck in his throat. This is what you look like when you’re waking up. It hits him unexpectedly how domestic this feels—how easy it would be to become used to this.

He clears his throat. “I don’t know.” Lando sits up against the headrest, one hand struggling to fix the mess that is his hair. You’re only partly to blame—his mistake was ever letting you know that he likes it when you tug at his curls. 

He scrunches his nose, annoyance filtering in. “That rugby player from the other day might be waiting to hear back from you.”

You look unimpressed, though he doesn’t miss the faint blush by the tips of your ears. “He’s a football player.”

“Ah,” he says, and his face does nothing to hide the flare of irritation he feels. Lando can’t help it—not when that picture of yours still sits fresh in his mind. 

His chin propped over your shoulder, hands around your waist. Casual. Maybe too casual.

“You’re being petty,” you say, scanning his face carefully. And his stare pointedly lands on the curve of your neck, where a trail of bruised hickeys is already blooming.

Lando meets your gaze. “I’m not petty, I’m jealous.” He shrugs, catching the brief surprise that crosses your pretty eyes. He exhales, letting his body loosen. “Kinda don’t have a right to be, though.”

“Yeah,” you say, and it makes him stiffen, the way it lands when you say it. “You don’t.” 

Lando tries to go for nonchalant when he asks, “How many dates has he taken you on?”

You hesitate. Briefly. “Three.”

“Oh, must be getting serious.”

You look away, jaw ticking—and Lando knows then that he’s accidentally stepped into a sore spot. He fleetingly wonders whether the guy you’re seeing doesn’t wanna get serious with you. The thought makes something bitter churn in his gut. Though it’d be hypocritical of him to say it infuriates him even a little.

But then he pictures the guy’s pearly-white smile. His dark brown eyes and fuckin’ perfect hair like he’s never had bedhead a single day of his life.

So, yeah, maybe he’s checked your Instagram. 

“It was gonna be four,” you say, but your voice catches—like the words slipped out before you could stop them. Four dates. Your eyes find Lando’s, and he hates that his heart skips a beat. Something about the intensity of the way you’re looking at him—somehow both entirely different from last night and all too similar. Like you wanna pull him closer. Like you resent him for it. “Before you texted.”

It lands close to his ego, knowing that you chose him over the lad from Real Madrid. You don’t look too pleased about it, though.

“Interrupted date night then, did I?” Lando asks. He watches as you turn away with a huff, annoyed. And it is annoying—that he still finds you hot when you’re mad at him. “Sorry. Sounded like a dickhead.”

“You are a dick, Lando.” 

“I don’t mean to,” he says, easily. Leans closer to you and props his chin on the curve of your shoulder and neck. Maybe to use up any space your date may have taken. His mind wanders, and the thought trickles into his mind—has he kissed you? Have you hooked up? Maybe he’s not that great at sex if you’d rather have Lando over him. He feels tempted to kiss your neck again, find that spot that makes you whine, erase any trace of anyone other than him. 

Just to test the idea, Lando’s lips press against the slope of your neck, teeth gently nipping at the tender skin. His voice is a deep hum buried at the back of his throat. “Forgive me?”

He feels you relax under him for a second—just a second. Then, you’re pulling away from him like he’s stung you. “You’re doing it again,” you say, unreadable. You mutter something under your breath, moving to stand up. “I should go.”

His chest rattles. His hand latches onto your wrist before he can help it. And Lando’s supposed to be suave and smooth. Instead, what comes out of his mouth is a strangled, “Don’t.”

Your brows twitch. “Lando…”

“No, look, I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it—maybe more than you know. “I am.”

He looks at you like he’s dreading watching you walk out his apartment. Maybe because you stayed past the night—and instead of feeling like a new door’s opening, it all feels like the end of the line is closer than he expected. Maybe this gold-dipped morning was just a way for the universe to soften the blow.

You look conflicted, searching his gaze like you’ve lost something in it.

“Did you just text me because I was going out with someone?” you ask, voice like forged steel. Lando blinks, brows pinched together. “Or because you just broke up with your girlfriend?” 

“It’s not like that,” he’s quick to say. It’s not, he swears, though he’s not dull as to not know how it looks. He releases your wrist. “I mean, I was jealous. Am. Whatever—but that isn’t, this isn’t—”

“Isn’t what, Lando?” you ask, and it’s impossible to miss how exasperated you sound. “Isn’t serious? I know that. But there’s someone out there I might actually get serious with, and I need to know what this is meant to be.”

Whatever he was about to say gets stuck in his throat. His mind loops your words like a record scratch. “You—You wanna go official with him?”

You look away, like his question’s caught you off guard. “I-I mean—I don’t know, not yet, I don’t…” You shut your eyes, trying to gather your thoughts. “This can’t carry on forever, Lan. Not like this.”

Maybe it’s the way you say his name. The first time you said it wasn’t actually in this bedroom, like a breathy whine while he was eating you out—though you have used it several times since. The first time you called him that—Lan—was actually at Max’s birthday last year. Nothing happened between the two of you then. You didn’t take his hand and had him drive to your place like you’d done more than once before. Instead, you’d been sipping on piña coladas and margaritas all night, and by the time he found you again, you were sitting by the stairs of the yacht, staring at the hardwood floors like they were the ones to blame. He ended up sticking by you the rest of the night, your head leaning against his shoulder while you toyed with the rings in his fingers. 

“Y’know,” you’d mumbled, toying with a silver band. “You can b’sweet when you want to, Lan. S’a good look on you.”

And he’d just sat there, thankful you were too tipsy to notice the blush climbing up his cheeks.

So, yeah—maybe it’s the fact that you used that stupid nickname that makes his heart flutter whenever you say it. Maybe it’s the fact that he knows this might be his last chance—that if he doesn’t get it out now, he never will.

“I don’t know how else to talk to you.” 

As soon as he says it, he feels pathetic. His cheeks are hot, and the look you’re giving him doesn’t make it any better.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he complains, biting the inside of his cheek. “I’ve tried inviting you out like fifteen times already, and you always—always shoot me down.”

Your face twists. “What? I don’t shoot you down.”

“Then what was that last week, when I invited you to hang out with a few friends in Nice?”

“That was different.”

“I sent you paddock passes in May.”

“Your team sent them.”

“I sent them.”

A light sparks in your eyes. “You had a girlfriend in June.”

“I did,” Lando concedes, sitting straighter. “And do you know how fucked it is to have to be catching myself before I called her by your name?”

He watches his words land. Your expression sours. “That’s not on me.”

Lando shakes his head. “No, it’s on me.” His hands tangle through his hair. “Because even when I was with her, you would still find your way into my head.” His jaw tightens, like he’s been dreading saying it out loud. “I didn’t break up with her and then go find you.” Lando feels his body brace, akin to when he feels the rear tire lock and knows the crash is incoming. “I kept… I kept looking for you while I was with her.”

You look at him with true, raw surprise. Feels fair, given that Lando feels like he’s exposed himself. Left his skin tender and vulnerable. No lies, no smiles to hide behind anymore.

“Look, I’m not… I’m not asking for an answer,” he hesitates, struggling to find the words. “I’m just asking you not to disappear on me.”

You study him slowly. “I can’t keep being an almost, Lando.”

It feels like the door opens just a creak. He nods in earnest. “Don’t be.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“But we can try, right?” Lando says. “It’s a start.”

And this time, when he kisses your temple, it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to cross out someone else’s touch, or rewrite his own mistakes. There’s no greed there, no lust. Just a start. A first line being penned of a long, long story.

“Let me drive you home,” Lando murmurs into your temple, voice still rougher with sleep. This time, he feels you lean back into him.

“Okay,” you say. When you meet his watercolor eyes, he relishes the small, near imperceptible smile tugging at your lips. Gold-dipped. Sunlight in a bottle.

He nods once. “Okay.”

deuxmoi DEUXMOI EXCLUSIVE …… 📸 Mclaren’s Lando Norris spotted this morning getting cozy with a mystery woman in Monte Carlo. Source alleges Lando was “dropping her off” before the picture was taken, leading to speculation on the nature of their relationship.

view more comments

user1 slag summer!!!!!!!

user2 yeahhh the chances of lando getting into a serious relationship r probably the same chances of williams getting a podium 👎👎 sorry pal

user3 admin might wanna check their sources cause you do know this is LANDO we’re talking abt right 😭

lando hey so can you piss off pls

lando ur gonna fuck this up for me delete

these comments have been deleted!

Bf! Jabber the type to fiddle with his rings while staring at you with hooded eyes as you speak.

Bf! Jabber the type to smirk when you get mad and pull you by your belt towards his lap, saying “I’m sorry ma, forgive me, yeah?”

Bf! Jabber the type to moan loud in public if you swat him playfully.

Bf! Jabber the type to look at you with the nastiest side eye during a serious situation, you both trying your best not to laugh.

Bf! Jabber the type to say “take me out to dinner first.” If you grab his thigh while he’s driving.

Bf! Jabber the type to give you nicknames like “ma”, “lil’ lady”, “ma’am”, “my girl”

Bf! Jabber the type to twirl you around after you put on the most cuntiest outfit.

Bf! Jabber the type to press his knees to the back of your knees to see you fold.

Bf! Jabber the type to grab you by the waist, pressing his cold ring fingers on your exposed skin just to see you shudder.

Bf! Jabber the type to take a fat ass chunk of your food after you asked him if he wanted a small bite.

Bf! Jabber the type to kick his feet while he texts you and say “girl you play too muchhhh” in his empty room while giggling.

Bf! Jabber the type to slap your ass as he passes through.

Bf! Jabber the type to rest his head between your thighs as he scrolls through his phone.

Bf! Jabber the type to shut up with the biggest smile when you tell him to shut up.

Bf! Jabber the type to laugh so loud at your joke just to go serious all of a sudden and say “it’s not that funny.”

Bf! Jabber the type to say something smart while you give him the most obvious question. “What are you cooking?” “Food.” “Jabber, I know IT’S FUCKING FOOD.”

Bf! Jabber the type to hit the dougie while you’re mid scolding him.