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Bruce Wayne:

“I have to say Bruce, this is a weird one.” I say watching the (very kind) women slather me with some sort of coconut scented oil.

Bruce flips down his newspaper already dressed in his “summer apparel”

“Out of all the things I've done.” Bruce says, “This is the one that gives you pause.”

You tilt your head over the woman, “Staging a makeout session on a private beach to lure paparazzi pictures, to end a petty rivalry with Oliver Queen over a comment he made while off his ass drunk.”

Bruce levels a look at you, “He called me a prude”

“You kinda are one.”

“Darling! I am a playboy-”

You hold up a hand, “Former playboy.”

“I am the best.”

“You are the charming father figure billionaire in the eyes of Gotham. Everyone still thinks you're hot.”

Bruce walks over gently fanning away the woman in front of you, “I still got it.”

You nod, “I know you do, so why are we trying to prove it.”

“Sue me, I want to make out with my black bikini wearing wife on my own beach.”

You look down at the suit, “Is this that same suit that I was wearing when I got featured on that bulletin board for Wayne Enterprises?”

Bruce huffs.

“Oh my god it is!” You wack him, “I’m wearing your name.”

He shrugs, “It could have been your name too.”

“Your ego wounds me.” You turn and sure enough the WE logo is lightly stitched into the bottoms of your trunks.

“Yes, I am a shallow petty man. Can we go relax on the beach now?” Bruce grumbles into your neck

“These better be damn good pictures if I'm wearing your name on my ass.”

He kisses your temple, "You always look good."

You roll your eyes and turn toward the beach.

A camera clicks.

Bruce smiles.

"Perfect."

"You don't even know if they got the shot."

"I wasn't talking about the paparazzi."

Then

Smack.

“Motherfucker”

Clark Kent

It was a surprise you'd been working on for months.

Subtle enough that he notices but not so loud that people say you simp for a kryptonian.

Safe to say, it worked.

Maybe a little too well.

Clark had gone completely silent the second you walked out in the blue bikini with the tiny red-and-yellow crest stitched over your hip. 

"Clark?"

Nothing.

"...Clark?"

His eyes finally lifted from the crest stitched into the side of your bikini.

"...You..."

"Do you hate it?"

"I think I stopped breathing."

You've been on your back in the sand for at least fifteen minutes.

Clark’s hands moving up and down your side.

His lips have been all over your lips, cheek, neck, arms.

You're surprised you haven't been kicked out yet.

Then in the distance, “There are other people here?!?”

In the brief pause, you roll out from under him.

“Sorry!” You yell giving a thumbs up to the grumpy grandma in the distance.

Clark just stares for a moment.

You turn to lock eyes with him, “I’m beginning to question my stance on the whole ‘superman wants a harem’ thing”

Clark’s face doesn’t falter as he leans in for another kiss.

You pull away, “I don’t want to get banned from this beach.”

With little other dialogue, Clark picks you up over his shoulder.

“HEY!”

You feel him shrug, “You didn’t want to get banned from the beach.”

You huff and wave to the disgruntled old lady as she glares at you while Clark walks you back to the hotel.

“Can you let me down now?” You ask feeling a bit like a child on the way to time out.

He shakes his head before kissing your ankle, “Superman has to fly, sweetheart.”

Dick Grayson

“You can’t be serious.” You ask

Your arms are crossed glaring at the ‘swimsuit’ Dick had picked out for you

Its not the cut or style of it per se rather the fact that is just the nightwing logo.

“Who even makes this?”

Dick hugs you from behind, “I had it custom made.”

“Offffff course you did.” You mumble.

He shrugs with a wide grin, “A bets a bet.”

You sigh, “a bet's a bet.”

You bet he couldn’t stop self-sacraficing his own mental health for others for a week.

He proved you wrong 

Leading to this monstrosity.

You walk out of the bathroom feeling like a younger sister in an ugly pair of hand me downs. 

“I look ridiculous." You gesture down.

“You look hot.”

You shake your head, “You’re just saying that.”

“Nope,” he says, twirling you around, “You look mine.”

You laugh, “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He chuckles in response, “No, but it makes me feel better.”

“Oh? And why is that?” You ask angrily grabbing the beach bag.

“Because whenever you get flirted with by random beach bros, I know you are wearing my symbol even if they don’t.” He whispers in your ear.

“This will be the most fun I’ve had at the beach in years.” Dick announces dragging you out of the apartment with a pep in his step.

Jason Todd

Jason hates the ‘Wayne Family Fashion Show’ for many reasons

Its dumb

Its for an unfairly good cause

And he gets dragged into it every year.

Except this year, he was going to watch in the crowd with you and laugh at his siblings misfortune (While donating a large amount of his ‘prince of gotham’ money for Gotham Public Schools)

And it works so well.

He got Roy in on it.

You agreed to it (despite your initial sadness at not seeing him in this years ‘swimwear’ theme).

The family has left him alone.

It's going to be an amazing night.

Or it was.

Cass and Stephanie grabbed you from your spot the moment he let go of your hand.

He reaches to go after you only to be blocked by the cement wall that is Alfred Pennyworth.

Fuck

He turns to glare at the curtain only to be shocked to see you smiling at him.

Your body is covered entirely by the curtain.

The worst part of this is he couldn’t even enjoy mocking his siblings because he was too busy trying not to look nauseous in preparation for you walking across that stage

There were subtle nods to the justice league all night (likely in honor of their recent save of metropolis) until you walked out.

Clad in a red and black bikini that looked sinfully good on you and a muzzle style helmet that he is almost sure you stole from the safehouse.

The only visible part of your face is your eyes.

Always so expressive and even more vibrant against the red of the muzzle.

You slow down for just a second a wink at him

The blood ran from his face as fast as the cameras ran to it.

Roy snorts beside him.

Within seconds Roy is doubled over in his chair.

Jason doesn't even look away from you.

"...I'm going to kill you."

You blow him a kiss through the muzzle.

He sighs.

"...After I get to take that muzzle off."

Fuck, you got him good.

Tim Drake

Tim has been focused, so fucking focused for the past three weeks.

Yes he is saving the world

Yes he is very important to everyone and not just you, but would it kill him to eat dinner with you?

Your back hurts from that damn chair in his room and you refuse to settle for this as normal.

So you decide that two can play this game.

You propose a beach day.

You got approval from Bruce, Lucius, Alfred, and everyone in the Wayne hemisphere.

You try to get him to come along, but again you are shut down.

This is where knowing your boyfriend's stalker (‘protective’) habits comes in handy.

You buy a new bikini. 

It's the perfect mix of yellow, red, and black.

You think you look amazing.

So does everyone else at the beach.

When the first person walks up to you, you set a timer.

The drive from Wayne Manor to the beach is an hour forty five.

He shows up in an hour fifteen.

He is in full nepobaby mode.

Decked out in hermes, tom ford, and a necklace your pretty sure is yours

Despite what Tim claims, you weren’t flirting and his many cameras prove that.

But, it did feel nice to be appreciated…

Tim shrunk a bit at that.

“I’ll work on it.”

You nod, "That's all I ask.”

Tim turns you away from the bar, “Can I ask you something?”

You nod expecting a continued train of thought and reply, “Of course.”

“Can I take that off of you with my teeth later?”

“TIM!”

Conner Kent:

“Goddamn it!” Conner yells from the laundry room.

A shirt hits the tile with a wet smack.

“Conner! Forget the damn jacket we need to go!” Tim yells.

Conners had been looking for that jacket for at least 25 minutes.

“It was right here? Where the fuck-”

Tim huffs before grabbing onto his best friends shoulders and starts pulling him away from the laundry.

The effect of a human attempting to drag a half-kryptonian is as effective as he predicted.

“Did you text her?” Tim asks, continuing his fruitless effort of pulling Con away from his task.

“She’s at a bachelorette party for her best friend. I am not about to interrupt that because I lost my jacket.”

Eventually, Connor conseeds and does patrol without his signature leather jacket.

Young Justice was already concerned about Conner being able to stay on task without you to go home to, but now he’s without his jacket too.

Rather than complaining the whole time, Conner was just bummed.

Acting instead like a kicked puppy rather than a vengeful god.

Which is why his sudden change in demeanor was so confusing.

There was no random laughter, or “ah ha” moment.

Conner just started smiling and went back to work.

This… pissed Tim off.

Conner had been detached all day.

What suddenly fixed it?

And can he replicate that and bottle it for necessary moments?

So, like any best friend. 

He grabs Con’s phone and to be honest… he shouldn’t have been surprised.

It was already his new wallpaper.

You sit on the beach face towards the horizon back towards the camera.

The sunset bounces off your skin like gold.

Tim traces the tan lines over your shoulder of where a bikini once was that now stands bright against the warmer tones of a new tan.

Your bare back looks like a piece of art designed by the sun itself.

The only piece of clothing drapes off your elbows, his jacket.

Damian Wayne (Aged-up):

You spent days trying to find the perfect shade of green to his costume.

Most were too light, then you found it.

Perfect, hunter green with gold accents.

It

Was 

Perfect.

Well you thought it was

You had hoped for something from Damian.

He was never a man of many compliments, but he has barely said a word to you all day.

You’ve never been to a private school ‘beach bash’ before, but who would have thought it would be so boring.

Damian’s barely looked at you, your friends weren’t invited, and Damian’s friends were actively trying to flirt with a blonde at the "charcuterie chalet” (A literal house made out of deli materials)

So you decide to just lay in the sand.

You don’t realize how much time has gone by before the ruckus starts.

Assuming the volleyball court had gotten heated again you don’t turn around.

Until, a heavy thud is spiked right next to your head.

You adjust your sunglasses before turning.

Damian’s gone

You flip open the book and there lays multiple sketches of you laying in the sand.

The only color is your suit and its accents.

You flip the page and there's more

And more

And more.

But the last one is only half done.

Brushing the sand off the best you can, you hunt down your boyfriend.

Damian having been separated was being ranted at by a teacher.

So you stand and wait only to be passed by one of his brothers (who snuck in who knows how).

The brother winks and says as he passes, “Damian isn’t half as subtle with you as you think he is.”

As he walks away he taps the book with a smug smile.

Requested: Yes/ Anon

Word count: 4797

Author’s note: Hey guys, this one made me tear up a bit while writing. Hope you love it, stay safe xx

Masterlist

The rain in Monaco always sounded louder than it actually was, a steady, rhythmic drumming against the glass of the apartment overlooking the harbor. You sat on the edge of the marble kitchen counter, your fingers wrapped tightly around a mug of ginger tea that had long since gone cold. Your chest felt tight, a familiar, suffocating weight that had nothing to do with the humidity outside and everything to do with the small white envelope tucked beneath a stack of racing magazines on the coffee table.

In twenty four hours, Max would be leaving for the triple header. Three weeks of intense, back to back racing, endless media scuffles, and the crushing pressure of defending a world championship. He was already stretched thin, his jaw tighter than usual during breakfast, his eyes constantly scanning telemetry data on his iPad even while he chewed his toast. You knew that look. It was the hyper focus that made him a formidable driver, the absolute closing off of the outside world to ensure nothing, absolutely nothing, interfered with the car and the track.

And that was exactly why you could not tell him.

You took a shallow breath, wincing as a sharp, burning pain flared deep in your ribs. The doctors at the clinic in Nice had been very specific. The condition was progressing faster than they anticipated, a chronic cardiovascular anomaly that you had managed with medication for years was no longer responding to the standard dosage. They wanted you admitted for a comprehensive exploratory procedure, and they wanted it done by the end of the week. They used words like critical risks and immediate intervention.

But you had looked at the calendar, seen the upcoming races in Austin, Mexico, and Brazil, and you had quietly asked for a prescription rewrite instead. Just enough to get through the month. Just enough to keep you on your feet so Max wouldn't notice the tremors in your hands or the way you had to catch your breath after walking up a single flight of stairs.

The front door clicked open, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment. You quickly shoved the cold tea into the sink and leaned against the counter, forcing a soft smile onto your face as Max walked in. He looked exhausted, his hair damp from the rain, his oversized team hoodie clinging to his shoulders. He dropped his gear bag by the door and kicked off his sneakers, exhaling a long, heavy breath.

“Hey,” Max said, his voice low and gravelly from a long day in the simulator. He walked over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face into the crook of your neck. He smelled like rain and the faint, chemical scent of the factory. “It was a mess today. The front end balance is completely off on the new floor update. We spent four hours trying to fix the simulation models and we are still nowhere.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs at the sudden pressure of his embrace. You fought down a gasp, keeping your breathing as shallow and unnoticeable as possible. “You will figure it out, Max. You always do. You and GP just need to get on the track and see how it feels in real life.”

Max mumbled something against your skin, his hands shifting slightly on your lower back. He pulled away just enough to look down at you, his blue eyes narrowed slightly as he scanned your face. “You look pale, Y/N. Are you sleeping okay? I woke up at three AM last night and you were not in bed.”

Your stomach dropped, but you kept the smile plastered on your face, reaching up to brush a stray lock of blonde hair from his forehead. “I was just restless. I drank some coffee too late in the afternoon. I am fine, Max, really. Just a bit tired from the weather.”

He did not look entirely convinced, his thumb rubbing a slow circle against your hip, but his mind was clearly pulling him back to the data. “Yeah, the rain makes everyone sluggish. I need to review these lap times before I go to sleep. Do you mind if I just eat something quick and head to the office?”

“Of course not,” you said, stepping back to open the refrigerator before he could notice how hard your hands were shaking. “I made some pasta. I can heat it up for you.”

“Thanks,” he said, leaning over to press a quick, dry kiss to your forehead. “You are the best, honestly. I do not know how I would handle this weekend if I had to worry about things at home too.”

The words felt like a physical blow to your chest. You kept your back turned to him as you set the bowl in the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating food inside. He needed this peace of mind. He needed to believe that everything at home was perfectly stable, perfectly safe, so he could drive a car at three hundred kilometers an hour on the edge of control. If you told him your heart was failing to pump blood properly, if you told him you needed surgery, he would drop everything. He would sit in a hospital chair, missing sessions, losing his focus, blaming himself for being away. You could not let your body become his distraction.

The next morning, the apartment was a whirlwind of activity. Max was packing his final things, tossing t shirts into his rimowa suitcase while talking on speakerphone with his trainer, Bradley. You stood by the bedroom door, one hand gripping the doorframe tightly to keep your balance. The room felt like it was spinning slightly, a cold sweat breaking out across the back of your neck.

“Yeah, Brad, I have the hydration tablets,” Max said into the phone, zipping the suitcase shut with a sharp tug. “I will meet you at the terminal at eleven. Okay, see you.” He hung up and looked up at you, his expression immediately softening. He walked over and grabbed your hands, his brows furrowing. “Your hands are freezing, Y/N. Are you sure you are not catching a cold?”

“Just poor circulation,” you lied smoothly, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. “It is always like this in the winter.”

“It is October,” Max pointed out, a small, amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remained worried. “But okay. Look after yourself while I am gone. Do not just eat takeout. Call your sister if you get lonely, okay?”

“I will,” you promised, leaning up on your tiptoes to kiss him. You held onto him a little tighter this time, a little longer, wondering if this would be the last time you could hold him without a hospital gown between you. “Drive fast, Max. Bring home the win.”

“Always do,” he said with that stubborn, confident tilt of his chin that you loved so much. He picked up his bags, gave you one last, lingering look, and then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

The silence that followed his departure was heavy and suffocating. The moment the sound of the elevator faded down the hall, your legs gave out. You slid down the doorframe, sinking onto the hardwood floor, grasping at your chest as a massive, crushing pressure clamped down on your heart. You gasped for air, but it felt like trying to breathe through a wet cloth. Tears pricked your eyes as you crawled toward the kitchen, reaching up to grab the bottle of medication from the top shelf. You swallowed two pills dry, collapsing against the lower cabinets as you waited for the chemical calm to wash over your erratic pulse.

“Just three weeks,” you whispered to the empty room, your voice trembling. “Just three weeks, and then he will have a break. Just hold on until then.”

The first week was a blur of exhausting pain and carefully curated phone calls. You made sure to memorize the race schedule down to the minute, calculating the time differences precisely so you would only answer his FaceTime calls when you were sitting down, fully made up, and capable of masking your fatigue.

When he called from Austin after Friday practice, he was ecstatic. The new floor was working perfectly, the car felt connected, and he had secured provisional pole. You sat on the couch with a thick blanket covering your lap to hide the heating pad pressed against your chest, smiling brightly into the camera.

“You looked amazing out there,” you said, your voice steady despite the fact that you had spent the previous three hours vomiting from the side effects of the increased medication dosage. “The sector three times were incredible.”

“Yeah, the car is a rocket ship here,” Max said, his face flushed and happy through the screen. He was sitting in his hotel room, a plate of grilled chicken and rice in front of him. “GP was happy for once. Can you believe it? He actually smiled during the debrief. I wish you were here, Y/N. The crowd is crazy this year.”

“I wish I was there too, Max,” you said, and that, at least, was the absolute truth. “But someone has to stay back and make sure the apartment doesn't flood again. Plus, I have some work things to finish up.”

Max nodded, taking a bite of his food. His eyes drifted to something off screen for a second before returning to you, his expression turning slightly serious. “You look smaller in that sweatshirt, Y/N. Have you been eating enough? Do not skip meals just because I am not there to cook.”

“I am eating, Max, I promise,” you lied, your throat tightening. In reality, you could barely manage a bowl of broth without feeling intensely nauseous. “I am just wearing one of your old hoodies. It makes me look smaller.”

He smiled, that warm, private smile that he only ever saved for you. “Okay. I miss you. I will call you after the sprint tomorrow, okay?”

“I love you,” you said softly.

“Love you too, Y/N. Go to sleep early.”

When the call disconnected, the smile dropped from your face instantly. You let your head fall back against the cushions, gasping as a sharp pain vibrated through your left shoulder. You reached for your phone, dialing the number for the clinic in Nice.

“Dr. Laurent,” you said when the receptionist put you through. “It is Y/N. The tablets are not working as well anymore. The chest pain is radiating to my arm now.”

There was a heavy pause on the other end of the line. “Y/N, we discussed this. The myocardial strain is reaching a dangerous threshold. You are risking acute heart failure if you continue to delay this. You need to come in. Today.”

“I can’t,” you choked out, a tear slipping down your cheek. “My partner is in the middle of the championship. If I go into the hospital now, it will be all over the news. He will find out, and he will fly back. He has worked the entire year for this. Please, just tell me how much more medication I can safely take to buy two more weeks.”

“I cannot ethically advise you to increase the dose further,” the doctor said, his voice firm and laced with deep concern. “You are playing Russian roulette with your health, Y/N. If you experience severe shortness of breath, sudden sweating, or prolonged fainting, you must call an ambulance immediately. Do you understand me?”

“I understand,” you murmured, though you knew you would do everything in your power to avoid causing a scene that might flash across a sports ticker while Max was getting into his cockpit.

By the time the Mexican Grand Prix weekend arrived, you could barely leave the bed. The world had shrunk down to the four walls of the bedroom and the agonizing rhythm of your failing heart. Every breath felt like inhaling glass. Your skin had turned a ghostly, translucent shade of white, and dark circles bruised the skin beneath your eyes. You hadn't slept more than two hours a night, terrified that if you closed your eyes, your heart would simply stop beating altogether.

Max called you on Thursday evening from Mexico City. You had spent forty minutes in the bathroom beforehand, applying layers of concealer and blush to your hollow cheeks, trying to make yourself look human. You propped the phone up on the pillow, lying on your side and wrapping the duvet tightly up to your chin.

“Hey,” Max said, his face appearing on the screen. He looked stressed, his brow furrowed deeply. “The altitude here is terrible. The cooling on the brakes is a nightmare, and the engine keeps derating on the straightaways. We are losing four tenths to the Ferraris.”

“You will find a solution,” you whispered, your voice sounding raspy even to your own ears. You cleared your throat quickly, trying to sound stronger. “You always find a way around the engine issues.”

Max stopped talking, his eyes locking onto yours through the camera. The usual distraction in his gaze vanished, replaced by a sharp, sudden intensity. He leaned closer to his screen. “Y/N. What is wrong with your voice?”

“Nothing,” you said, forcing a small chuckle that turned into a dry, painful cough. You managed to stifle it into your elbow. “Just a scratchy throat. The air conditioning in the apartment has been acting up.”

“You look different,” Max insisted, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. His eyes scanned your face, noting the way you were burying yourself in the blankets, the slight tremor in the phone as you adjusted it. “You look sick, Y/N. Really sick. Turn the light on in the room.”

“Max, it is fine, the light is just bad,” you pleaded, your heart beginning to race erratically, a terrifying flutter starting up in your chest. “Do not worry about me. Focus on the setup. You have final practice in the morning.”

“Fuck the setup,” Max snapped, his temper flaring, a rare sign of how stressed he actually was. “Something is wrong. You have been acting strange for three weeks. You never want to show me your whole face on the camera, you are always under a blanket, and you sound like you can barely breathe. Tell me what is going on.”

“Nothing is going on,” you said, tears finally spilling over your eyelashes, breaking through the concealer. “I just miss you. I am just tired, Max, please. Go back to your data. Please.”

Max stared at you, his blue eyes flashing with a mix of anger, confusion, and sudden, deep seated fear. “I am calling Bradley. I am going to have someone come check on you.”

“No, Max, do not do that,” you cried out, but the sudden exertion was too much.

A wave of blinding, catastrophic pain exploded across your chest, radiating down your arm and up into your jaw. It felt as if a physical fist had reached inside your torso and squeezed your heart with agonizing force. You gasped, a choked, terrible sound escaping your lips as the phone slipped from your hand, tumbling onto the mattress.

“Y/N? Y/N!” Max’s voice was screaming from the speaker, tiny and distant. “Y/N, answer me! What is happening? Y/N!”

You could not move. The room went dark at the edges, tunneling down until the only thing you could see was the faint glow of the ceiling light. You reached blindly for the phone, your fingers brushing against the glass, but you didn't have the strength to lift it. Your breathing became ragged, shallow gasps that brought no oxygen to your lungs.

“Max,” you whimpered, the sound barely a whisper against the sheets.

Then, the darkness swallowed you completely.

When Max heard the heavy thud through the speaker, followed by nothing but the sound of labored, irregular breathing, his entire world stopped. The telemetry data, the championship points, the issues with the Ferrari straight line speed, all of it vanished, wiped clean from his mind in a single fraction of a second.

“Y/N!” he yelled, slamming his hands onto the desk of his hotel room. He stood up so fast his chair flipped backward, crashing onto the carpet. “Y/N, talk to me! Please, fuck, Y/N!”

There was no response. Only the distant, faint sound of the Monaco rain against the windows of their apartment, thousands of miles away.

Max’s hands shook violently as he grabbed his second phone, frantically dialing Christian Horner’s number. He did not wait for the team principal to finish his greeting.

“I need a plane,” Max said, his voice cracking, completely stripped of his usual composure. “Now, Christian. I need to go back to Monaco right now.”

“Max? What is going on? The qualifying briefing is in an hour,” Christian said, his tone startled and confused.

“I do not care about qualifying,” Max roared, his chest heaving as panic took absolute control of him. “Something happened to Y/N. She is unconscious on the floor of our apartment and she is not breathing right. Get me a private jet now, or I am walking to the commercial terminal myself. I am leaving, Christian. I am done here.”

Christian didn't argue. The sheer terror in the young driver’s voice was enough to tell him everything he needed to know. “Okay. Okay, Max. Give me ten minutes. I will call the airfield. Go pack your things.”

Max did not pack. He grabbed his passport, his wallet, and his phone, leaving his racing gear, his clothes, and his helmet scattered across the hotel room. He ran down the corridor, slamming his shoulder into the exit doors, bursting into the lobby where Bradley was waiting.

“Max? Where are you going?” Brad asked, jogging to keep up with Max’s frantic, dead-set sprint toward the entrance.

“Call the emergency services in Monaco,” Max ordered, his voice trembling so badly he could barely articulate the words. “Give them our address. Tell them my girlfriend collapsed. Tell them they need to break the door down if they have to. Just get them there, Brad, please, do it now!”

The flight back across the Atlantic was eleven hours of pure, unadulterated hell. Max sat in the leather seat of the private jet, his hands pressed against his face, his eyes staring blankly at the dark window. Christian had tried to talk to him before he boarded, trying to offer words of comfort, but Max had completely shut down. He had refused food, refused water, refused to speak to anyone. The only thing he did was stare at his phone, waiting for Bradley to send updates from the local paramedics.

The update had come six hours into the flight. The paramedics had found you unconscious on the bedroom floor. Your heart rate was dangerously high and unstable, and they had transferred you to the intensive care unit at the Princess Grace Hospital in Monaco before immediately airlifting you to the specialized cardiac thoracic center in Nice. The doctors had found the hidden medical files in your bedside drawer, along with the empty prescription bottles.

Max had read the text message over and over again until the words lost meaning. You had been sick for months. You had known your heart was failing. And you had hidden it from him so he could drive a car.

He felt a sudden, violent surge of nausea, burying his head in his knees. He felt sick to his stomach, angry, terrified, and profoundly broken. How could you think a stupid trophy mattered more than your life? How could he have been so blind, so utterly consumed by his own career that he hadn't noticed his own girlfriend was dying right in front of him?

The moment the wheels of the jet touched down on the tarmac in Nice, Max was out of his seat. He didn't wait for the stairs to fully deploy, jumping the last few steps onto the rainy concrete. A rental car was waiting for him, the engine running. He threw himself into the driver’s seat and slammed his foot onto the accelerator, driving through the stormy French roads with a reckless desperation that eclipsed any risk he had ever taken on a racetrack.

When he burst through the doors of the cardiac ICU in Nice, he was a ghost of himself. His hair was wild, his clothes were wrinkled and damp from the rain, and his eyes were bloodshot. The nurses at the front desk tried to stop him, but he blew past them, his eyes frantically searching the names on the glass doors until he saw yours.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

You were lying in the center of a sterile, white room, surrounded by an array of humming monitors and blinking lights. A clear oxygen mask was strapped over your face, misting slightly with every weak breath you took. IV lines ran into the backs of both of your hands, and a thin, white bandage was taped over your chest, monitoring your heart’s electrical activity. You looked so incredibly small, your skin almost matching the color of the hospital sheets.

Max felt his knees tremble. He walked into the room, his footsteps completely silent against the linoleum floor. He approached the side of the bed, his hand reaching out, hovering over yours as if he was afraid that if he touched you, you would shatter into pieces.

Slowly, carefully, he wrapped his large, calloused hand around yours. Your fingers were cold, so cold, but they twitched slightly at his touch.

Max let out a ragged, choking sob, dropping his forehead onto the edge of the mattress, his shoulders shaking violently as the dam broke. He wept openly, holding your cold hand against his cheek, letting his tears wet your skin.

“Why?” he whispered into the quiet room, his voice broken and raw. “Why did you do this to me, Y/N? Why didn't you tell me?”

A soft, rustling sound made him look up. Your eyelids fluttered, opening slowly. Your vision was blurry, the bright hospital lights making your head thrum, but as the shapes started to focus, you saw the familiar outline of short blonde hair and the bright, tear soaked blue eyes of the boy you loved.

You tried to speak, but the oxygen mask muffled your voice, and your throat felt like sand. You moved your hand slightly, your thumb brushing against the back of his knuckles.

Max immediately stood up, leaning over you, his hands framing your face with an incredible, desperate gentleness. He helped you slide the mask down to your chin, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Max,” you croaked out, your voice barely audible over the hum of the heart monitor. “What are you doing here? The race. The qualifying session.”

Hearing those words, the very proof of why you had almost died in silence, broke something inside him. A flash of pure, agonizing frustration crossed his face, though his touch remained incredibly soft.

“Are you crazy?” Max choked out, more tears spilling down his cheeks, landing on your hospital gown. “Are you completely insane, Y/N? You almost died. Do you understand me? The doctors said if I had not called the paramedics when I did, your heart would have stopped completely within an hour. And you are asking me about a fucking qualifying session?”

“You needed to focus,” you whispered, a tear leaking from the corner of your eye, tracking down into your hair. “You worked all year for this championship, Max. If I told you, you would have left. I knew you would leave. I did not want to ruin it for you.”

“Ruin it?” Max repeated, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself, closing his eyes tightly to steady his breathing. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your cold skin. “Y/N, look at me. Open your eyes and look at me.”

You forced your heavy eyelids open, meeting his intense, shattered gaze.

“Nothing matters without you,” Max said, each word deliberate, heavy with an absolute, unshakeable certainty. “Do you honestly think I care about a plastic trophy or some points on a piece of paper if it means I come home to an empty apartment? Do you think I could ever drive that car knowing that you were sitting here, dying alone because of me?”

“It was not because of you,” you protested weakly. “It is my body, Max. It is my illness.”

“You hid it because of me,” he countered, his voice thick with guilt. He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth, as if he could physically press the life back into you. “I was so busy talking about the car, complaining about the balance, complaining about the engine. I did not see you struggling. I did not see how much weight you lost. I was so fucking selfish, Y/N.”

“No,” you said, trying to shake your head, but the monitor behind you beeped sharply as your heart rate spiked at your distress.

Max noticed immediately. He smoothed his hands over your hair, taking deep, steady breaths, guiding you to match his rhythm. “Shh, okay, calm down. Do not get upset. The doctors said you need to stay calm. Your heart cannot take the stress right now.”

You forced your breathing to slow down, watching him. “Are you going back for the race?”

“No,” Max said without a single second of hesitation. “I am not going back to Mexico. I am not going to Brazil. I am staying right here in this room until you are allowed to leave.”

Your eyes widened in panic. “Max, no! You can’t do that! Red Bull will lose the constructors, and you might lose the drivers championship if Lewis or Lando win the next few races. You have a thirty point lead, but it is not enough to just skip two races!”

“I do not care if I lose the championship by a hundred points,” Max said, his jaw tightening into that stubborn line, but this time, it was entirely directed at protecting you. “They can give the trophy to whoever they want. Let Lando have it. Let Lewis have it. I do not care, Y/N. I mean it. If I have to choose between driving that car and sitting in this chair making sure you are breathing, I will choose you every single day of my life. You come first. You always come first. I need you to understand that. My life does not start when I put the helmet on. My life starts when I come home to you.”

The absolute gravity of his words finally broke through the walls of guilt you had built around yourself. You looked at him, seeing the raw, unguarded vulnerability in his eyes, the complete absence of the fierce, untouchable racing driver. In his place was just Max, the boy who loved you so much he was willing to throw away everything he had built since he was a child just to hold your hand in a hospital room.

“I am sorry,” you sobbed, the tears flowing freely now. “I am so sorry, Max. I was just so scared. I did not want to be a burden.”

“You could never be a burden,” he murmured, leaning down to gently press his lips to yours. The kiss was soft, lingering, tasting of salt from both of your tears, but it felt like life pouring back into your veins. He pulled away slowly, resting his cheek against yours on the pillow. “The doctors are going to do the surgery tomorrow morning. They are going to repair the valve, and they said after a few months of rest, you will be completely healthy again. No more pain. No more hiding.”

“Are you really staying?” you whispered, your fingers tightening around his hoodie sleeve.

“I am right here,” Max promised, shifting his position to sit in the uncomfortable plastic chair right beside your mattress, pulling your hand up to rest against his chest, right over his own steady, powerful heartbeat. “I am not moving an inch. Close your eyes, Y/N. Get some sleep. I will be here when you wake up.”

For the first time in months, the crushing weight in your chest felt a little lighter. You closed your eyes, listening to the steady, rhythmic beeping of the monitor, perfectly synced with the warm, reassuring pulse of Max’s heart beneath your fingers. Outside, the rain continued to fall over the French Riviera, but inside the quiet room, the storm had finally passed.

“He’s in a rough spot. I know it’s not fair of me to ask this of you, but do you know of anywhere he can crash in New York?” Dick’s voice came through your phone speaker while you waited for your dinner to finish cooking in the air fryer. “It’s only for a little while, I promise. He’s quiet, and he’s just working through some things. Family shit, you know?”

You sigh loudly enough for your phone to catch it from across the room.

“I can’t think of any, Dick,” You answer honestly. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any contact here that would have room for him apart from my place.”

“That’s perfect!” He exclaims, and you could hear the excitement. “Your apartment is bright, colourful and comfy! It’s a completely different change in environment that could be good for him!”

Immediately, you regret opening your mouth and answering the phone. You enjoyed your peace! You liked the quietness of your apartment, with the only sounds being your footsteps and the CD player blasting old R&B from your parents' generation. Another person in your apartment? Jason Todd, specifically? It would disrupt your rhythm! You knew he was a night owl, too.

“I don’t know,” you rub the back of your neck. “I like my space.”

“You won’t even know he’s there. I’ll make sure he’s well behaved!”

“I’m not a dog,” another voice you knew all too well grumbles. “If she has no room, I’ll find a motel.”

“Not one that isn’t extortionately priced. Everything is expensive here,” you mention and take your dinner out of the air fryer. “Unless you have Wayne money, the longest you can stay in a motel is a week, or you stay in a shitty place.”

Jason groans loudly, but doesn't seem opposed to the shitty place option. Of course, he didn’t. He would rather live with infested rats than live with you is your first thought.

“Please?” Dick’s voice rises an octave. “Pretty please? He’ll pay rent- fuck it, I’ll pay his rent!” You can practically hear the puppy dog eyes from where you stand. “Just let him stay, probably only for two months!”

You knew you were probably making a bad decision, but it was only for a little while anyway… right? What could possibly go wrong?

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

So, a week later, you meet Dick in the city centre, iced Americano in hand, sunglasses on, and the exhaustion of a whole work week resting on your eyebags. The sun is beaming down, and it’s a typical summer day in New York. The grass is green, the leaves on the trees are swaying with the light breeze, and the chatter of people surrounds you. Living here was only a slight upgrade from Gotham, but a small upgrade is still an upgrade. At least New York gets sun every now and then.

You spot Dick from a mile away. His wavy dark hair bobbed up and down as he waves enthusiastically at you from a distance. Jason follows behind him, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of an oversized red hoodie while his eyes survey his surroundings, a rucksack slung over one of his shoulders. His eyes were squinted too, probably from how bright the sun was. God knows, Gotham never got sun like this. He probably wasn’t used to it. You knew he wasn’t. He reacted similarly when you had a mission in South-East Asia during your time in Young Justice.

“Hi!” Dick beams at you, and you smile to greet him and the figure looming behind him.

“When I agreed to this, I hope you know that I’m not exactly thrilled to be housing him.” You lower your sunglasses to look at him, unimpressed. “I’m only doing this for you as a favour.”

“You’ll be fine,” Dick grins and drops a hand to make light of the situation. “Jason, say hi.”

“Hey,” Jason just nods at you. Men.

“Hey,” you sneer, but still stick your hand out to shake his because, despite your general hatred of men, you were not impolite. Your parents raised you better than that.

“I still think it’s crazy that you two knew each other from before. This must be some reunion, huh?” Dick says.

Jason stares at him with no expression on his face. “Not our first rodeo.”

You suppose he didn’t disclose your actual reunion last year to Dick. You couldn’t fault him for not doing so; you also didn’t tell Dick. To him, this was your official first reunion since Jason died and came back to life. Except the actual first time ended up in both of you bloody, and Tim rushing you back to the Batcave to stitch you back up like you were Frankenstein. A botched mission happened and neither of you recognised the other in your new suits.

His green eyes are like a dark void that sucked you in the minute you made eye contact with him. They used to be brown, and they used to look at you so differently than the way he looked at you at this moment.

“I won’t even know you’re here?” You look at Jason.

“I doubt it,” he answers.

Good enough for you.

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“Here,” Jason hands you a cup of Vietnamese iced coffee at 6 a.m. without meeting your eyes. “You need to wake up for work.”

Fun fact: It has been much longer than two months since Jason Todd began staying at your apartment. In fact, Jason Todd has been living with you for almost a year. It has not been a fun experience, but the mornings are the only time when you’re cordial to each other.

“I can make my own coffee, Todd,” you scowl, but still take the cup from him and lean against the island in the kitchen.

“Pancakes are on the dining table,” he ignores you and drinks his black coffee like the pretentious asshole he was.

You roll your eyes and walk to the dining table to feast. You needed as much as you could before you showed up to work.

Plopping down at the dining table, you stack a few pancakes on your plate and open your computer to check the itinerary for today. Even though you knew for a fact that the most you would get to do was do coffee runs for everyone in the office. You hated being an intern at a fashion company, but you have to start somewhere.

You were so focused on your computer that you almost failed to notice Jason sitting beside you, a Jane Austen book in hand, butter resting near your plate. It was scarily domestic and petrified you every time you thought about it for too long.

“Busy day ahead?” he asks while sipping his coffee.

“Always,” you sigh and rub your forehead in exhaustion, even though the day had just begun. “You?”

“Yeah. Teaching the kids at school poetry today,” he mutters, eyes still glued to the pages of Austen.

Another interesting fact most may not know about the big and scary Jason Todd: he’s a substitute English teacher at one of the more underfunded schools in New York. It’s on the other side of the city, and since you only have one car, Jason has to take the bus to work. He does have a motorcycle, but said he didn’t want the attention from being the only teacher with one. He’s run into Wonder Woman one too many times for your comfort. He started volunteering as his pastime because he got so bored at home, but decided to curate a new identity and forge a teaching certificate. You would admit it was a good idea if he weren't so annoying.

You’ve heard from Donna, who took the mantle of Wonder Girl after you retired and still attends the school, talking about the tall, dark, and handsome English substitute called Mr Smith. Yeah. Jason’s new civilian identity was Jason Smith. It was a simple enough name, and there were thousands of Jason Smiths roaming around, you’re sure. It just amused you.

At least he seemed to enjoy it. Dick even came around to check on him, and he was busy grading past paper questions in the dining room. Apparently, there are a couple of kids who stand out to him. Something about one kid being a complete literature nerd, similar to himself. He wasn’t wrong. He had read Frankenstein by Mary Shelley when he wasn’t even the same height as a Coffee barista’s table. You remember being thirteen years old in Young Justice, talking about a show called My Hero Academia, while Jason explained how annoyed he was when people assumed the monster’s name was Frankenstein. The only Stein you knew much about was from Monster High.

“You like Austen?” You say after a while, glancing at the Pride and Prejudice book he held.

“Mhm.”

“You read that book before?”

“Multiple times. Have you?”

You purse your lips together and look away from him. Since university, the only books you’ve ever really read were romcom novels and self-help books. Your brain couldn’t handle classic fancy mumbo jumbo regency speak or whatever, and you could see Jason judging you from the corner of your eye.

“Whatever,” you get up, shovel one final pancake in your mouth, and down your coffee. “I don’t need your self-pretentiousness before work.”

“You’re a journalist for a fashion company, you should read more.” Jason tuts your full name with the shake of his head.

God, you could strangle him. He always insists on the full name and even walks around the apartment shirtless like he owned the place. That cocky attitude clearly didn’t die when he did.

Yes, he paid rent, and yes, it was always on time. Yes, he paid for his groceries, did his chores and even made meals big enough for you since you always stayed late at the office. That didn’t mean he owned the place. It was in your name, and you hated seeing him lounge on your sofa with only sweatpants on like he was always supposed to be there when you came home from work.

Arguments were too frequent with you, and every single time, they ended with both of you slamming the doors of your respective bedrooms. You were just relieved that you only had to see him in the mornings and very late evenings. One of these days, that man was going to die, and it would be by your hands. Two months, your ass.

You glare at him, prepared for it to be the last time you look at him before storming off, when you hear a clink against his mug. Jason never wore jewellery because he didn’t like the sensation of something restricting his fingers. That was probably a cause of sensory issues, or trauma, or potentially both. So the clink set off bells in your head.

You walk over and grab his hand, your mouth falling agape when you see a wedding band.

“What the fuck? You’re married?!” You screech, not even shocked when Jason yanks his hand back and glares at you from where he was sitting. “Since when?!”

“Use that pretty little head of yours and think, hm?” His voice carries the mockery he had had since you were teenagers. “I’m a civilian teacher now. I need a backstory.”

“Backstory being you’re married?” You scoff and cross your arms. “To whom, exactly?”

“Oh come on,” he chuckles darkly, repeating your name and leans back into the dining seat, “you. I’m married to you.”

It takes you a moment to stop and process what was said. He had been telling colleagues and potential parents he was married to you!

When you look at him, you see the flicker of amusement wave around in the centre of those dark green eyes, the corners slightly creased because the smirk on his face reached his eyes too. He was so aggravating.

“I’m your wife?” You try to steady your voice, to be calm and cool-collected!

“Yes, ma’am,” he nods.

You stare before completely losing it.

“Your wife?! Jason Peter Todd!” You slam your fists against his bare chest and scream at him. “I have family who go to that school! Donna goes to that school! I have other family members going to that school! Why couldn’t you have just made up a wife?! Wouldn’t that be easier?! Also, what do you need a wife for?!”

“To get those single mothers away from me, first and foremost,” his legs find themselves parted for you to stand in between while you hit him, and his hands hover above your waist to keep your balance. You hate how observant he was. “And secondly, why not? You hate the idea of me being your husband that badly?”

You scowl and shove his face away from yours.

“I do the cooking and the cleaning. I work the easy nine-to-five. Is that not enough for you, wifey?” You want to smack the grin off his face.

“Don’t show anyone any photos,” you say, finger pointed, teeth clenched, and patience running thin. It was too early in the morning for this.

“But,” he flips his phone to show you the screen, and lo and behold, it had a picture of you asleep on the sofa as its wallpaper. “I already did.”

Fury was the only emotion you could describe. You launch yourself on top of him, knocking both you and the seat down to the floor, not caring about that whatsoever and straddling his torso to wrap your hands around his neck. Somehow, he flips you over with ease, pinning your hands to the floor and trapping your legs in between his. You knew you stood a chance at flipping you back to where you were with your Amazon strength but you were so caught off guard you didn’t move.

Your breaths were barely heavy, but they felt intertwined, your noses centimetres apart, eyes locked onto the other, waiting, watching to see who made the next move. Your body felt warm against his, like he was a human heater. Maybe it was the anger flowing through your veins that he had overpowered you so easily that made you feel warm. Prior feelings couldn’t resurface - you didn’t want them to, and you refused to let them.

“When I catch you, Jason Todd,” you scowl, trying to sink into the floor to create as much distance as physically possible, “when I catch you.”

He flashes you that boyish grin you’d only ever seen him have when he annoyed you and nodded. “You have to admit, I’m a pretty good husband, no?” He releases your arms but keeps his face close to yours. “I am pretty good to you.”

“Get lost,” you shove him, opting to use the most underhanded tactic you knew, kneeing him in the balls. He groans and falls to the space next to you. “For the record, if you’re married to me, you get my surname, got it? Might wanna update your paperwork.”

He nods, still wincing in pain.

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You stand outside the school waiting for Jason to come out. Public transport wasn’t operating after a particularly bad battle between Wonder Woman and another massive extraterrestrial reptile, so you had to pick him up. You were just relieved your younger cousin was sick that day because you knew she would have insisted she come home with you and bombarded both Jason and you with questions that floated around in her adorable head.

You lean against the car with your arms crossed, eyes watching the door. When it opens, you stand up just a little straighter to wave Jason over, but see three different women chattering to him with their children toddling behind, gossiping, judging from the fact that the little tykes were covering their mouths. Jason is in the middle, politely trying to shove them off and pointing to the ring on his finger. You know he can handle it on his own, and even then, it isn’t exactly your business. He isn’t your actual husband, but then you hear one of them say that you didn’t need to know if he wanted to have a little fun. For some reason, every muscle in your body screamed at you to move.

You walk over with as much composure as you could muster and stand behind Jason, who hadn’t registered your presence yet. The other mothers see you first and scowl at you in distaste.

“Jason,” you announce your presence, and Jason spins around. “Stop stalling for time. I expected you home an hour ago.”

Jason blinks and adjusts the glasses on his perfectly arched nose. The influence of Clark Kent and his hypno-glasses. “Yes, of course. These mothers just had questions about the upcoming curriculum and English field trip.”

You look at the women. “An email didn’t sound appealing? Clinging onto his arm was more fun, wasn't it?”

“Okay,” Jason sucks in a breath, his hand finding the small of your back in an attempt to turn around to walk back to your car.

“No, no, you know he’s married, right? To me,” you grab his hand and show the wedding band that definitely wasn’t yours and was probably something cheap he found from a pawn shop downtown. “The least you can do is have some respect for the man and his marriage. Some class, you guys have.” You scoff, grab Jason’s hand and storm back to your car.

The women were glaring at your car. You can feel them. You can feel their judgmental stares as Jason gets into the passenger’s seat and tucks his briefcase into the backseat, while you sit in the front, enraged.

“Y’know, I thought I had anger issues,” Jason leans back, eyes on you while you drive home. “I think a certain someone has jealousy issues for their not-husband.”

“I just can’t stand infidelity. It’s disgusting. They knew you were married and still chose to climb all over you. Self-respect and the respect for you and your wife don’t exist. It’s the principle of it all!” You slam your hands on the steering wheel in frustration. “Sorry, I just- I had a long day at work and found out one of my colleagues got cheated on by her husband and some new young thing that knew he was married.”

“And you’re placing yourself in your colleague’s shoes because?”

“Because I have sympathy, Jason. Jesus Christ,” you rub your forehead and hit the brake at a stoplight. “Also, seeing them cling to you like they were on the monkey bars was unsettling. They’ve clearly seen men before; their children were right behind them.”

Jason shrugs his shoulders next to you and stares out the window with a neutral expression. “I’m used to it.”

A pang suddenly shakes your chest, ribcage squeezing around your heart a little tighter. You look at him in shock, but he carries nonchalance like it weighed nothing when you know he carried the world and more.

“Yeah, well, we have some couple photos to take when we get home. They better leave you alone after seeing those,” you mutter.

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

It has been a year and a half since Jason Todd started living with you. About two months ago, he started disappearing for a week at a time, ready to begin integrating himself into vigilantism once again. Dick was excited for him, but a part of you wished he wouldn’t go, at least not without telling you beforehand.

You had begun to get along more, still fighting over little things, but you were comfortable and had fallen into a routine. You’d wake up at the same time, have breakfast together in silence, go to work, he’d come home first and make dinner while you stayed overtime at the fashion agency, then when you got home, you’d eat the dinner left in the fridge and join him on the sofa, occasionally leaving him alone to assist Wonder Woman and Wonder Girl as your new hero identity. It wasn’t a thrilling life, but it was a comfortable one.

“Oh, and then apparently Reagan ran into Cecilia,” you tell him work drama, ignoring the yearning feeling of wanting him to stay, which weighs heavily on your chest as you watch him slip on his gloves. “They argued like crazy, literally like cats and dogs. Don’t quote me on this, but apparently Cecilia called her a cunt that could never be redeemed and that her son was so much better off without her. Isn’t that crazy?”

“That is crazy,” Jason nods and fixes his jacket. “She’s always been an asshole.”

“Yvyonne told me,” you add with a sigh, “it’s just insane that she’d bring her son up, y’know? That’s fucked up!”

Jason hums, eyes trained on you with that same attentive look he had every time you rambled. Maybe if you talked long enough, he’d stay.

“Like, I know she and Reagan weren’t close, but I mean, that’s low. I wouldn’t have expected that from Cecilia. I know her from when we were in university together, and yeah, sure, she was annoying, and self-righteous and all of that jazz, but she never crossed a line like that,” you sigh and stir your hot chocolate with a spoon Jason had gifted you for your birthday. “I really don’t know what’s going on in her head, y’know? If Hanna had said something like that to Reagan, that would make sense. Hanna doesn’t really think before she speaks; she just says, but Reagan has had more cordial discussions with Hanna than Cecilia!”

“Interesting.”

“I know, right?!” You were running out of things to say, and your heart began to sink.

“Well, I’ll be back in a week,” he says as he walks over and moves some of your hair out of your face. Fuck, you hated him and the way your heart beats a little harder every time he was near. “You can tell me the rest when I get back.”

“Sure,” you fake nonchalance that you knew he could see through. “Try not to die again, Red Hood.”

“I’ll come back to you, Mrs." He slips the helmet on. “Don’t get your hopes up that I won’t return.”

And like that, he was gone.

You’re alone in the apartment again, and for some reason, instead of craving the silence with only the accompaniment of your footsteps and CD player that you had for months, you loathed it. You had work to attend, and it was mid-term break for all schools, so this job was perfectly timed for Jason. Of course, he had to go.

You came home that night to an empty house, but dinner was ready in the fridge. You didn’t even want to question where he was; he didn’t give you the details. You got used to the week-long absences, but then one week turned into two weeks, then two weeks into two months. You didn’t want to admit it, but the heavy feeling in your chest carried nothing but anxiety and worry. You didn’t mention it to Dick because you didn’t want him to think you cared about the man. You didn’t, you swear.

You cared about the iced coffees in the warmer seasons, the hot chocolate in the colder seasons, the specific care he took to clean areas in high places you could reach with your powers, but he did it for your convenience, and the dinners you used to come home to. You didn’t care that Jason was gone; it was just the things he did and the fact that you were no longer alone. That was definitely it. It definitely wasn’t that you felt chosen for the first time in your life when he decided to say you were his wife, and every time you caught him saying it like it was a fact to a colleague of his, your heart raced.

His presence definitely didn’t remind you of good times in Young Justice, where M’gann used to tease you about your crush on him. It definitely wasn’t that you felt loved because he would always smile and introduce you with a certain confidence in his voice whenever you ran into one of his colleagues outside of work. He had never said that to you, and you knew he probably never would. Knowing Jason, once he’s done healing in New York from most of the scars of Gotham and his past, he’ll leave you behind and return to where he belongs - in Gotham without you.

But as more time passed, you got more anxious and irritable. It was so apparent that Donna caught on while you were training and asked if she should tell Diana to take you out for a drink. You declined. Alcohol barely did anything to you: Amazon powers and whatnot.

After two and a half months of silence, you come home one night and turn the news on: “Red Hood: Prince of Gotham has returned with a vengeance!” Oh great.

You lay on the sofa, far away from where Jason usually sat, wrapped in a blanket, hot chocolate in your hand, and watch tiredly at the news report. He had taken down yet another drug cartel in Gotham, ending in a fight against Nightwing, which neither of them won. That, or it was unclear who won. Knowing Jason, he’d probably say he won that fight.

“I definitely won that fight between me and Nightwing,” his voice echos through what you think was your head.

You think you’re hallucinating until you look up and see him standing beside you. His helmet was cracked, his face was covered in scratches, cuts and bruises, his usually uptight posture was now hunched over in what you can only assume was pain, and even his brown leather jacket had been ripped up.

“Hey, Mrs, miss me?” That same boyish smile would be the death of you.

You take the blanket off and walk away from him. You can’t even speak. You didn’t know what to say, or what would come out of your mouth. You didn't know if it would be incoherent sobs or screaming in a language he didn’t understand. All you knew was you had a first aid kit and had to patch him up first.

Upon your return, he’s sitting patiently in the living room. His eyes light up a little, almost resembling those of a young boy.

He sits quietly while you patch him up, wincing now and then when you apply alcohol to ensure none of the wounds would get infected. His skin is rough and scarred, his hands calloused. The only sound in the room was the faint narration of the news and your breathing.

“Worried?” he says after several minutes of uncomfortable silence. “Almost thought I wasn’t coming home, huh?”

“Don’t talk to me,” you mutter, trying to keep your emotions in check.

“What?” he blinks in surprise.

“You have no idea how angry I am, Jason. Don’t talk to me.”

“Why? What’s wrong? Is someone bothering you at work? Do I have to kill someone? I’ll do it.”

“You’re bothering me,” you spit out, eyes refusing to meet his. “You, it’s all you.” You wrap the final bandage around his arm and rise to your feet. “All of my problems recently are because of you. It’s your fault.”

He looks at you, confused. “My fault?” he points a finger at himself to confirm your statement. What a dork. “What did I do?”

“A week, Jason,” your voice threatens to tremble. “You said a week.”

“I thought it would only take a week, but things can get fucked up sometimes,” he speaks so matter-of-fact that every emotion you had been feeling for the past two and a half months was beginning to resurface. “You know that more than anyone.”

“Never mind. I’ll see you in the morning,” you say through gritted teeth and turn to retreat into your room, but his hand reaches for yours and spins you around. Suddenly, you were face-to-face, standing between his legs once again, while his eyes scan you for clues as to why you could be this angry at him.

“We talk about this now,” he says, his thumb gently crossing back and forth on your knuckles. “What did I do?”

You scoff loudly, a hand on your forehead to regulate your temperature because who knows? Maybe you could’ve gotten a fever with how sick you were with worry.

“What did you do? You didn’t text, you didn’t call, you didn’t even tell Dick to let me know you were okay, Jason!” You shout. “I wasn’t shocked on day eight when you weren’t home. Things happen. I expected something - anything from you after more than two weeks! A note to say ‘hey, I’m not dead again by the way’ or ‘I’m not abandoning you, things just came up.’”

“You thought I abandoned you-?”

“Yes! For a solid month, I thought you had finally gotten sick of me and decided to leave!” You cry out, your body burning with frustration. “I know that you staying here is temporary, the marriage thing isn’t even real, and you don’t even like me, but a goodbye would’ve been appreciated! It’s common courtesy to tell someone you’re doing okay when you don’t return when you said you would! Do you even grasp how sick I was with anxiety?!”

Jason only stares at you as you continue to scream at him. The most movement he produces is slowly standing and placing his hands gently on your forearms, eyes looking at you through those stupidly gorgeous lashes.

“I thought you at least tolerated me a little. I knew that I was probably reading into things too much, that the wife-guy bit was just that - a bit, that you just needed those single mothers to leave you the fuck alone, and I’m literally the only person you know you can trust adequately enough to play pretend wife, but-“ you cover your face with your hands, not wanting him to see you tearing up, “fuck, Jason. I don’t know anymore. Even if it was just to get people to fuck off, I felt wanted, and you leaving without informing me how long you’d be before you got home killed me. I knew we couldn’t just pick up where we left off when we were young, but the fear that you had died again swallowed me whole.”

“I…”

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” you whimper and shove his chest to create more space between you. “You’re fucking inconsiderate.” You hated yourself for crying. You want to do nothing more than crawl into your own skin. “You left me in this circle by myself, not knowing what the fuck we even are anymore. We’re not just roommates; we’re in a fake marriage, but we’re not dating, and we’re hardly friends. I hate you so much.”

You want to pull away, you really do, but when his arms wrap around your frame, you couldn’t. You feel yourself sink into him, and every ounce of frustration comes pouring out in the form of tears and incoherent words of hatred.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles against the crown of your head. “I should’ve called, even if it was late at night.”

“No fucking shit,” you push him away again, and wipe the tears streaming down your cheeks. “This is stupid. You’re probably returning to Gotham anyway, and I saw the news. Their prince is back. You may as well pack up your shit and go.”

“Mrs, come on.”

“I already explained to the school that you’re on a sabbatical, so if you still want that job, it’s still there,” you take a step away from him and cross your arms over your chest like they were an impenetrable shield that he couldn’t reach, even if he wanted to. “I’m going to bed.”

Jason sighs loudly behind you, and he follows you.

“I was never going to abandon you,” he lodges a foot in the door to prevent you from slamming it in his face, his eye twitching at his foot getting squashed between the doorway, but not stopping even to have a breath to explain himself. “I would never do that.”

You couldn’t believe him. How could you? This tall, muscular man, who has the trust of your closest friend, who teaches kids and tutors on the weekends, who has a soft spot for kittens and is a phenomenal at-home barista, tolerates you enough to stay?

You had been alone your entire life, never enough for anyone, people-watching on the sidelines, at school, in life, at work, in both platonic and romantic relationships. You saw the way Konnor looked at M’Gann when they were dating, Wally and Artemis, Dick and Zatanna. You saw it with your friends at your new school in New York when you moved. Even your first kiss was when you were nineteen with a guy in a dark club who couldn’t see you correctly, and he avoided you the rest of the night.

You probably read into things too much when you and Jason were kids, too. He was perhaps just nice and wanted a friend, and you just had to get romantic feelings involved. How stupid would you have to be to believe someone could actually want you, right?

“Stop it, Jason.” You look to the floor like it would be your saviour. Maybe it would suck you into a black hole, and you’d disappear under his gaze. “It’s fine. You don’t owe me an explanation. Just go get some sleep.”

“You’re being selfish.” His hand worms itself on the edge of the door and shoves it open. His eyes flicker around to see the state of your room. He barely bats an eye, his eyes finding their focus on you again. “You won’t even let me speak.”

“Let me be selfish,” you try to shove him back out. “I don’t need to hear it. It’s fine, Jason. I get it. I’ll still play the role of wife when you need it, don’t worry. Just forget about everything.”

“Hey, that’s not-”

“Seriously, it’s fine. I know I read into things, and I know I shouldn’t have. I know this is just a roommate situation, and I got in over my head because, oh wow! A man who’s conventionally attractive lives with me and isn’t outwardly disgusted by my being? I must be in love! Maybe he reciprocated my feelings back when we were younger, too!” You try to joke because if you didn’t, you were going to break down in front of him again, and you would rather kill yourself than have him console you for being trapped in a one-sided love, just like how your entire adolescence was spent. “Just ignore it. We’ll return to how we were, and I won’t stress myself out again. It’ll be like nothing changed-”

“And if I want change? Throughout this entire conversation, have you ever stopped once to ask what I want? What I think?” he snaps, his hand gripping the door, tightening while his eyes narrow at you.

“Fine. I’ll leave you alone from now on.”

“That’s- fuck, that’s not what I fucking meant. If you’d just let me fucking speak-”

You don’t want him to. You don’t want to hear him say that he really values you as a friend who works well with him, who covers his ass at work so the single mothers leave him alone, but he just doesn’t feel that way about you. You don’t want to hear him say he’s glad Dick has you as a friend and that he’s relieved he has you too. You don’t want to listen to any of it.

“Jason, drop it.”

“No. I won’t drop it. I- for fuck’s sake, I feel the same way, I always have,” his eyes feel like they pierce through the darkest depths of your soul. His chest rises up and down in the heat of the moment, and from frustration at your constant speaking over him. “You think I don’t get paranoid when you take too long on missions with Wonder Woman? You think I don’t get jealous when I see you with that stupid, flirty reporter from the Daily Planet when he takes photos for your work? I do. I get so insanely paranoid and jealous that I feel insane because I have never felt this way before, except when I was in Young Justice with you.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Do I look like scum to you?” he scoffs loudly, hurt evident in his voice. “I finally tell you my side, and you think I’m lying?”

“Yeah, I do,” you hug yourself so tightly that your fingernails begin to make crescent-shaped indents on your waist.

“Look me in my eyes and say that to me again.”

You couldn’t. You didn’t dare to.

“Look at me.”

No. You want him to stop. Your entire body was screaming to run - to abort mission and hide in Diana’s apartment for eternity.

You shut your eyes, preparing for him to storm out and slam his door shut, not wanting to see the sight, but calloused hands cup your face and force your head in his direction.

“Please.”

You fucking hate him.

You open your eyes and see Jason—your Jason. Jason, who made you coffee every morning and hot chocolate every night, who bragged to his colleagues about his ‘super cool fashion journalist wife who’s going to be world famous one day’, and broke a limb for you multiple times during missions in Young Justice.

“I don’t know what it is, but I care about you. Every time you don’t come home when you say, I contemplate putting the helmet on and finding you myself to make sure you’re okay, fuck, I’ve even contemplated putting a tracker on your suit to know your every move, even following you just to watch to make sure you don’t get hurt.” His thumbs ghost over your cheekbones.

It never occurred to you that you had never been held like this before by anyone else. You had been held like this by him on several occasions, where you took panic attacks over past trauma and even just the stress of civilian work and hero work.

“You have no idea of the space you take up in my brain, you’re so annoying.” Jason continues. Who said romance was dead? “But I wouldn’t want anything else. I want this, I want you. I want the fights, the lazily lounging on the sofa, the breakfast, the singing in the background of every shower, the bragging rights that I have you as a wife to my sleazy coworkers. I want all of it, all of you, even if you’re fucking insane and speak over me all the time. Your voice is the sound I want to hear for the rest of my life, however long that may be.”

For once, Jason Todd has rendered you speechless, and he’s the one who’s doing the communicating.

“Call me an asshole, call me inconsiderate, call me whatever you want, just don’t call me a liar. Not to you. Never to you.”

Too many thoughts flood your brain. Every doubt and insecurity that had risen to the surface, whispering that he was still lying to you, was silenced by his own voice that screamed to be heard over the whispers without even raising his voice. He never raised his voice at you, not even when you fought, and here he is, still fighting you without raising his voice, just fighting for it to be heard.

“I hate you,” you whisper, but wrap your hands around his wrists. “You have no idea how much I fucking hate you.”

He chuckles softly and pulls you into his arms again.

“Yeah, likewise.”

Both of your lives were busy. For different reasons, of course, but busy nonetheless. Jason knew that.

Still, he found himself missing you more and more, even when you technically shared a bed, had your coffees in the mornings together and tried to spend at least one night together a week.

But recently, you have been coming home later than usual, missing him leave before falling into bed and rushing out the apartment in the mornings. 

Jason hated that. So much. He missed falling asleep without you cuddling up to him, hated waking up knowing that you were already about to leave for classes and hated, absolutely hated, you having to postpone date nights.

Maybe he should have a word with your professor, or boss, or both.

He is still in bed when he gets a text message. He ignores it, but then, immediately after, gets a second one, and another one.

He reaches out for his phone on the night stand, either someone died or is about to die. 

He sees your name on his display, and as he unlocks his phone to read the message, his entire day, even week, gets 100% better.

You: coworker had to switch shifts

You: I don't have to come in today

You: I HAVE A NIGHT OFF!!! YOU BETTER BE HOME WHEN I COME BACK

Jason can't believe his complaining was actually heard and answered by this miracle shift switch.

Jason: Date night?

You: you better have everything prepared and ready

You: have to go but love you

He rolls over to your side of the bed, pulls your pillow close and pretends it is you for a second. Jesus Christ. He is pathetic. He stops to get up and ready to prepare the best date night in months.

Jason's mental to-do list grows more and more after every task he finishes.  First, it was just: get groceries, choose an activity. But then he sees the dishes piling up. After finishing the dishes, he thinks that the shelves could use some dusting again, then he vacuums the whole apartment, changes the sheets on the bed and puts the blanked on the sofa in the washing machine as well and then notices, too late, that you two might need it tonight.

Well, fuck. 

After he forces himself to focus on his two actual tasks at hand, he swings open the apartment door and leaves.

A while later, he returns, stocks the fridge with your favourite beverages and some other crap and drops onto the sofa.

He skips through some streaming services' selection of movies. Sure he loves reading, especially with you. But tonight, he wanted to focus on you. Preferably without you noticing that he hasn't turned a single page in ten minutes. 

He thinks all of the options are shit.

He will  just let you decide.

He hears keys turning in the apartment door lock. You come in, the exhausted look hanging on your face for weeks leaving in an instant when you see him on the sofa. 

Jason looks so peaceful. A bit on edge, sure, but he always did that. Today, he had a soft smile on his face and wore comfortable clothes, making him radiate an almost cozy energy.

You put your bag down.

“Give me ten and I'll be with you.” You give him a smile as your words leave your mouth, then you start peeling off your clothes on the way to the bathroom.

“No, come here.” He hells after you, but before he can even follow you, the bathroom door is locked. 

You quickly shower, and then sneak into the bedroom, to pull out sweatpants and one of Jason's big shirts that you claimed ownership of months ago.

When you finally stand in the doorway to the livingroom, you tilt your head.

"Where's the blanket?”

"Washing machine." Jason answers.

“Oh.”

“You get the snacks, I'll get the blankets from the bed.” Was his solution. “But can you please come here first.”

You contemplated, you really want the blankets and something between the two of you.

Jason apparently notices the doubt on your face, because the man slouches into himself and furrows his brows. 

"What's wrong?” He asks, tone forced to stay even.

“I just want the blanket, it's cold.” A lie.

"It's summer.”

“In Gotham.”

“Youre acting weird. What's wrong?” This time Jason's voice cracks.

You feel bad for lying but the truth isn't much better either.

“What's wrong?” He repeats again. He gets up, makes his way to you till he towers over you. “Have I done something?”

You look up to him, your arms clinging onto each other in front of your chest. He keeps up the eye contact till you turn your head to the side and sign.

“I don't really want to have this conversation right now. Can't we just talk tomorrow?” You ask, still no eye contact.

“When you leave before I'm even awake or when you come home when I'm already on patrol?” The words were cutting and you could hear anger seething below them. 

You don't answer him. 

He moves past you. You see him putting on his shoes.

“Where are you going?”

“For a walk.” He says.

He slams the door shut behind himself. You can hear his heavy footsteps stomp down the old wooden stairs of your apartment complex.

Great.

Jason wanders the streets for about fifteen minutes. He doesn't have a plan on where to go, but a specific destination wasn't the goal anyway. 

He was so happy to find out you were going to come home early today. He really craves the affection the past busy weeks were lacking. He was going insane. Every morning that he woke up without you next to him cost him at least a few years of his life span.

He could physically feel the effects of it.

He hated it. He hated not having you near him and now you two were fighting.

Fucking great.

He walks past a late night convenience store and stops as he feels his phone vibrating in his pocket.

It was you.

“Hello?”

He answered, that's a good sign, right?

You grip your phone tighter.

“Hey.” Silence followed.

“Sorry, I don't want to fight. Please come back?”

A humming from the other end.

“Why won't you tell me what's wrong?”

You take a deep breath, you feel embarrassed and exposed, not wanting to give the stupid reason for your imaginary no-touch-rule.

"It's stupid.” You confess.

“Tell me anyway.”

“I feel ugly.”

A scoff followed you deep dark confession.

“Im serious. I haven't had the time to take care of myself recently. And I honestly didn't want you to see me like this. It's not fair, you look good. Always. And I can't even, I don't know-”

“Baby, you know I love you, right? And I've been craving some time together for forever now.” 

Jason's words warm your insides a bit.

“I love you, too. And I want you back here now.” You smile as you say that.

When the doorbell rings, you're confused, but open anyway. 

Drenched like a wet dog, Jason comes up the stairs, grinning like a madman.

“It started raining.” He bridged the space between you with the last couple of steps.

“I can see that.” You answer him.

He holds out his hand. “I bought flowers.”

You take them and look at him, not able to hide your smile any longer. You pull him inside by his wet shirt, put down the flowers on the old hallway table and wrap your arms around him.

He strokes your hair with one hand, joy just flooding through him at the touch.

He leans down a bit, lifting your face with his other hand.

“Can I kiss you now, please?”

You and Dick haven't been dating for long, about a month officially. Due to both of your lives being pretty busy, especially at the moment, you haven't had the time for actual dates yet, except the one you had a few weeks ago and the casual coffee dates when you were on your lunch break.

You told him from the start that you struggle with physical contact. That you often don't feel comfortable, are scared to seem clingy and he said to take your time. But the longer it took, the more he realised that you weren't necessarily uncomfortable being around him or when he initiated closeness, it was more that you didn't know how to ask for it.

So, he decided to show you that it was okay to ask for his affection, that it was okay and normal to cuddle up, hold hands, whatever. 

And clearly, the solution is a horror movie. One with jumpscares that are scary enough to make you curl up to his side. It is, in Dickss professional opinion, foolproof. Dicks research for the perfect horror movie begins  and ends on the first website that pops up. On the screen, a ranking of the top 10 scariest jump scares. Some of the movies seemed too scary to still have a romantic date night, so he chooses the second to last movie, Insidious.

He arrives at your apartment, a plastic bag hanging from his hand filled with drinks and snacks.

“You really did bring the whole convenience store.” You say as you hold open the door.

Dick grins and steps in, heading towards your small kitchen.

“I wasn't sure what you would like.” He lifts the bag onto the countertop, “I got chips, chocolate, microwave popcorn and your favourite soda.” He proudly holds the bottle up.

“That's so sweet, thank you.” You stand in the doorway, hand folded in front of your hips. You look at him through your lashes, unsure what to do next.

Dick notices, he puts the bottle down at the counter, takes a step forward and closes his arms around you. 

“You don't even know how much I looked forward to tonight.” He turns his head and kisses your cheek, then the top of your head. He lets go of you again, you kinda wish he didn't leave and almost reach out again. 

Dick starts looking through the cabinets for bowls. You observe him opening the microwave, taking a quick look at the back of the microwave popcorn before shrugging and putting it into the microwave. Then he opens the bag of chips, filling it into a light pink plastic bowl you usually use for baking, not eating out of. 

“I like how at home you feel already.” you say, light sarcasm lacing your words.

He turns and just grins, again.

“Am I not supposed to?”

You are about to answer, but the microwave starts beeping. 

Thank god.

After snacks are ready and Dick gets you to get your fluffy blanket, you're all set for the movie. Dick didn't want to tell you what you were going to watch, so now you're curious. 

“So, what are we watching?”

“Insidious.”

"Didn't think you would be a horror fan?” You say, eying him from the side.

“Are you kidding, I love horror.” Definitely did not.

You grab a pillow and place it between your arms. You have already seen the movie, but didn't have the heart to tell him, he seems way too excited for it. 

The grin on his face grows wider after every new ghost and every new scary revelation. He really did seem to be a horror enthusiast.

As you reach for the popcorn, you notice his eyes on you.

“What?” you ask, stuffing your mouth with popcorn.

“The movie is scary, right?” His eyes are  weirdly hopeful.

“I don't know, I'm too distracted by Specs.” You joke.

You hear Dick scoff. "You're looking at other men?” He dramatically puts a hand to his forehead and leans onto the soft pillows behind him. That makes you chuckle and pet his thigh. You feel him freeze up and take your hand back again, your eyes now forced on the screen. 

Really smooth, Grayson. 

He wanted to show you that it is okay to initiate affection, not scare you away. Why did the universe want to see him on the ground so badly?

He looks over at you again, you seem lost in thoughts and he doesn't know if he should say something or just chill and wait for the inevitable jump scare that would solve all his problems without having to use embarrassing words.

After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Dick picked up the conversation again.

“That kid is really creepy, ew.” He said, brows furrowed together.

“You can't say that.”

“Yes I can. If I found out that my child astral projects I would, I don't know, call someone more qualified than these two.” Dick gestures to the TV where the wanna be ghost busters did something stupid again.

You just give him a laugh as a reply.

After about half the movie, the conversation died out again and you are now intently looking at the screen.

He watched you for a second, then turned around to the screen again, when, suddenly, a red faced something appeared behind the character's face.

He practically jumps up. His arm around you now, clinging to you with shock written on his face.

You turn to him, trying to hold back a laugh.

“Dont you dare laugh at me.” He looks at you with fake anger in his eyes.

That breaks you and it takes a minute for you to stop and to breathe normally again.

“The jump scare really got you, huh?” Your hand finds its way to his back, stroking it in a mocking way. “Poor big, buff, scared Dickie.” 

A pout forms on his face.

“I got surprised!" He turns his head away, still trying to recover from whatever that was.

“Need me to kiss it better?” You say.

He turns back on that. His eyes slightly wider than normal and mouth having difficulties closing. You could feel your own heart racing, you said it more as a joke but hearing yourself actually say it? You are kinda scared that he will react the same way he did when you touched his thigh early that evening, not wanting to make him feel obligated to do anything he didn't want. 

“That would be nice.” His voice is more like a breath than anything.

You hesitate. Should you, really? But he looks so hopeful now, so excited. 

You sit up a bit, shift closer and slowly bring up your hands to his face. You hold him for a moment, then realise how weird it probably is to just look at him like that and pull him down.

It's not like you have never kissed before. You did, plenty of times. But Dick was always the one to bring it up, to make the first move and the one to end it. The fact that it was your first time actually in charge made him feel all fuzzy inside. He knew he wanted to make you feel more comfortable, but he didn't know how much he needed the reassurance as well. He melts into your touch, almost whining when you pull him even closer.

When you finally stop, you are pressed against the pillows behind you, Dick draped over you. One of his hands found their way to your waist, the other busy stroking your cheek. His eyes are dazed as he looks down on you. 

“Worth it.” He breathes out.

He drops himself on your chest, enjoying the closeness. You begin to nervously play with his hair. 

“You know, I only picked this movie for this to happen.” 

“You picked it so you would get scared and kiss me?” You say, in slight disbelief.

Tim's misery starts when Dick mentions going to see a special screening of the movie Saw. He and Wally apparently have nothing better to do with their time off than watching some tacky 2000s horror slop.

“Want to tag along? I think you might like this one.” Dick asks.

“Sure, why not.” He pulls out his phone to text you and ask if you want to join them as well, obviously you say yes.

A few hours later, he finds himself sitting in the backseat of Dicks car, Wally sitting next to him in the front. He texts you again, telling you that they will arrive on time.

“Excited for the movie?” Wally asks.

Tim looks up from his phone and shrugs his shoulders.

“Or excited to sit next to someone?” That is Dick, a smug grin across his face reflecting in the rearview mirror.

“No way, you got a date?” Wally's voice is way too eager.

“Im not sure if they're even dating. I have seen coworkers have more chemistry. Honestly, have you ever seen them being affectionate? Or touching?” Dicks voice suddenly becomes very irritating in his ears.

“You're right, dude.” Wally shakes his head, “Tim, you know you can, like, hold hands and stuff, right?”

Tim's face grows hot. He forces his gaze down to his screen again.

After ten uncomfortable minutes, they finally arrive. Dick parks the car in the relatively empty parking lot. The entrance is only a short walk away, the big glowing letters of the movie theater illuminating their way.

You stand waiting inside the lobby, reading something on your phone. When you hear a voice calling your name you look up and see your boyfriend, his brother and one of his brothers friends.

You hug Tim and Dick, not sure how to greet the other man, you smile awkwardly and are about to extend your hand. He ignores it and hugs you as well.

"Wally. Nice to meet you officially.”

Officially? What is that supposed to mean?

“Nice to meet you, too.” you say.

The four of you make your way to the counter, buy your tickets, then buy some snacks. A few minutes later, you're finally settled into your seats. Tim on your right, Dick next to him and Wally on your left.

Before the trailers are even over, you and Wally discover your mutual love for the franchise.

Tim glances over at you, suppressing a smile. He hadn't known you were into horror, but that only makes his plan to prove his brother wrong better. No way you'd make it through Saw without eventually scooting closer.

A smug grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Take that, dickhead. No chemistry my ass.

After the first truly brutal scene, he sees you lean forward into your seat. Prepared to comfort you in his arms, he puts down his popcorn bucket. Then he hears you say something about how impossible the trap really is, Wally nodding energetically in agreement.

Next time.

Tim tries to pay attention to the movie.

He really does.

Unfortunately, every other sentence out of your mouth drags his attention right back to you.

He hears you whisper again and turns to you two. Thanks to the dim light that falls off the screen, he sees your eyes grow wide.

That's my chance for sure.

“Wally, did you get that? I've read a theory about that scene once.” You sound way too excited.

Tim slouches back and after a while of still hoping and maybe even praying, Tim's pout wins and is very noticeable throughout the rest of the movie, at some point he is even crossing his arms like some sulky child.

“Man, these two are made for each other.” Dick whispers, also annoyed his friend wasn't paying him any attention.

Tim's head shoots up at that, a frown on his face.

“Wow, chill. That was a joke.” Dicks hands come up defensively.

“And that's why I can see past his traumatic past. His logic is still massively flawed.” You say, not even bothering to keep your voice down anymore. The only people other than you four are in the very back and have already given up shushing you.

“Yes, exactly!” Wally exclaimes.

Tim rolls his eyes and shoots the guy an angry glance, hoping he can see his eyes in the dark. Apparently he doesn't, because the red head has the nerve to get closer, to close, to you, to show you something on his phone. Why would he do that? What is so interesting that Wally has to show you now? Seriously? He cranes his neck to get a better look at the screen. It is just some meme, probably not even funny.

“Oh god, why would you show me this?” You whine. “I refuse to believe Adam is actually dead.”

“Adam dies?” Dick turns his head towards you.

“Sorry.” You say, an apologetic smile on your lips. Then you turn to Wally again.

Tim shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

Either he will suffocate or kill the guy.

The last thirty minutes, Tim spends angrily slurping his soda or loudly chewing your shared popcorn.

The credits finally begin to roll. Tim is the first one out of his seat and Dick catches the look on his face and wisely decides not to tease him again. When they reach the lobby, Tim mutters something about meeting you outside and tells Dick and Wally to head home without him.

“Are you okay?” You ask him when it's just you two.

He just gives a quick nod.

"You're not. You have been weird the whole evening. What's wrong?” Your hands find his right shoulder, slowly stroking it in circles. He looks at you for a couple of moments before turning around, his ears growing visibly red.

“It's stupid, let's go home.” He begins to stalk off.

“No, tell me.” You walk after him till you catch up, then you take his hand. He looks at your hands, touching, entangled in each other. You catch his eyes. “Did I do something?” You say, then after a moment, “Oh god, I ignored you the whole night. I'm so sorry, Timmy.” You try to touch his face, to pull him closer and to kiss him as an apology, when he pulls back.

“Do you not want me to touch you?” You ask, somewhat insecure.

“No, god, please touch me. That's the whole reason Dick thinks we're just friends!" It just blurts out of him.

You smile softly. “Dick thinks we're just friends? That's why you act like this?” He grips your hand tighter and gives you another nod. He doesn't look into your eyes as he pulls you closer and puts his hands around your waist. Your hands go up to his hair, slowly combing through it with your fingers.

“I'm staying over at your place.” He decides.

“I figured.” You cup his face and give him a quick kiss before freeing yourself from his grip and dragging him to your car.

By the final month they had opinions on everything.

Prams. Baby clothes. Nursery colours. Whether Max was being dramatic about people touching your bump. Whether the baby would recognise engine sounds. Whether she would prefer Red Bull, Mercedes, Ferrari, or, according to Max, “the correct answer, which is whatever car her father is driving.”

They sent you voice notes when you missed races, asked for bump updates and once spent nearly an hour arguing over who would be the favourite uncle despite none of them having met her yet.

So really by the time she finally arrived the title had already been decided, Ollie was just the first one bold enough to say it out loud.

He announced it loudly and without consultation the first time he visited the hospital, appearing in the doorway with an enormous stuffed bunny tucked beneath his arm and a balloon that read IT’S A GIRL! in violently pink lettering.

“Her favourite uncle has arrived,” Ollie had declared.

“You’ve never met her,” Max replied flatly from the chair beside your bed.

“Doesn’t matter. Some connections are instinctive.”

“You weren’t even the first one here.”

That honour had belonged to Kimi, who had shown up exactly four hours after you had announced visitors were allowed, pale-faced and nervous, holding a small gift bag in both hands. He was still standing several feet away from the crib.

He’d brought her a miniature racing suit. It was bright red with her surname printed across the back and a tiny Italian flag stitched onto the collar.

Max had stared at it for a long moment, then without saying anything he’d reached out and squeezed the back of Kimi’s neck. Kimi had looked unbearably proud of himself for the rest of the afternoon.

After that the others had arrived in waves.

Gabi brought flowers for you and a collection of children’s books for the baby, explaining that his mother had insisted books were a better gift than clothes because babies grew too quickly. Isack brought clothes anyway, including a pink jumper that wouldn’t fit her for at least three years but apparently had “good energy.” Arvid arrived with a tiny knitted blanket. Franco arrived with three different toys that all made noise, which Max immediately banned from the room. Liam brought food for the two of you, earning your eternal gratitude and Max’s quiet respect.

By the time you left the hospital your daughter had seven self-appointed uncles, enough stuffed animals to open a small zoo and a WhatsApp group dedicated entirely to her.

The group had originally been called Baby Updates.

Ollie renamed it Princess Headquarters within twenty minutes.

Max changed it back.

Franco renamed it The Favourite Uncles.

Max changed it back again.

Isack changed the group photo to a badly edited image of the baby wearing sunglasses and holding a steering wheel.

Max threatened to delete the chat.

None of them believed him.

They were right not to, because three months later they’re all crowded inside your Monaco apartment on one of the rare weekends when nobody has anywhere else to be and Max is pretending this wasn’t entirely his idea.

“She needs to spend time around people,” he had told you that morning, carefully fastening the tiny buttons on your daughter’s sleepsuit with the intense concentration he usually reserved for race track.

“She spends time around people.”

“She spends time around us.”

“We’re people.”

“You know what I mean.”

You'd watched him lift her against his chest, one large hand supporting almost the entire length of her back. She had blinked up at him with sleepy blue eyes, her mouth making the soft little pout that appeared whenever she was deciding whether to cry.

Max had immediately started swaying, he did it without thinking now. Standing still had apparently become impossible for him the second he was holding her. He paced during phone calls, rocked gently while talking to his team and had once completed an entire video meeting with her tucked against his shoulder, his hand rhythmically patting her while she slept.

“I think you miss them,” you’d said.

“I saw them two weeks ago.”

“You miss having someone to boss around.”

“I have you.”

You just snorted. “You’ve never successfully bossed me around in your life.”

He’d looked down at the baby. “At least one person in this house respects me.”

She’d chosen that exact moment to spit milk down the front of his shirt. You had laughed so hard you’d needed to sit down.

Now your living room looks as though a toy shop has collided with a Formula One hospitality unit.

There are bags scattered beside the door, takeaway containers covering most of the kitchen counter and seven pairs of shoes abandoned in the hallway despite Max specifically telling everyone not to leave them there.

Your daughter is lying on a padded mat in the middle of the floor, wearing a pale yellow romper covered in tiny ducks, completely unaware that six professional racing drivers are gathered around her.

“She smiled at me,” Franco says.

“I think she just has wind,” Liam replies.

“No that was a smile.”

“She looks like that before she burps.”

“You’re jealous because she hasn’t smiled at you.”

“She smiled at me last time.”

“That was definitely wind,” Isack says.

“I know her expressions.” Franco continues

“You’ve met her two times.” Liam says.

“And we have a bond.”

From his position on the sofa Max watches the argument unfold with your daughter tucked safely between his feet. His legs form a protective barrier on either side of her mat, preventing anyone from getting too close without his approval.

He’s trying to look unimpressed.

He isn’t succeeding.

His hair is slightly messy from where the baby had grabbed a fistful of it earlier, his T-shirt is marked with a faint patch of milk near the shoulder and there’s a muslin cloth draped over his thigh.

Your heart still does something strange whenever you see him like this.

Before she arrived you'd known Max would love her. You'd known he would protect her and worry about her and probably research every available car seat with the same obsessive attention he gave to racing data.

You hadn’t anticipated just how soft he would be.

You hadn’t expected to wake in the middle of the night and find him already leaning over her bassinet, one hand resting lightly against her stomach just to reassure himself she was breathing. You hadn’t expected him to learn every one of her cries within two weeks, somehow able to differentiate between hunger, tiredness and the outrage she expressed whenever a sock came loose.

You hadn’t expected him to whisper to her when he thought you were asleep. Sometimes it was Dutch, sometimes English. Occasionally you were fairly certain he was explaining sim racing regulations to her.

Mostly though he told her things he thought mattered the most, that she was safe, that he loved her.

That he would always come home.

It was the last one that broke your heart a little every time.

“Can I hold her?” Kimi asks.

The room falls strangely quiet. Kimi is sitting cross-legged on the floor, his hands resting carefully in his lap. He’s been waiting patiently for almost an hour, watching while Arvid pulled faces at her and Ollie and Gabi performed an enthusiastic peekaboo.

Max studies him.

“Have you washed your hands?”

“Yes.”

“Recently?”

“When I came in.”

“That was forty minutes ago.”

You lean over the back of the sofa, resting your chin against Max’s shoulder. “She isn’t made of glass.”

“I know.”

“You made Gabi remove his watch in case it scratched her.”

“It has sharp edges.”

Across the room, Gabriel glances down at his bare wrist but wisely chooses not to involve himself.

“You’re terrifying them,” you whisper. You press a kiss to his cheek before moving around the sofa and lowering yourself beside him. The baby notices you immediately, her legs kicking against the mat as her entire face brightens.

There it is.

The smile.

It’s still new enough that every single one feels like a miracle, her gummy mouth opening wide and her eyes crinkling at the corners as though seeing you is the greatest thing that has ever happened to her.

The room erupts.

“She smiled!”

“Did you see that?”

“Take a photo!”

“I told you she smiled!”

“That wasn’t for you Franco.”

“It could've been.”

“It was clearly for her mum.”

Max doesn’t join the shouting. He just looks down at his daughter with the most helpless expression you’ve ever seen on his face.

“She’s so beautiful,” he murmurs.

These little moments when the others seem to remember that Max isn’t only a mentor or the driver they grew up watching. He isn’t the former world champion standing in the garage with his helmet beneath his arm or the man they go to when they need advice they don’t trust anyone else to give.

He’s just a dad. A completely besotted, slightly overwhelmed, deeply emotional dad who still looks as though he can’t believe someone allowed him to take this tiny person home.

“She looks like you,” Gabi says to him.

“She looks like her mum,” Max replies immediately.

“She has your eyes.”

“She has her mum’s face.”

“She definitely has your frown,” Ollie adds.

Max looks at him. “She doesn’t frown.”

Every person in the room looks down at the baby, who is currently glaring at the ceiling fan with unmistakable Verstappen intensity.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Liam clears his throat. “No. Of course not.”

“She’s observant,” Max insists.

“She looks like she’s analysing its weaknesses,” Isack says.

“She’s three months old.” Ollie laughs.

“She’s advanced.”

“That’s my girl,” Max says, entirely serious.

Kimi returns with his hands held in front of him like a surgeon who has just scrubbed in.

“Can I hold her now?”

Max looks at you with the same look he gives you every time someone asks, even though he knows perfectly well that all of them have held her before. It isn’t permission exactly, more like reassurance.

You nod.

“Sit properly,” Max instructs.

Kimi immediately moves onto the sofa.

“Support her head.”

“I know.”

“Don’t lift her too quickly.”

“I know.”

“And if she cries—”

“It’s okay Max.” you jump in.

You scoop your daughter into your arms, feeling her warm weight settle naturally against your body. Her tiny fingers curl into the neckline of your top as you kiss the soft patch of hair at her temple.

For the first few weeks, handing her to anyone had felt strangely difficult, even people you trusted. Your entire body had resisted it, every instinct insisting she belonged against your chest, that nobody else would hold her carefully enough or notice the smallest change in her breathing.

Max had been worse. The first time Ollie held her, Max had stood directly beside him with both hands hovering beneath the baby as though expecting him to drop her at any moment.

He’s improved since then.

Slightly.

You settle her carefully into Kimi’s arms helping position his hand behind her head. Every muscle in his body seems to go rigid as the baby stares up at him.

“Relax,” you tell him gently.

“I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re being held at gunpoint,” Liam says.

“Shut up.”

“Language,” Max says.

Kimi looks horrified. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, she doesn’t understand you yet,” you reassure him.

“That isn’t the point,” Max mutters.

Your daughter studies Kimi with grave concentration, her eyes moving over his face. Then her hand rises and her fingers brush uncertainly against his chin before closing around the collar of his shirt.

“Oh,” he whispers. It’s such a small sound, quiet and startled, that your chest aches.

“She likes me.” Kimi looks down at her again, his thumb carefully stroking the back of her tiny hand.

“You’re going to come to races when you’re bigger, aren’t you?” he murmurs. “I’ll show you the car. Not your dad’s car obviously. Mine is better.”

Max leans forward. “Give her back.”

“I was joking.”

Your daughter chooses that moment to make a small, delighted noise, something between a squeak and a coo.

Every head snaps toward her.

Ollie suddenly beams.

“She said Ferrari.”

“She absolutely did not,” Max says.

“She made an F sound.”

“She made a noise.”

“Her first word is going to be Ferrari.”

“Her first word is going to be Dada.”

You glance at Max. He says it with complete confidence, but you catch the hope underneath it.

He’s been trying for weeks. Every morning he lifts her from the crib and carries her toward the window, murmuring, “Dada. Say Dada,” as though repetition alone will accelerate her language development.

You’ve pointed out several times that babies don’t usually speak at three months old. Max in turn has pointed out that she isn’t an average baby. You worry he is going to be devastated when her first word is something completely random like lamp.

The afternoon drifts on in a warm, comfortable blur.

Your daughter is passed carefully from Kimi to Gabi, Isack, Ollie, Franco, Arvid and then to Liam, who turns out to be very good with her. She settles against his chest almost immediately, one cheek pressed to his shoulder as he gently pats her back.

Max narrows his eyes.

“Why is she so comfortable?”

Liam looks uncertain. “Because I’m holding her?”

“She doesn’t settle that quickly for everyone.”

“Maybe I’m calming.”

“She’s falling asleep,” Gabi whispers.

Everyone collectively lowers their voice.

Your daughter’s eyelids flutter, her fist loosening against Liam’s shirt as her breathing deepens. Liam looks down at her with open wonder, barely moving except for the slow rhythm of his hand against her back.

“She’s tiny,” he murmurs.

“You’ve only just noticed?” Ollie whispers.

“No, but…” Liam glances toward you. “It’s strange, isn’t it? That she’s a whole person already. She doesn’t know anything about any of us, but one day she will.”

One day, she will know them. Not as rookies or racing drivers or names printed across the back of team shirts. She will know Ollie as the uncle who lets her eat sweets before dinner and Kimi as the one who teaches her Italian phrases Max pretends not to understand.

She will know Gabi always remembers her birthday and Arvid saves every drawing she gives him like they’re priceless, Isack buys her wildly impractical presents. She will know Franco makes her laugh until she hiccups and Liam is the person she goes to whenever she wants to do something Max has explicitly forbidden.

She will grow up surrounded by noise and engines and people who have already decided they love her. Your eyes sting unexpectedly and Max notices. His attention never strays far from you, even while watching the baby. His hand finds your knee, thumb stroking slowly across your skin.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod, swallowing around the sudden lump in your throat. “Just tired.”

He doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t expose you in front of everyone. Instead he shifts closer and slides his arm around your waist, drawing you gently into his side.

“You need to rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“You were up twice last night.”

“So were you.”

“I slept this morning.”

“For forty minutes.”

“That counts.”

“You lie down and immediately start checking your phone.”

You’re still arguing about Max’s approach to sleep when your daughter stirs in Liam’s arms.

The change is immediate.

Her face scrunches and her mouth opens, a small warning sound escapes her.

Every person in the room freezes.

“Oh no,” Ollie whispers.

“What does she need?” Franco asks, already looking around as though the answer might be written somewhere on the walls.

“She might be hungry,” Gabi says.

“Or tired,” Kimi adds quickly.

“She was asleep,” Liam points out.

“Maybe she’s too hot?” Arvid suggests, glancing down at her little romper with genuine concern.

“It isn’t hot,” Franco replies.

“It might be hot for a baby,” Isack says, like this is suddenly a very serious medical possibility.

Kimi frowns. “Do babies feel temperature differently?”

Ollie looks between all of them, confusion written across his face. “Why would we know?”

Her warning whimper becomes a cry, it isn’t a particularly loud cry but the effect on the room is catastrophic.

Liam looks terrified. “Should I stand up?”

“No,” Max says immediately.

“Do I rock her?”

“Not that quickly.”

“I’m barely moving.” The baby cries harder.

Max is already reaching for her. “I’ve got her.”

Liam transfers her with almost visible relief, and Max gathers her against his chest in one smooth motion. His hand cups the back of her head as he rises, bouncing gently on the balls of his feet.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Dada’s here. You’re okay little one.”

Her cries continue.

Max’s brow furrows. He adjusts her position, checking her nappy through the romper with a practised hand before glancing at you. Your daughter’s tears strip through every layer of his composure, leaving him raw and helpless. He knows babies cry and he knows it doesn’t always mean anything's wrong.

That knowledge has never stopped him from taking it personally.

“Hey,” you whisper, touching his arm. “She’s okay.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I know.”

His arms loosen a fraction. “I just don’t know what she needs.”

The frustration in his voice is painfully familiar. Max has always needed to solve things, problems have causes and causes have solutions.

Babies don’t always work like that. Sometimes they cry because the world is enormous and confusing and being three months old is somehow exhausting.

You slide your hand around the back of his neck and move closer and begin humming softly, the same melody you use during late-night feeds. Max recognises it immediately, his shoulders lower as he matches the rhythm, swaying slowly while you rub the baby’s back.

Her cries begin to soften and Max presses his lips against the top of her head.

The room watches in silence. After another minute her cries fade into small, hiccuping breaths. Her body relaxes against Max, one tiny fist uncurling over his heart

The relief that crosses his face is so intense it’s almost painful to witness. “There she is,” he murmurs. “That’s my girl.”

You stroke her cheek, wiping away the single tear caught beneath her eye. “Maybe she was just a little overwhelmed.”

Max opens his eyes and looks accusingly toward the others.

“We didn’t do anything,” Ollie protests from the kitchen.

“You were all staring at her.”

“Well yeah of course.” Gabi says.

Max’s expression softens, he tries to hide it by looking down at your daughter, but it doesn’t work.

“Maybe we should go,” Arvid suggests reluctantly. “Let you three rest.”

The others immediately look disappointed, but nobody argues.

They understand. There’s an ease to their presence in your home now, but they’re still careful with the boundaries of your new little family. They hover while gathering their things, each one finding an excuse to pass close enough to say goodbye to the baby.

Franco lightly touches her foot

“Goodbye, favourite niece.”

Gabriel kisses two fingers and gently presses them against the top of her head. Isack crouches beside Max just long enough to make a silly little face at her, looking far too pleased when her mouth twitches in sleepy amusement.

Liam leans in next, carefully adjusting the blanket around her tiny feet. Arvid promises to bring her a custom racing bulls hat next time. Kimi lingers the longest, staring down at the baby tucked safely against Max’s chest.

“Send a photo when she wakes up?”

“We send photos every day,” Max says.

“I know.”

“I’ll send one,” you promise.

Kimi smiles.

Ollie is the last to leave.

He stands in the doorway with his trainers finally on, glancing between you, Max and the baby.

“You know,” he says, “we were joking about the grid parents thing at first.”

“I’m aware,” Max replies.

“But it wasn’t completely a joke.”

Ollie shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, suddenly looking younger than he usually does. “You both looked after us before you had to,” he continues. “You made sure we were all right, even when we were racing against you or being annoying or asking stupid questions.”

“Mostly stupid questions,” Max says.

Ollie smiles faintly. “Yeah. Mostly those.”

His eyes move to your daughter. “So we’ll look after her too. When she’s older I mean. Not now, I don’t think any of us should be trusted with babysitting.”

“Correct,” Max says.

Your throat tightens.

Ollie notices and immediately looks alarmed. “Oh, God. Don’t cry. Max will ban me.”

“I’m not crying.”

“You look like you might.”

“I recently had a baby. I’m allowed.”

“I’ll go before it happens.”

The door closes behind him and silence settles over the apartment, but after hours of laughter and bickering the quiet feels enormous.

Max looks around at the abandoned cups, plates and the crushed cushions.

“They’re messy,” he mutters.

“You invited them.”

“They could still clean up after themselves.”

“You’d find it strange if they did.”

“No I wouldn’t.”

“You’d assume something was wrong.”

He considers that. “Maybe.”

You begin gathering the empty containers from the coffee table, but Max catches your wrist before you can reach the second one.

“Leave it.”

“It’ll take two minutes.”

“You’re tired.”

“So are you.”

“I’m holding her.”

“I can hold her.”

His arm instinctively tightens around the baby.

You raise an eyebrow.

Max looks down at her, then back at you.

“She’s comfortable.” You say.

“She was comfortable with Liam too.”

You laugh quietly. “Were you jealous of Liam for successfully holding your daughter.”

“I wasn’t jealous.”

“Sure.” You just laugh once more, leaning into him. He kisses your forehead, lingering there for a moment as your daughter sleeps between you.

This life is still new.

The bottles drying beside the sink, the muslin cloths hanging over every available surface. The small crib beside your bed and the impossibly tiny clothes folded in Max’s section of the wardrobe because he had decided she needed more space.

The constant exhaustion and moments of panic. The way your entire heart now exists outside your body, sleeping in her father’s arms.

“Did you hear what Ollie said?” you whisper.

Max’s thumb moves slowly over your waist. “Unfortunately, I hear most things Ollie says.”

“You know what I mean.”

He glances toward the closed front door.

“Yeah.”

“They love you.”

His jaw shifts slightly. “They love her.”

“Both can be true.”

You know better than to push too hard when he gets like this. Affection still makes him uncomfortable when it arrives from anywhere he hasn’t prepared for. He knows how to receive trophies and applause and respect.

Love is harder.

“You were wrong,” you say.

“About what?”

“When we were on the yacht, last year, you said you were worried you wouldn’t know how to protect her or that you’d be too hard. That you might get it wrong.”

His eyes drop to your daughter.

“I still worry about that.”

“I know.”

“Maybe even more now.”

Her face is turned toward his chest, lips slightly parted in sleep. Max uses one finger to trace the curve of her ear, the touch so delicate it barely disturbs the fine hair beside it.

“There are so many things,” he says quietly. “Things I can’t control. I think about them all the time.”

“Like what?”

“Everything.”

“That’s very specific.”

He gives you a look but continues.

“What happens when I’m away. What happens when she starts walking and falls. When she goes to school. When someone is mean to her.” His mouth tightens at the thought. “When she’s old enough to understand what people say about me.”

“Max.”

“What if she reads things online?”

“She currently thinks her own hand is the most fascinating thing in the universe.”

“I know she doesn’t understand now.”

“Then we don’t need to solve it tonight.”

“But one day—”

“One day she’ll know exactly who you are.” He looks at you.

“She’ll know the man who gets up at three in the morning even when he has training at six. She’ll know the dad who checks the straps on her car seat four times and keeps buying her toys even though she can barely hold them.”

“They’re developmental.”

“She’ll know that you pretended not to cry the first time she smiled at you.”

“I had something in my eye.”

“She’ll know you love her,” you finish softly.

His eyes are shining now, though you know better than to mention it.

“I do love her,” he says.

“I know.”

“So much it feels…”

He trails off.

“Frightening?” you offer.

He nods and you rest your palm against his cheek.

You smile. “One day she’ll run toward the paddock without holding your hand. She’ll have secrets and friends and opinions you don’t agree with.”

“She might even support another driver.”

“Absolutely not.”

You laugh at his expression. “Or maybe she won’t like racing at all.”

“She can be anything.” His lips press against your hair.

“Anything she wants.” Your daughter shifts between you, her face scrunching as she begins to wake. Her eyes open slowly, unfocused at first, before settling on Max. You rest your head against his shoulder as he gently rocks her, repeating Dada in three different tones while she stares at him with complete adoration.

The group chat begins vibrating on the coffee table.

Once.

Twice.

Then continuously.

Max glances at the screen.

GRID PRINCESS HEADQUARTERS

Ollie: Has she woken up yet?

Franco: Send photo.

Kimi: Please.

Isack: She probably misses us.

Liam: She does not miss you.

Arvid: She’s been asleep for twelve minutes.

Gabi: I think we should give them some space.

Gabi: But also please send photo when you can.

Max sighs as though the messages are an enormous inconvenience, then he carefully passes the baby to you, reaches for his phone and opens the camera.

“You’re sending them a photo?” you ask.

“They’ll keep messaging otherwise.”

“Of course.”

“It’s for peace.”

“Absolutely.”

He crouches in front of you, adjusting the blanket around your daughter and smoothing one hand gently over her hair. You reposition her while Max takes approximately forty photos.

He finally lowers the phone and sits beside you. You shift the baby carefully between you, and Max wraps his arm around both of you, holding you close.

For a while none of you move. Then the phone vibrates again.

And again.

Max finally sends the photograph.

The responses arrive instantly.

Ollie: MY BEST FRIEND

Kimi: She’s so cute.

Franco: She’s smiling because she misses me.

Arvid: Maybe she’s happy you’re gone.

Liam: Zoom in. She is nearly smiling.

Gabriel: Beautiful photo ❤️

Ollie: Tell her Uncle Ollie loves her.

Isack: Me too!!

Max reads the messages silently.

Then he looks down at your daughter and touches one fingertip to her cheek.

“You have a lot of people looking out for you,” he murmurs.

She blinks up at him.

“And none of them are allowed to teach you to drive.”

You laugh. “You’re impossible.”

He looks at you, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“You love me.”

He kisses you slowly, carefully, mindful of the baby nestled between you. When he pulls away his forehead rests against yours.

Your daughter makes a small, indignant noise, apparently unimpressed by being excluded, and Max immediately kisses the top of her head too, and as you watch him tuck the blanket more securely around her tiny body, his expression soft and his arm firm around your shoulders, you know what you knew then.

He doesn’t need to become the best dad in the world.

To her he already is.

Nobody would have taken Damian as the type to form emotional attachments.

When he first arrived at Wayne Manor, the only person he tolerated was Alfred and he’s not even related to the British man. Then after a few months, he slowly warmed up to everyone else. He started tolerating his brothers and even started referring to Bruce as “father” rather than “Mr. Wayne”. But still, nobody assumed that the reserved eighteen year old would be interested in anything romantic given how he was opposed to even a decent family relationship.

Habibti,

I miss you dearly. Life in Gotham is not terrible, in fact, I quite enjoy it. The crime levels are very high and it gives me a chance to practice many of the maneuvers father is teaching me in training. I like being Robin, I like living in Wayne Manor, I like being with my father and my brothers, but it is nothing without you, Rohi. I beg of you to find a break from the league and come to see me. I miss you, beloved. You are my wife and I need you here. I’m sure my mother would let you visit Gotham if you told her you were coming to see your husband. I beg of you, beloved. I love you, come see me.

All my love, Damian

Nobody knew that Damian was married. He moved to Gotham a few months after his eighteenth birthday and given that he was so young, who would assume that he was married?

Your marriage with Damian had been an arranged one but the two of you had been best friends, raised together in the league. You’d trained together, gone on missions together, and when the time came for the two of you to be married, neither of you were upset. Who would you marry besides your best friend?

And then, only a month after the wedding, Talia had sent Damian to Gotham and required that you stay back with the league to continue training.

His goodbye had consisted of a chaste kiss and a gentle squeeze of your hands and then he was gone. You dare not cry in front of Talia and Ras Al Ghul, you would surely be considered weak. So you saved your tears for the pillows of the bed you shared with Damian. It was hard to be separated from your best friend of eighteen years for the first time ever. And you missed him dearly, but you both did what the league required of you, even if it required that you be several thousand miles apart from your husband.

My Darling,

I appreciate your prompt response and I once again beg that you make the flight to Gotham. I will pay, all you need is my mother’s permission. My bed is cold and I need someone to help me deal with Drake, he irritates me the most of all my siblings. I think Jason would like you and I think father would appreciate knowing that I at least had one friend who looked out for me in the league. There is a gala in two days time and I wish for you to accompany me if you can. I love you, Habibti. And I miss you, you have my heart in the palm of your hand five thousand miles away.

Yours always, Damian

You did not arrive in time for the gala, such to Damian’s despair.

My husband,

I love you more than I can express to you through words. I miss you every minute you are apart from me. I have asked your mother repeatedly and she brushes me off every time. I’m getting so desperate to see you again that I’m becoming tempted to offer her an heir in return for letting me see you. Are you opposed to having children out of bribery? Please return me an answer for this offer quickly so I am not making false promises to the woman that could easily kill us both. I love you, Damian. I am trying my best to return to your side.

Aching for you, your wife

Damian hated going to galas without you. He knew you would love them. The fancy dresses, high heels, jewelry, and booze. Plus an opportunity for Damian to show you off to all the rich people in Gotham and brag about his beautiful wife.

But you were still in Nanda Parbat so he stood awkwardly against a wall nursing a glass of champagne and missing the feel of you by his side. An endless line of women had been coming up to him all night, making poor attempts at flirting and then sulking when he shot them down with sharp words and a glare.

But by his sixth champagne, he was getting sloppy. The room was beginning to spin and the faces of the people around him were melting and doubling and shifting.

He’d let his eyes close for only a few seconds, the alcohol was making him sleepy and when he closed his eyes, he could perfectly picture your face.

Then all of a sudden, a cloying sweetness invaded his nose and something hot was against his mouth, arms around his shoulders. For a second, his brain told him that maybe it was you. Maybe you were here afterall. But no, his beloved did not smell like cheap perfume and bourbon, you smelled like the spices from his homeland and satin. You always let your fingers slide into his hair and you had this way of smiling against his lips when you kissed him after missing him for a long time. This was not you, this was an intruder.

His dark green eyes snapped open and the girl currently attached to his mouth was very much not his wife, just as he’d guessed. His arms shot out, shoving her back with the strength and practice of a trained vigilante, sending her stumbling back into several people which elicited shouts of concern and confusion.

“Hey!” he shouted, his voice thick with intoxication and panic. “I am a married man! Keep your hands off of me, woman! I love my wife!”

He wiped his mouth aggressively with his hand, looking disgusted with both himself and the woman. The back of his hand was stained pink from the woman’s lipstick and it made his stomach churn. “My wife is hot! And she’s not here but I’m hers! Married! Stay back!”

Within moments Jason and Dick had Damian by both his arms, carefully leading him out of the ballroom.

“Hey bud,” Dick started softly, helping Damian into a car. “You’re really hammered, huh?”

Damian scowled and tried to shrug his brother off as Jason started the car and headed out towards the manor.

“No, I am in a perfectly sane state. That woman tried to touch me, my beloved would be quite upset. Richard, my wife will be furious! I cheated! That evil woman kissed me! Oh no, what am I supposed to tell her?!”

Dick laughed and tried to keep Damian upright in the back seat. “Buddy, you’re not married. You’re just super drunk. It’s okay, that lady shouldn’t have kissed you if you didn’t want her to but you didn’t cheat on anyone.”

That seemed to really piss off Damian. “Nonesense. I have a wife back in the League of Assassins. She’s beautiful and stunning and she's deadly. I’m obsessed with her. She will be so angry with me, Richard. You’re really not comprehending the havoc she will wreak.” He gasped softly, equal parts nervous and excited. “She will kill that lady. She’s a very jealous woman. My queen.” He hummed, seeming to become a little smug at the thought of you being possessive over him.

Dick sighed and shook his head fondly, deciding that his brother was probably just inebriated and speaking nonsense “Okay buddy.”

Beloved,

I come to you with a serious crime I have committed against the sanctity of our marriage. I got quite drunk at the gala yesterday and a woman kissed me. I pushed her away obviously but I never should have put myself in a position to be in that situation in the first place. I apologize, my love. I am sorry, truly and deeply. I am battling the worst hangover I have ever experienced as punishment for my crimes. I miss you deeply. And no, I am not opposed to bribery children. Just come see me. I love you.

With undying devotion, Damian

Damian was unsure of how you would react to his most recent letter. Obviously you would be upset that another woman touched him but surely you would forgive him, no? After all, he had rejected her so violently that he had to be escorted out of the gala. He expected a letter back, maybe a phone call if you could get your hands on one in Nanda Parbat.

“Master Damian, you have a visitor,” Alfred called, knocking Damian out of his contemplation.

He half expected it would be a reporter there to interview him about his outburst at the gala, maybe the lady who had kissed him at the gala with a team of lawyers here to sue him for pushing her away.

But when Alfred opened the door and stepped out of the way, there stood… you.

And fuck, you looked gorgeous. You were dressed in a deep green and black dress, sporting the colors of the league per usual. Your hair was let down instead of pinned back like it usually was for training. You’d somehow only grown more incredibly gorgeous in the few months since he’d left for Gotham.

Damian sat there gaping at you like an idiot, shocked and happy and a little bit hard.

“Hello Damian, are you going to greet me or only stare?”

That broke Damian out of his stupor and he flung himself at you, for once losing his facade of cool control and hugging you to his chest as tight as he possibly could.

“Beloved, you’re here! I expected a letter warning me of your arrival.”

You hummed, looking a little smug. “I thought I should surprise you. After all, I heard that some people need reminding that you are a married man. And that your wife will absolutely murder anyone who attempts to touch you.” You slid his engagement ring from a hidden pocket from within the skirts of your dress and offered it to him. “I figured I should also bring this back with me to send the message more clearly.”

He laughed lightly before kissing you, his mouth sliding over yours, his tongue pushing past your lips in a way the both of you had desperately missed. Then he pulled back with a wet pop, a small string of saliva connecting your lips and then breaking when the distance between your mouths increased too far. 

“Thank you, beloved. I’ve been missing this.” He smiled, so uncharacteristic for him but he seemed to glow in your presence. He slid the gold band onto his ring finger on his left hand without hesitation, admiring it for just a moment. The gold of his ring matched yours; only yours was inset with several small colored stones, a larger diamond, and intricate metal bindings to hold them all in.

You giggled and pressed your lips to his ear, keeping your voice low so as to not let any of his gathering family members hear. “And we do owe your mother an heir, I promised. That’s the only reason she allowed me to come and interrupt my training back with the League.”

Damian’s cheeks turned pink and his fingers dug into your hips. “Ah yes, we will have to get on that so we don’t anger the dragon. She is quite strict about promises.”

You hummed softly and your nails dug into his bicep just slightly, possessive. “I think I may stay permanently. Clearly you need someone to bat away the women for you. A video of you shoving that lady off and having your little outburst has made its way onto the internet. I knew you were genetically perfect but I didn’t know they wanted you that bad.”

Damian laughed softly and opened his mouth to make some smart comment but was quickly cut off.

“What the fuck is this, Damian?” Jason interrupted, looking at Damian like he was looking at a stranger. “Who is that? And why are you wearing a ring?”

The rest of the family had gathered at this point, Dick, Tim, Bruce, Cass, Steph. They all looked equally as confused.

“Oh yes, this is my wife. Isn’t she perfect?” Damian said proudly, pulling you a little closer to his side.

Dick gaped. “This is the wife you were going on about the other night?! Holy fuck-”

taglist ~

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The thing about falling in love with Lando Norris is that it happens in increments so small you don't realize you're drowning until you're already under.

It starts with the little things. The way he insists on walking you home every single time, even when you tell him it's unnecessary, that you've walked these Monaco streets a hundred times before, that you'll be fine. He just shakes his head with that boyish smile and says, "I know you will be, but I want to." And then his hand finds yours in the dark, fingers lacing together like they were designed to fit that way, and suddenly the ten-minute walk becomes the best part of your night.

Or the pet names. God, the pet names. You'd never been one for them before—they always felt forced, saccharine, like something people did because they thought they were supposed to. But when Lando calls you "angel" in that soft voice of his, usually right before he kisses you goodbye, or "bee" when you're buzzing around his apartment tidying things he's left scattered about, or "pretty girl" whispered against your temple when he pulls you close—it doesn't feel forced at all. It feels like he's seeing something in you that you've never seen in yourself.

You've been together for a few months now. Not long enough that you've stopped feeling butterflies when his name lights up your phone. Long enough that you've started keeping a toothbrush at his place, that he knows how you take your coffee, that comfortable silences have become just as precious as conversation.

Long enough that you've fallen completely, irrevocably in love with him.

And that's the problem, isn't it? Because somewhere between the late-night walks and the way he absentmindedly plays with your fingers when you're watching movies and the sound of his laugh echoing through his apartment, you've given him the power to absolutely destroy you.

The thought sits in your chest like a stone, growing heavier each day.

You try not to think about it. You try to just be present, to enjoy what you have while you have it. But then you'll be scrolling through your phone and see another comment—‘She's cute but let's be real, how long will this one last?’ or ‘Another month, maybe two. He gets bored easily’ or worse, the ones that pick apart your appearance, your ordinariness, the way you're so obviously not model-gorgeous or Instagram-perfect or whatever it is they think Lando Norris should be dating.

You know you shouldn't read them. Lando's told you as much, has cupped your face in his hands and said, "They don't know you, angel. They don't know us." But the words burrow under your skin anyway, feeding the fear that's already there.

Because what if they're right? What if one day he wakes up and realizes he could have anyone—someone more exciting, more beautiful, and you're just the girl he dated for a few months before he figured that out?

The thought makes you feel sick.

Tonight, you're at his place for dinner. Nothing fancy—he'd ordered from that Italian place you both love, the one that makes the carbonara he's obsessed with. The Monaco sun is setting through his floor-to-ceiling windows, painting everything in shades of amber and rose gold, and Lando is sitting across from you at his dining table, gesturing animatedly as he tells you a story about Oscar.

"—and I swear, he just looked at me with that completely straight face and said, 'Mate, that's a bin, not a toilet,' and I was like, 'I know that, I'm not an idiot,' but honestly, bee, I was so tired I genuinely wasn't sure for a second—"

You should be laughing. It's a funny story, and he's doing his Oscar impression, which is always terrible and always makes you giggle. His eyes are bright with amusement, his hair still damp from the shower he'd taken before you arrived, wearing that soft grey hoodie you love because it makes him look cozy and touchable and yours.

Yours.

Except he's not, is he? Not really. Not in any permanent way. Not in any way that means he won't wake up one day and decide this has run its course.

The realization hits you like a physical blow—not a new thought, but the weight of it suddenly unbearable. If you lost him, if he left, if this ended, it would break you. Completely. Irreparably. You've never felt this way about anyone, never been so consumed by another person that the thought of their absence feels like losing a limb.

And he's sitting there, beautiful and bright and entirely unaware that you're falling apart, telling you about Oscar and the bin, and suddenly you can't breathe properly because how did you let this happen? How did you let yourself fall this hard for someone who could leave at any moment?

You feel it before you can stop it—the hot sting of tears, the way your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to force it back, but it's too late. A single tear spills over, tracking down your cheek.

Lando stops mid-sentence.

"Hey." His voice changes instantly, all the laughter draining out of it. "Hey, what's wrong?"

You shake your head, swiping quickly at your face. "Nothing, I'm fine. Sorry, keep going—"

But he's already moving, his chair scraping against the floor as he pushes back from the table. In two strides he's beside you, and then he's kneeling—actually kneeling on the floor beside your chair—and his hands are reaching for yours.

"Angel." His voice is so soft it makes your chest ache. "Talk to me. What happened?"

His thumbs are stroking over your knuckles, and you can feel the warmth of him, smell his cologne—something clean and cedar-like that you've come to associate with safety. You can't look at him. If you look at him, you'll completely fall apart.

"It's stupid," you manage, your voice thick.

"If it's making you cry, it's not stupid." He squeezes your hands gently. "Come on, honey. Tell me."

There's something about the way he says it—patient and concerned and so genuinely worried—that cracks something open inside you. You take a shaky breath, then another, trying to find the words.

"I just—" Your voice breaks. You try again. "I was listening to you talk, and you were so happy, and I just... I realized that if I ever lost you, I don't know what I'd do."

His hands tighten on yours. "Lost me? What do you mean?"

"I mean when you—" You have to stop, swallow hard against the lump in your throat. "When you get bored. When you realize you could do better. When this ends."

"When this—" He sounds genuinely confused. "Why would you think this is going to end?"

And that's when it all comes spilling out, messy and incoherent and probably pathetic, but you can't stop it now that it's started.

"Because it always does, doesn't it? And I know what people say online, I know I shouldn't read it but I do, and they're always talking about how I'm just another girlfriend, how you'll move on eventually, and maybe they're right because look at you—" You finally meet his eyes, and the concern in them almost undoes you completely. "Look at you, Lando. You're you. And I'm just... me. And I like you so much—I think I might even be more, and that terrifies me because what happens when you wake up one day and realize I'm not special enough or interesting enough or pretty enough—"

"Stop." His voice is firm, but not harsh. He releases one of your hands to cup your face, his thumb catching the tears still falling. "Stop, please."

You try to look away but he won't let you, his hand gentle but insistent on your jaw.

"Is that really what you think?" he asks quietly. "That I'm going to leave you?"

You can't speak, so you just nod.

Something flashes across his face—hurt, maybe, or frustration, or both. He takes a breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer.

"Come here."

He stands, gently pulling you up with him, and then his arms are around you and he's holding you so tightly you can feel his heartbeat against your cheek. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, and he just holds you like that for a long moment, letting you cry into his hoodie.

"I'm sorry," you mumble against his chest. "I'm sorry, this is so stupid—"

"It's not stupid." His voice rumbles through his chest. "If you've been feeling like this, it's not stupid at all. I just—" He pulls back slightly, enough to look down at you, his hand moving to cup your face again. His eyes are so green in the fading light, searching yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. "I hate that you've been scared. I hate that I didn't realize."

"It's not your fault—"

"Let me finish." His thumb strokes across your cheekbone, so tender it makes you want to cry all over again. "Those people online? They don't know anything about us. About you. They see what they want to see, and they make up stories because that's what people do. But they're wrong."

"Lando—"

"They're wrong," he repeats, more firmly. "Because I'm not going anywhere. And you're not just 'another girlfriend.' You're—" He stops, seeming to struggle for words, and you can see something shift in his expression. A decision being made. "You're everything."

Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can feel it.

"I've never felt like this about anyone," he continues, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "Never. And it scares me too, if I'm being honest, because I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to go wrong, but it doesn't. It just keeps getting better. You keep getting better. Every day I learn something new about you and it just makes me—"

He stops again, and this time when he looks at you, there's something raw and vulnerable in his eyes that you've never seen before.

"I love you."

The world stops.

You forget how to breathe.

"What?"

"I love you," he says again, and his voice is steady now, sure. "I'm in love with you. I have been for weeks, probably, but I didn't want to scare you off by saying it too soon. But if you're sitting here thinking I'm going to leave, thinking you're not enough—" His other hand comes up so he's cradling your face in both palms, and his eyes are so intense you feel pinned in place. "Then I need you to know. I love you. Not just like you, not just care about you—I'm completely, stupidly in love with you."

You can't speak. Can't think. Can't do anything but stare at him as his words sink in, rearranging everything you thought you knew.

"You love me?" Your voice comes out barely above a whisper.

"So much it's actually kind of terrifying," he admits with a shaky laugh. "I think about you constantly. When I'm at the track, when I'm doing media stuff, when I'm supposed to be focusing on literally anything else. I see something funny and my first thought is 'I need to tell her about this.' I can't sleep properly when you're not here. And those walks home?" His thumb brushes across your lips, so gentle it's almost reverent. "I insist on them because it means I get ten more minutes with you. Because I'm not ready to say goodnight yet. Because holding your hand in the dark is genuinely one of my favorite things."

A sob catches in your throat, but this time it's not from fear.

"I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner," he continues. "I'm sorry I let you doubt this, doubt us. But I need you to understand something, okay?" He waits until you nod before continuing. "I'm not going anywhere. This isn't temporary for me. You're not temporary for me. And I know I can't control what people say online, but I can promise you that they're wrong. You're not just enough—you're everything I didn't know I was looking for."

"Lando." His name comes out broken, and then you're crying again, but it's different this time. Relief and joy and overwhelming love all tangled together.

"I love you too," you manage. "I love you so much."

His smile is like the sun breaking through clouds. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You laugh through your tears. "I was so scared to say it. So scared that if I admitted it out loud, it would make it real, and then it would hurt more when—"

"When nothing," he interrupts gently. "There's no when. There's just us, okay? For as long as you'll have me."

"That might be a really long time," you warn him, and he grins.

"Good. I'm counting on it."

And then he's kissing you, soft and sweet and tasting like salt from your tears, and you're kissing him back with everything you have. His hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you closer, and you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair the way you know he likes.

When you finally break apart, both slightly breathless, he rests his forehead against yours.

"No more doubting," he murmurs. "No more being scared. If you ever feel like that again, you tell me immediately, okay? Because I can't fix it if I don't know."

"Okay," you whisper.

"And for the record?" He pulls back just enough to look at you properly, his eyes soft. "You are special. You're interesting. And you're so beautiful it actually distracts me sometimes, which is really inconvenient when I'm trying to do important things like drive at 200 miles per hour."

You laugh, swatting his chest. "Now you're just being ridiculous."

"I'm being honest." He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "I love your laugh. I love the way you scrunch your nose when you're concentrating. I love that you always steal my hoodies and then pretend you didn't. I love how you remember little things I tell you, like how I don't like mushrooms or how I'm superstitious about my left sock going on first. I love—" He stops, shaking his head with a smile. "I could keep going but we'll be here all night."

"I wouldn't mind that," you say softly.

"No?" His smile turns playful. "Not even though our dinner's probably cold now?"

You glance over at the table, at the forgotten pasta and the wine you'd barely touched. "We can reheat it."

"Or," he says, his arms tightening around your waist, "we could order something else later. Much later."

"What did you have in mind for now?"

Instead of answering, he just kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, and you let yourself sink into it. Let yourself believe it. That he loves you. That he's not going anywhere. That this beautiful, bright, wonderful person has chosen you, and keeps choosing you, and will continue choosing you.

When he eventually pulls back, he's smiling that soft smile that's just for you, the one that makes him look younger and impossibly sweet.

"I really do love you, you know," he says quietly. "In case that wasn't clear."

"It was pretty clear," you assure him, your own smile so wide it almost hurts. "But I wouldn't mind hearing it again."

"I love you, angel."

"I love you too."

He kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your lips again, quick and playful. "Come on. Let's go reheat dinner and you can tell me all the other things you've been worried about so I can systematically prove them all wrong."

"That might take a while."

"Like I said—" He takes your hand, lacing your fingers together the way he always does, and leads you toward the kitchen. "I've got time. All the time in the world."

And looking at him, at the way he's smiling at you like you hung the moon, at the way his thumb is tracing absent patterns on the back of your hand, you finally let yourself believe it. This isn't temporary. This isn't something that's going to end the moment you let your guard down.

This is real.

Later, after you've reheated the pasta and eaten it curled up together on his couch, after he's told you he loves you approximately seventeen more times like he's making up for lost time, after you've kissed him until you're both dizzy with it—you find yourself tucked against his side, his arm around your shoulders, your head on his chest.

"Hey, bee?" he says softly, his fingers playing with your hair.

"Mm?"

"Thank you for telling me. About being scared. I know that couldn't have been easy."

You tilt your head to look up at him. "Thank you for... everything else. For saying what you said. For meaning it."

"Always going to mean it," he promises. "You're stuck with me now."

"Good," you whisper, settling back against his chest. "That's exactly where I want to be."

His arms tighten around you, and you can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks. "Me too, pretty girl. Me too."

And for the first time in months, the fear that's been sitting in your chest like a stone finally dissolves. Because he loves you. He actually loves you. And maybe, just maybe, that's enough to believe in.

No—not maybe.

Definitely.

Outside, Monaco glitters in the darkness, the same streets you've walked together dozens of times. Tomorrow, he'll probably insist on walking you home again, even though you're likely going to end up staying the night. He'll hold your hand in the dark and call you angel and kiss you goodnight like you're something precious.

And you'll let him, because you finally understand what you have.

Something rare. Something special.

user OH MY GOD CHAT ARE WE SEEING THIS??

user the entire grid liked omg do they know who this is???

user oscar or max HAS to know right??? user imagine it's a surprise to them too user mclaren admin having a panic attack as we speak!

oscarpiastri You finally opened a book?

lando sending you into the wall mate 😇😇 mclarenf1 We do not encourage this!

user no one has pointed out that this isn't his usual taste?? did the person in the photos choose it?

user i was gonna say this but thought i was crazy! user sunshine incarnate ngl! user i need to know who this is YESTERDAY!! user girl we all do, the sleuths haven't found them yet user literally how??

georgerussell63 Looked like a great vacation! Share the deets when you get back

user ofc george says "deets" user diva behaviour honestly user he's going to steal the vacation i just know it liked by lando user NOT HIM LIKING HE'S SO MESSY user he saw someone call george a diva and went: my title?

user OKAY BUT SERIOUSLY WHO IS THAT???

lando hard launches new partner, who are they??

in his photodump from his greece trip, lando debuted a new partner, but it's been a week, and online sleuths haven't found any social media. it's like they don't exist. does anyone know bc admin has SEARCHED far and wide and found nothing!!

💬: this has been bugging me hardcore

💬: why do y'all NEED to know???

💬: bc we're all curious!!

💬: whoever they are, they're hot AND have good music taste!!

💬: it's gotta be pretty serious, right???

💬: i'm just glad he's happy tbh

💬: SAME HERE MANS HAS SUFFERED ENOUGH! 💬: literal millionaire btw

💬: hopefully they can handle him, lord knows we can't

💬: i propose we name his new partner sunshine bc they look gorgeous in golden hour

💬: THIS!! PLEASE!!

clip — i saw lando and sunshine at fp1!!

The clip starts with muffled words as the fan takes their phone out. The phone catches Lando and a mystery figure walking into the paddock, hand-in-hand. You're speaking in low tones, heads bowed to avoid the cameras. from behind the camera, the fan shouts "SUNSHINE!" and you turn to look, your attention drawn by the loud sound of the name the F1 fandom has chosen for you.

The fan locks eyes with them and their hand raises in front of the camera to wave. Eagerly, you start waving back with a wide grin. The bandana on your head catches in the wind as you wave, framing your face like a movie poster. Faintly, the camera picks up the word "hi!" being hollered over the roar of the crowd. Almost invisible, but heard by those who turned their volume up loud enough. There's pure happiness in your voice, something that can't be faked. You're happy to be there, happy to be known, even if it isn't the real you, but a nickname the world had given you.

Lando tilts his head up, a grin spreading on his face as he drinks in the way you lets go of his hand to make a heart at the camera with both hands. Your smile never fades, and seems to grow as the fan zooms in on you. The fan behind the camera squeals and it suddenly cuts.

view 2,930 comments

user OH SO THEY'RE PERFECT???

user THE WAY THEY WAVED AND SENT THE FAN A HEART!!

user oh so they're not terrified at all?? they know they're hidden.

user what if they don't have social media??

user honestly that's what i think!! lando doesn't follow anyone we don't already kinda know, so they might be off grid! user how did they even meet?? they're everything and he's just ken user bro is doing dating the old fashioned way user he said: hold my monster energy and gave us a romcom level meetcute

user unrelated but they look so stunning?? and their smile is gorgeous

user the way i can't even hate bc they're lowkey perfect together

lando posted a story!

date night ready <3

view all replies

maxfewtrell you better have worn pink to match

lando got a pink shirt, dw mate i don't play around

user GOD THEY'RE SO GORGEOUS

user holy shit they're stunning

user lando can you fight??

maxverstappen1 Going to the place I told you about?

lando yeaaaah boi, thanks for the rec btw maxverstappen1 👍👍

user god you're evil for this

user no crumbs in sight

user sunshine strikes again!

oscarpiastri Enjoy

lando sunshine says you and lily should join us for a double date oscarpiastri I don't have a choice, do I? lando nope :))

♫ monochromatic, niall horan

lando 📸📸

liked by mclarenf1, oscarpiastri, maxfewtrell, and 387,607 others

view 46,483 comments

user they dragged him ALL over damn

user sunshine said: this is your weekend but it's MY trip

user if the car is dogshit he should at least get a nice trip out of it

user praying both mclarens start on sunday 🙏🙏🙏🙏

user the way he probably carried all their bags while they got so many cute souvenirs

user another sunshine song choice?? mans is WHIPPED

user "take it all off till you're monochromatic" with the most colourful dump i've seen from him user something something it's all about what we don't see

oscarpiastri Onto the race!

lando surely we both start and finish! user this feels cryptic i don't like it

lnfour part time racer, full-time photographer!

user lnfour do you know who sunshine is lnfour he doesn't actually tell us anything bestie 😊😊

INTERVIEW — Lando Norris on new partner!

"So, let's address the elephant in the room. How long have [you and sunshine] been together?"

"We've been together for about six months or so, and I asked about going public, and they were fine with it [ Laughs ]. They have no social media so you won't find them. Wish I could be that brave, you know?"

"How did you two meet?"

"I, uh, got a padel ball to the face and got rushed to ER, and they fixed my face up. I don't even remember asking them out! It just happened. They said yes, too, which was crazy enough. Don't know why they agreed, but I won't question it [ Laughs ]."

"You said they've got no social media, does that hinder your relationship, since your job requires so much presence?"

"That's actually a good question. **** I'm not good at academic sounding ones. But, no, it doesn't make things hard. They've made me go analogue, which is crazy because social media is my life when I'm not racing. We call instead of text, and they wrote me letters if they couldn't come to a race. I have a screen time limit now, for Christ's sake! { Laughs ] But it's been ... really good for me, I think. Been in my head a lot less, focusing on the now and stuff."

view all comments

💬: THEY'RE A NURSE??

💬: the fact that padel technically got them together AW

💬: he was smiling so wide when the interviewer brought up sunshine, they know BALL

💬: the questions we're all asking!!!

♫ lost in japan, shawn mendes

lando lost in japan 🏯

liked by mclarenf1, lnfour, oscarpiastri, and 394,040 others

view 58,639 comments

user oh this is gorgeous

user sunshine taking over the photo dump we love to see it!

user hope they actually start this race! 🤞🏻

user amen pls let both our papaya boys start user sunshine has to be good luck 🤞🏻

user oh so he’s whipped

user we’ve known this 🙄 user he’s just showing them off now and i’m NOT complaining

user oh they’re glowing!

lnfour our queen 🫶

user even lnfour is obsessed, real shit user don't blame them, aside from lando, they're sunshine's biggest fan

mclarenf1 Hi sunshine 👋🏻

user not admin waving to sunshine fjdnenslxkx that’s so cute lando sunshine says hi back, admin user the way he replied fuxscdsoi

user we are all sunshine fans here 🫵

user he may not have started all the races but lando looks happier this season

user yeah bc he got a partner and he’s got that glow™️

user my toxic trait is that i’m jealous of an f1 driver bc wdym he’s rich, good looking, successful, AND has a stunning partner??

carlossainz vamos 👏

oscarpiastri Why wasn’t I invited?

lando you’d be third wheeling 😊 user oscar found DEAD!

maxverstappen1 Surprised they got a photo of the empty track, very nice!

lando they woke me up at 4 am for that shot and begged me to post it, no regrets tho 🙂‍↕️

user sunshine must be so carefree without instagram

user jealous of their ability to lock TF out lmao

clip — Lando and Sunshine on the train to Suzuka!!

The clip starts on a train in the early hours of the morning. The sun paints the train a gentle shade of pink and orange, dousing the couple in a soft light. Lando and you are both packed into a corner of the train, him standing and blocking the view of you, and then sitting and reading something that can’t be identified. Every so often, you silently chuckle and turn the book to Lando, pointing at a line that made you smile. Lando reads it, and his laughter can be heard as an announcement of the next stop blares. Your hands brush and you lean your head against Lando’s stomach, and his free hand wraps around your shoulders, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head.

The clip cuts again to show you and Lando playing rock-paper-scissors in silence. You win, and the camera captures your small victory dance as Lando pretends to be devastated, but he's smiling like he won the best prize of all. Your hands intertwine as you lean into each other, humming a silent melody only the two of you know. The train goes over a bump and you both giggle as Lando sways, holding you in your seat.

"You okay?" He asks, his voice quiet and gentle as you nod. You're staring at him him like he hung the moon and painted the universe.

"More than okay," you whisper back, and the camera barely picks it up. Lando chuckles, and the redness in his cheeks is barely caught by the camera as you tap the end of his nose.

He looks so in love it hurts.

Lando’s scrolling on his phone when you headbutt his stomach and point to the fan. He looks up and offers a gentle smile and wave. The fan scrambles to put their phone away, apologizing.

Vaguely, sunshine’s voice can be heard. “Do you want a photo with him?”

Lando groans. “I look like shit!” To which sunshine laughs quietly and the video switches to selfie mode. Sunshine’s eyes widen as they scramble to end the video. The last shot is a clear frame of their face, a beaming smile on their lips as the clip ends.

view all comments ...

user the way they’re so tender together

user the shot of their face!!! no makeup spotted!!

user so they’re disgustingly in love got it

user someone put me down I can’t handle this

user the way that they’re wanted to take the train and he only agreed bc he can’t say no

user he’s even in his team kit and was fully intending to take a car but he didn’t want them to go alone

user the light makes them look unreal?? is this a romcom or f1??

user what book are they reading??

user i think it’s a translated Japanese book! can’t read the title sadly

user the way that he looks tired but also so soft

user oh they’re endgame i fear no one is beating this

user sunshine looks so effortlessly gorgeous this isn’t FAIR when is it my turn

user the way they’re camera focused on their face!!! user saving this screenshot and telling everyone it’s my wife!

lando posted a story!

he’s ready to lock in!

view all replies

user SUNSHINE IS THAT YOU???

lando it is, hi 😄 user big fan of your work <3

mclarenf1 caught in 4K!! 📸

lando he can’t escape me 🙂‍↕️ mclarenf1 can you handle all his photos from now on? he might listen to you! lando no promises 😏

user oh so they’ve stolen his phone! sunshine pov!!

user he totally knew they were taking a photo

oscarpiastri Can you take my photos too?

lando i’m on my way!! 🏃‍♀️

clip — Lando got a podium!!!

The clip starts with the crowd celebrating the podium lineup, the Miami air thick with cheers and the smell of alcohol. As Lando walks out onto the podium, a cheer unlike any rips through the crowd. The camera cuts to you, standing just past the fan zone with the largest smile plastered on your face. You're the source of the sound, that much is obvious. You're jumping up and down, waving frantically to Lando on the podium. The camera moves to Lando, who is mimicking you, jumping and waving like a child winning their first race. The camera picks up your voice screaming his name with a reverence found only in myths, dedicated to the gods above. Only now, it's dedicated to him. And you don't care about anyone else, only about showing him how in love with him you are. Likewise, Lando doesn't notice anything else, even when champagne covers him, he turns the bottle to aim it at you. You squeak as you dodge it, laughing with an open mouth and bright eyes.

The camera cuts to after the race as Lando rushes the parc ferme, colliding with you like atoms in a fusion reactor. He's dripping with champagne, but neither of you cares, because his arms are warm and safe. He spins you, both of you laughing and smiling like he'd won the whole fucking thing. It was P2, not the top spot, but it was the best result he'd achieved all season, and you made sure he knew it. You're pressing kisses across his face while he soaks in it. He doesn't even bother pretending to be nonchalant. You're it for him, and he doesn't care who sees it.

You nuzzle your noses together as you exchange silent words, but they're words that make Lando kiss you in the way reserved for movie stars under dreamy lighting, and it feels like the universe is colliding in ways never thought possible as you touch the ground but never separate.

The camera captures his lips moving. Everyone is sure he says "I love you".

view all comments ...

user oh they're SICKENING

user congrats lando!!

user he got a podium yippie!!!

user worth it to see his smile

user the way sunshine screamed?? and the way he jumped and waved back, i just know they're each other's hype person

user this made my stomach revolt

user fuck i wasn't gonna drink today but i want a love like them

user every love song is about them actually!

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

There was a pause.

A very long pause.

“Wait. What?”

You laughed. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Lando sat up straighter from the couch, his whole expression changing.

“Y/n, you got promoted.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No. Don’t ‘but’ this.”

You smiled despite yourself.

Because suddenly he sounded more excited about it than you were.

“You worked so hard for this,” he continued. “Do you even understand how cool this is?”

“It’s just work.”

“It’s not just work. It’s something you wanted. Something you earned.”

You went quiet.

Because Lando wasn’t saying it just to make you feel better.

He genuinely meant it.

Lando was celebrating you in a way you never thought to celebrate yourself.

“It’s nothing, really,” you shrugged. “Just a small thing. I’d honestly be kind of mad at myself if I didn’t get it.”

His eyebrows immediately pulled together.

“Would you say the same thing to me?”

You looked at him. He didn’t let you speak. 

“If I won another championship, would you tell me, ‘It’s basically nothing, Lan. You should’ve expected it’?”

The second he said it, you felt something twist in your chest.

Because no.

Never.

The thought alone felt wrong.

“That’s different,” you argued quietly. “Your work is not the same as mine. My work is not that serious.”

“Why?”

“Because, Lan… you’re literally a Formula One driver.”

“And?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“It is serious, baby,” he said, softer this time. “Your work matters. Your goals matter!”

And somehow, that was the moment.

Not when you got the promotion.

Not when you saw the email.

But when Lando looked at something you had already dismissed and made you see it the way he did.

Yeah.

You knew you chose right.

OSCAR PIASTRI . ˚ You knew Oscar hated shopping.

He had never tried to hide it.

The first time you dragged him along, he made it very clear that he didn’t understand how anyone could spend hours walking around stores just to “look.”

And yet, somehow, he kept coming with you.

Even today.

You were already in the third shop, holding up another outfit in front of him while he stood there with your bags, giving surprisingly honest opinions.

“Okay, what about this one?”

Oscar looked up from his phone.

“It’s nice.”

“You said that about the last one.”

“Because it was also nice.”

You laughed. “That’s not helpful!”

He shrugged. “You asked if it looked good. It does.”

You looked at him for a moment.

Oscar Piastri, who hated long shopping trips. Oscar Piastri, who would rather be doing almost anything else.

And yet he was still there.

“Isn’t this boring to you?” you asked.

He didn’t even hesitate.

“Yes. Very.”

You blinked.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

You laughed. “Then why are you here?”

Oscar looked genuinely confused by the question.

“Because you wanted to go shopping.”

“But you didn’t have to come.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

He looked at you for a second, like the answer was obvious.

“I like spending time with you.”

And somehow, that was it.

Not some huge romantic gesture.

Just Oscar willingly spending hours doing something he hated because he liked being around you.

That was the moment you realized.

Oscar wasn’t the type to say a lot.

He just showed up.

CHARLES LECLERC . ˚ You didn’t think Charles was the kind of person who remembered small things.

Not because he didn’t care.

Actually, it was the opposite.

He cared about so many things that you assumed the little details would get lost somewhere between everything else.

So when you mentioned it once, you didn’t think anything of it.

You were sitting together after dinner, looking through the dessert menu, when you pointed at one of the options.

“Oh, I love that one,” you said casually. “But they never have it anywhere.”

Charles looked up from his menu.

“You like that?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. It’s probably my favorite.”

And then the conversation moved on.

You forgot about it.

Completely.

Weeks passed.

Life got busy. Schedules changed. You had a hundred other things to think about.

Until one evening, Charles showed up at your door with a small box in his hands and a smile on his face.

“I brought you something.”

You looked at the box, then back at him.

“What is it?”

“Open it.”

Inside was the dessert.

The exact one you had mentioned weeks ago.

For a second, you just stared.

“Charles…”

He looked slightly confused by your reaction.

“What?”

“You remembered this?”

A small smile appeared on his face.

“Of course I remembered, chérie.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head.

“You know I only mentioned it once, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you still remembered?”

He shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You liked it.”

That was his entire explanation.

You looked at him for a moment, realizing something.

Charles wasn’t remembering things because he was trying to impress you.

He remembered because when you spoke, he actually listened.

MAX VERSTAPPEN . ˚ You knew Max loved padel.

Everyone knew Max loved padel.

It was one of those things that made him genuinely happy. A few hours where he could forget about everything else, joke around with his friends, and just enjoy himself.

So when you texted him about your IKEA disaster, you weren’t expecting much.

I think I bought a wardrobe that’s too complicated for me.

His reply came almost immediately.

I have padel tonight.

You smiled.

I know. I’m not asking you to come.

A few minutes passed.

Good.

You laughed at his very Max-like response and put your phone down.

You weren’t expecting him to show up.

Which was why you were completely shocked when someone knocked on your door an hour later.

You opened it.

Max stood there.

With a toolbox in one hand.

You blinked.

“Max?”

“Hey, schat.”

“What are you doing here?”

He looked past you, directly at the half-built wardrobe taking over your apartment.

“I’m fixing that.”

You stared at him.

“Weren’t you supposed to be at padel?”

“I was.”

“And?”

“I cancelled.”

Your eyebrows lifted.

He shrugged, already walking inside.

“I can’t risk that thing falling on you.”

You looked at the wardrobe, then back at him.

“That’s your reason?”

“Yes.”

“You cancelled padel because you’re worried my wardrobe might attack me?”

“It looks unstable.”

You tried not to laugh.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe.”

He picked up the instructions from the floor.

“But I’m also right.”

And annoyingly, he was.

You watched him sit down on the floor, completely focused on building something he had no responsibility for fixing.

“You know you didn’t have to come, right?”

Max looked up at you.

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

For a second, he looked genuinely confused by the question.

“Because you needed help.”

Simple. No dramatic explanation. No making it a big deal.

Just Max showing up because, in his mind, that was the obvious thing to do.

And as you watched him fight with IKEA instructions instead of playing padel with his friends, you realized something.

Max loved you through choices.

© 𝐋𝐕𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐒 ：𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔. all works are my own. do not copy, translate, repost my works on any platform. requests are closed.

Until another full moon comes, or a call from Regulus in fear that things have escalated again. Or your boss has decided you’re too valuable for your job to let you go. Hours rise, missed moments, you stay silent because it’ll pass. Everything’s still fresh, you need to find your footing between them, and you can’t expect them to fully settle into this relationship when life itself won’t let them. It’s fine. You’re patient, you’re learning, and so are they. Because you know they love you, and you love them. So you wait, you stay silent and take what they give you— 

“I don’t know, love,” Lily murmurs, eyebrows twitched together as she listens to you. She sets another folded blanket aside before looking up at you. “Doesn’t sound healthy to me.”

“It’ll get better,” you assure her again, almost distractingly as you trace idle patterns on baby Harry’s head. He’s finally managed to fall asleep, maybe James is right and your touch is godsend. 

When you look up, trying to share a triumphant smile with Lily, she’s got a look that makes it dim. Not that it was very wide, they barely get to your ears lately. Your smiles come and go, but they never stay long enough. 

Of course, you don’t let it linger too much. “Don’t worry about me, Lily,” you whisper, rising to your feet with Harry in your arms. The baby boy doesn’t rouse, nor does he wake as you lower him to his cradle. “I’ll be fine, yeah?”

Lily nods, watching as you kneel low enough to continue tracing figures on Harry’s hand, his little cheeks and forehead. Touch featherlight and lips twitched into a fond little smile, smaller and smaller as time goes on. 

“I know you will,” she says after a long silence. “It’s just, y/n… you seem so sad for a girl so in love.”

You don’t answer, and Lily stands to go and put the blankets away. But her words hang in the air. Heavy in your chest and clinging to you even after you leave. Even when you get home to the lights on, hope flickering inside of you as you unlock the door. Even when you walk into the flat to see Remus and Sirius cuddled up on the sofa after a trying day. Even when you smile and offer each of them a cup of tea. Even when Sirius scoots a little to the side to make space for you. Even when, in his deep slumber, Remus reaches for your hand under the thick blanket. Even when you wake the next morning, and they’re gone. 

The flat is warm, and they’ve left you a freshly made cup of coffee on the kitchen table. Probably Remus. With a note. big day at the ministry, had to rush. see you at dinner? love you. sirius xx. You set it down, next to the fresh bouquet and drink your coffee in silence.  

You go through the motions right after. Put on a relaxing record on Sirius’ turntable, light on a candle and hope the lavender helps Remus’ migraines when he comes home. You tidy a bit between sips and changes of outfits, and pluck a flower from the bouquet to use as a bookmark before leaving the flat to go to your own job. 

It’ll pass, you tell yourself. Maybe being sad is a downside that no one tells you about being in love. A secret code that you must discover yourself. Whatever it is, you won’t let it taunt this, because it is a virtue to not let good love slip away. Because it is, even if it’s unhealthy or sad at times—you know, deep in your bones, that this love is good. So maybe staying silent and enduring a bit of uncertainty is a little frustrating, but is nothing compared to the love you know they feel for you. And you feel for them.

At work, you busy yourself being useful. Even if it’s a bit boring at times. Marlene makes a joke that the girl working at the Level 6 coffee shop has a massive crush on her, you pile on with your coworkers that maybe she’s just nice and has nothing to do with Marlene being a retired Quidditch star. Dorcas comes down to visit at some point and steals her away, and you have a stretch of free time where busying yourself being useful isn’t doing the trick anymore. 

Then, Sirius comes down from his Wizengamot meeting with a tense posture but a smile to ease any stress away. He kisses you and flirts with you before dragging you out for a quick lunch, claiming he’s famished and that maybe you should stop by Level 4 to coax Remus out of his cubicle. You let him, swallowing down questions about his meeting knowing well he’ll say it went well because he doesn’t want to worry you. You share a smoke outside the café after lunch, fussing over Remus and the upcoming full moon and how you shouldn’t worry about it because it’s the least they want for you. He dips you low with a long and sweet kiss before saying goodbye. You don’t ask where he’s going, knowing he’s meeting up with Regulus.

You do walk back inside the café to order a quick lunch for Remus, they wrap it warm and ready for you to drop it off at his cubicle on your way to yours. He looks up from his work, stressed and easily irritable. But never to you. You know it’s the full moon, and his migraines, so you kiss his head and wish him a good day before taking the elevator back to your level. 

Remus goes to find you hours later, looking apologetic and wondering if he can spend his lunch hour with you. You pretend to be casual about it, smiling and preparing two cups of tea for you instead of making it a big deal. To not make it so obvious, how you take whatever they give you. A shared smoke, a shared lunch—small stretches of time of their days before you have to return home. Alone. 

You water the flowers, you change into comfortable clothes and put on a film while you wait for them to return. It’s still early, anyway. The book Remus has been trying to read is on the coffee table, and maybe he won’t mind if you start reading it yourself. He hasn’t touched it in weeks, maybe if he sees you read it he’ll get out of his slump. You don’t get much into the book, but it’s nice. It’s nice to feel connected to him, somehow. 

The night stretches, and you make dinner for three. Leaving their plates on the counter ready to heat up for them to eat, it’s okay. You can sit with them while they debrief about their day, they’ve already told you that it’s okay to eat before them if you’re hungry. You bring dinner to the living room, and a small glass of wine. One you mentioned in passing to love and the same one Sirius stocked you up the next day. The film you choose is barely entertaining, but the thematic cores still make you cry. 

They come home later, together and very tired. Sharing murmurs and whispers, apologies about being away from each other and you for the entire day. Ready to share a small stretch of time before heading to bed. But all they find is a lavender candle on, Sirius’ wine and two glasses at the table, and their plates ready to heat up. It’s nearly midnight, and they know because of your calendar on the fridge that you have an early meeting tomorrow, so they eat in silence knowing you’re sound asleep in the room. Aware that you fell asleep waiting for them. 

₊˚⊹ ᢉ𐭩

The next morning, you don’t go to work. There’s no meeting. Or at least that early in the morning. Not like you’ve written down in your calendar. You prepare coffee for three, and water the flowers and write them a little note for them to find when they wake up. big meeting today! wish me luck, can’t wait to tell you all about it later. i love you. yn xx. The flat is silent, but smelling like coffee and lavender when you close the door behind you. 

You head directly to St. Mungo’s, to find a healer that can tell you what’s wrong with you. You’ve searched up symptoms, possible outcomes to your uneasiness and why you keep feeling the way you do. Desperate to fix whatever’s wrong with you and do it quickly, erase it before they can notice it. Before they can realize they’re what’s wrong with you. 

So when the healer says you’re fine, you stay silent. You nod and let her go on about possible reasons, work, maybe hormones, maybe you’re coming down with something. You stay silent and accept her instructions for a few potions that could help, thank her on your way out and head directly to the Ministry. 

When it’s lunchtime, your heart does a somersault when you step out of your cubicle to see them step out of the elevator. Remus holds the flowers when it’s obvious Sirius can’t, carrying various takeout containers from your favourite restaurant near the flat. You try not to be so obvious, how pathetically happy you feel by their presence. You try to push down your need to cling, to cling to them and accept their kisses and the way they listen to your made up stories about the meeting. In return, you try, maybe, with the confidence of this olive branch, to ask them about their endeavors. If Remus needs you to run to the shop for any wolfsbane or other potions he might need. If Sirius maybe wants company the next time he has to talk to Regulus. 

So when they turn it down, brush down your help and claim you shouldn't worry about them, that it’s too much and heavy for you to bear, you stay silent. You smile and continue eating and answering their questions about your day. You nod and laugh at their jokes and try not to cling to hope when they leave with a kiss each and a promise to see you later at James and Lily’s for Harry’s six months celebration. 

When Marlene returns from her own lunch break, you only suppress the weight on your chest. You smile and fill her in on your surprise visit, you ask her questions in return and she answers with a smile that rings the alarms in your head.

“What?”

She hums, turning in her chair. “Nothing, s’just… are you okay?”

You frown. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just…” she scratches her eyebrow. Her nervous tell. “you just told me your boyfriends surprised you with flowers and a whole banquet for lunch, and yet you sound like someone ripped your heart out.”

You ignore the way her words feel like a crack in your heart, knowing they come out of a place of love and worry. “Have you been talking to Lily lately?”

Marlene sits straight. “Should I?”

“No.” You say immediately, turning to your desk and resume working. “I meant about Harry. Did she say what time we should be there?”

“Uh…” she looks around. “y/n.”

“I think I’ll get there earlier. Harry’s been a tad fussier lately and,” you go on, stream rolling any of her attempts to reroute the conversation to your obvious, apparently to everyone but yourself, sadness. “I’m sure she’ll need help setting everything up.”

Before she can speak, you make up a quick excuse to run to the loo. Marlene watches you go, knowing you’re not going to the loo. Not when you’ve taken your wallet with you. She only returns to her work and covers for you when your boss walks by and notices you’re not at your desk. 

You don’t go to the loo. You slip out of the Ministry and head towards Diagon Alley, desperate enough to bypass any worries that someone might recognize when you step into the apothecary with the healer’s written instructions. You buy your potions and drink them in a rush, hoping they’ll ease whatever’s wrong with you before tonight. When you return to your desk, Marlene asks you about work, and you return to your normal routine before clocking out.

Before heading to the Potter’s, you stop by the flat to change quickly and collect Harry’s gift. You suck in a nervous breath before pushing the door open, knowing it’s useless to hope but doing it anyway when you step inside. It’s exactly how they must’ve left it in the morning. The mugs are cleaned and set up on the cupboard. You put them where they belong, knowing it’s an easy mistake to make. You take the old bouquet and replace it with the new one and walk into your room to change. 

You take time picking your clothes, and pretend it’s not for them. You freshen up and collect Harry’s gift before walking out of the flat, heading towards the Potters with a weight on your chest that dissipates slowly with every step closer to the cottage. Before knocking, you suck in a breath and put on your best smile. Or what you hope is genuine enough. 

It’s okay, though. Because James opens the door with Harry in his arms, and the pain disappears almost magically. James makes small talk, knowing what he’s trying to tiptoe around and not giving him reasons to worry. Work is fine. Remus is doing better, his knee isn’t troubling him that much lately. I think Sirius had a small breakthrough with Regulus, I heard he’s accepted to look for flats. Me? I’m okay. I can’t believe Harry is already six months old. Just the usual. When Lily joins the conversation, sending you a knowing look, you go silent. 

Good thing Harry loves to fill your silences. A quiet and absurdly funny agreement you somehow managed to create with him. He gargles and giggles at you, holding your hand and asking you to walk him around the cottage like a glorified chauffeur. 

When the rest of the guests arrive, one by one, you pretend to be busy helping Lily make sure nothing’s missing when you poke your head out the kitchen every time the door opens. Hoping. Hoping. Hoping. Even if you tell yourself it’s just a matter of practically, checking who’s missing before setting plates out. You’re definitely not waiting for them to cross the threshold. 

Except, when they do, you barely notice. 

Harry has forced you to sequester yourself to his nursery to help him sleep. Candles have been blown, pictures have been taken and gifts opened, the baby is tired and Lily is too happy and cheerful with the festivities to make her leave. So you offer to put him to sleep. You trace idle patterns on his forehead, touch tender and featherlight; your fingertip travels from his eyebrows to his little nose and cheek and up again. He falls asleep not long after and you return to the party feeling a tiny bit lighter. 

“There you are, m’love.” Sirius says as soon as you climb the last step. Your heart picks up rhythm, tugging towards him where he meets you in the middle. When he plants a kiss on the side of your face, you feel stupidly teary. “I thought you went home.”

“I was with Harry,” you explain, savoring the way he hugs you. Selfishly, almost. But quick, too quick. You school your expression before it can give you away as he steps away. “Took a bit, but he’s sound asleep.”

“Thank you!” James calls out from the living room. “It’s almost a miracle how quickly you can put him to sleep.”

“She truly has the magic touch,” Sirius says agreeably, tucking you to his side. “Don’t you, love?”

“I think so,” you shrug, smiling a bit. 

“You do.” Remus says, reaching for you in the same way your heart stutters with hope. With love and affection and everything that has been craving. “Hi, saved you a piece of cake while you were upstairs.”

You blink, dazed and overwhelmed by their presence. “Oh. Thank you,” you accept it, wiggling your fingers before setting a hand out and hiding the way they shake. Remus is too busy kissing your cheek in greeting to notice, and you’re eating the cake before he can start paying attention. “When did you get here?”

“A while ago,” Sirius answers, tugging you with him towards the living room for the empty loveseat they’ve left for you. He smiles as he sits, eyeing you appreciatively. You try to control the way your heart flutters. “You look lovely.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course,” he pats the empty spot beside him, a funny lilt to his tone. “You always do. Doesn’t she, Moons?”

“She does,” Remus agrees readily, sitting down on the armrest by your side. His arm comes around your shoulders, without thought. It’s too much. “Is this the new dress you were talking about?”

You clear your throat. “Yeah. Got it the other day on my way from work.”

Remus hums appreciatingly, too. You look down at your cake, knowing how intoxicating their combined appreciation and affection can be. 

“y/n?”

You look away, searching for whoever’s calling for you. “Hm?”

Lily gestures at you from the bannister. “I think Harry woke up, can you… help me?”

“Of course,” you nod, standing up. Sirius wordlessly accepts your half eaten cake, frowning when he feels a light tremor in your fingers when they brush. “I’ll be right back.”

“Sure thing, dovey.” Remus nods, sliding down the armrest to take your vacated seat. Sirius wordlessly makes room for him as the conversation picks up again.

You climb the stairs with a knot in your chest.

When you get to the top, you’re surprised by how silent it is. No wailing Harry, not even fussing with discomfort. Complete silence, and Lily studying you quietly. Almost worryingly.

“What is it?”

“Do you need a couple of minutes?” she asks instead. 

“What?” 

“y/n…”

“I don’t. I’m okay.” You say quickly, feeling indescribably irritated by the interruption. For being dragged away from your boyfriends. “I’m fine.”

“Just—”

“Lily. I know, I know, okay?” you take a step back, down the stairs. “But I’m fine, I promise. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I sort of do, love. You’re… well—”

“I’m fine,” you repeat. With finality. “Thank you, though.”

Before she can speak, you turn around to rejoin the festivities. Remus doesn’t move from the spot, but he does reach for you to sit on his lap. Not quite between them, just there. The conversation goes on smoothly, Lily climbs down a moment later and you feel guilt gnaw at your insides when your gazes meet. She sends you a reassuring smile before sitting down. 

At some point, Remus stands, claiming his knee is troubling him from sitting down all day. He drops a placating kiss to your shoulder before you can ask, or offer to go home. Sirius reaches for your hands when you’re back to his side, threading your fingers together and bringing your joined hands to his lap, then his chest. You feel drunk and happy and overwhelmed all at once. You don’t mind the way Remus shrugs down your help with his knee, not when he doesn’t pull away like other times. Maybe… maybe things are changing. 

As the night stretches and you say goodbye to your friends, the three of you go home with tension lingering between you. It grows and grows the more they touch you, the more they kiss you and the more you wish you could just go home and let them properly love you. And that they do. Careful and slow and steady and gentle and everything you had wanted for months. They kiss you and hold you and caress you until you’re spent and tired. You shower and share kisses and return to bed hours later into the night, even when the sun is beginning to peek between the clouds. You climb between them after returning from the kitchen, setting the mugs and the coffee grounds in hopes of sharing a quick breakfast before heading out for work. Sirius reaches for you in his sleep, and you fall asleep content and more in love than ever. 

When you wake, there’s a steaming cup of coffee on the nightstand, and two empty spots by your sides. The note by your alarm clock goes to your purse along with the rest. emergency situation at grimmauld place. will not be back until tomorrow cos of the full moon. we love you, s&r xx. You return to bed and cry yourself to sleep, or at least until your alarm goes off. Then, you’re off to work. 

₊˚⊹ ᢉ𐭩

After work, you go to the healer again, and you leave St. Mungo’s with an even heavier weight on your chest and a note with a number for a muggle healer. The mind kind. The kind that, according to her, would be of more help than anyone at that hospital. You shove the number deep inside your purse and go home. 

You go through the motions; tidy a bit, prepare everything for Remus, leave his potions and remedies at hand next to his side of the bed. You change the sheets again and stock up on tea and sweets. You go to a corner shop and look for the specific kind of biscuits Sirius likes, because you know he’ll be exhausted and fragile after handling whatever emergency at Grimmaul Place with Regulus and then the full moon. Then stop for the apothecary again for wolfsbane and more potions your healer instructed you to take whenever you resorted “to feeling wrong” again. You shove the potions deep inside your purse and return to the flat. 

When you get to the floor, you’re surprised to find the door lightly ajar, only one push does it to let you in. You look around, categorizing the little ways you can help. But your boyfriends have made quick work of the things you’ve left out for them. The tea has been prepared, the gauzes used and the jar of wolfsbane has been emptied and left to be on the kitchen sink. You venture deep inside the flat, not even shredding your coat or purse or boots before tiptoeing inside your room.

Sirius looks up from the edge of the bed where he’s setting a damp cloth over Remus’ head. Cold for his migraines. He makes you a silencing gesture before standing up, arm coming around your waist to guide you out the room and closing the door behind him.

You can’t help it, you still ask. “How is he?”

“He’s been better,” he answers. The same as always. Vague enough to not worry you further. “Where were you?”

“Went to… uh,” you blink. Mind going blank. Sirius frowns, bending sideways to search for your gaze when it takes you a bit to answer. You clear your throat. “Sorry, um, I went to get wolfsbane. I didn’t know if we had any left so…”

His shoulders slump. “Oh, my love,” he hugs you. And it’s pathetic how you nearly melt into his arms. “you shouldn’t have. It’s too expensive, you know I always cover that.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Still,” he squeezes you tight before letting go. You feel uncomfortably teary when he takes a step back. “You shouldn’t worry about this. I know you, it’ll make you sick with worry.”

You almost laugh. But the sound could wake Remus up, and honestly, you don’t feel like laughing. Not really. So you stay silent, and let Sirius hug you again. 

Once again, you hate yourself for asking. “Is…” you clear your throat. “Is Regulus okay? What happened?”

Like clockwork, Sirius steps back. He cups your face in his hands. “He’s okay,” he answers, but you know it’s mostly a lie. His throat bobbles like he’s pushing down something else. “Just… a bit of a false alarm. But he’s okay. Nothing to worry about.”

You take it for what it is. And you stay silent, nodding and pushing down the lump in your throat when he kisses your forehead. This time, you don’t feel your heart cracking when he steps back, eyes flickering to the room like he wants to check on Remus. You wordlessly take a step aside, letting him know it’s okay before turning to walk out the door. A full moon routine—stock up, come home, do a quick check up and pretend it’s your own decision to go outside to clear your head. Knowing Remus doesn’t want you to see him like this. You leave with a heavy heart and the same question you ask yourself every full moon, why does Sirius get to stay and not you? But now, with an equally heavy purse, you leave with an additional realization that maybe they’re what’s wrong with you.

₊˚⊹ ᢉ𐭩

It’s the end of the month, and the Ministry is a mess, everyone’s running around and getting work done, struggling to finish on time and ultimately staying extra hours to get the job done. Which means that they’ve seen less and less of you. Even if, funnily enough, things have gotten better. 

Regulus has successfully moved out of Grimmauld Place, signing a lease for a small home near Diagon Alley and turning his back to the Black Legacy. Remus has been promoted at his cubicle job, less hours and more perks. The past full moon was a cruel one but according to his calculations it won’t come back until a few more years in a strange astronomy breakthrough. Things look up for them now, but now you’re not there to be on the receiving end of said good news. 

They see you in passing between shared lunches and surprise visits, sharing kisses when you run through each other in the hallways and pretend they’re not going home to an empty flat. 

It isn’t until Marlene accidentally walks in on you crying in the Level 10 bathrooms that it’s collectively decided that something needs to be done. In the moment, though, all she manages to come up with is an elaborate excuse to get you out of the Ministry and back home before marching to Level 4 and not being at all surprised when Sirius is already there with Remus. Not even casual, just straight up flirting.

“You heartless little shits,” she gripes. 

Sirius twists, flashing her a grin. “To what do we owe that lovely moniker?”

“Don’t act so charming, Black,” she snaps. There’s genuine anger in her tone to make him falter, even Remus sits straight in his chair. 

“What’s the problem with you?” he frowns, never one to back down from a challenge. “Are you even allowed out of your desk? With all the work you’re supposed to be doing?”

“And how are you supposed to know that?”

Sirius scoffs good naturedly. “Have you forgotten?” he leans back on the edge of the desk, stealing a sip from Remus’ tea. “We’ve got the loveliest insider keeping tabs on you.”

Marlene bristles. Actually bristles. “I just found this ‘lovely insider’ crying at the deepest level of this fucking building.”

Remus stands. “What?”

“When? Now?” Sirius pushes himself to stand.

She scoffs. “Now you want to know?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I won’t explain to you what you’ve been too blind to notice,” she snaps, all sharp edges and barely controlled fury. “Go home. Now.”

Remus reaches for his coat, not even stopping to think how this might look to his boss. They’re out of the Ministry in record time, not even taking the walk home and straight up using the Floo Network to get to the flat. Hearts up their throats and a heaviness that, finally, matches the one you’ve been carrying for months. 

Except, when they get home, it’s empty. Exactly how you left it that morning. The brand new flowers at the center of the kitchen remain damp and recently watered, the mugs have been washed and put away in their respective shelves. But you’re nowhere to be seen. You must’ve taken the long way home. 

Sirius exhales deeply, slumping on the couch. He runs a hand through his face, calm at first before it turns cruel and painful. He rubs at his eyes and presses his heels until he sees stars, until Remus crosses the living room to guide them away. They share a silence, acutely aware of how deafening your absence is. 

“She’s been quiet lately.” Remus murmurs, pacing around the coffee table. He takes the book at the center, under the candle and one he recognizes. One he’s been meaning to read for months. “Quieter than usual.”

“I thought it was because of her weird boss but…” Sirius trails off. “Fuck, I don’t know.”

Remus drops a kiss to his head, thumbing at his loose hairs before standing straight. “We’ll talk about it, yeah?” he says, soft and gentle despite his own nerves. “Now we wait for her to get home. It won’t be long.”

“I wish she would stop insisting on taking the tube.”

“You know how she is.”

“Yeah, I know,” he sighs, dropping his face to his palms. “She’s probably having an off week at work.”

“I’ll prepare the bath for her, when she returns,” Remus says, voice echoey as he walks down the hallway and into the room. “Set out her comfies and make sure she feels better when she returns.”

Sirius stands, feeling torn with guilt and hopeful with purpose. He makes himself useful around the living room while Remus prepares the room for you, tidying a bit and setting everything for a quick dinner and a few cups of coffee or tea. He waters the bouquet and makes a mental note to get you a fresh one tomorrow. 

It isn’t until he’s walked a few laps around the flat that he notices Remus has gone awfully quiet in the room. 

He starts towards the hallway. “Hey, Moons. You think I’ve got time to run to—” he halts by the threshold at what he sees. Remus sits by the edge of the bed. Your side, usually. The drawer under the bed is open and he’s hunched over himself, running a hand through his forehead as he reads off various notes and pages. Sirius frowns. “What is it?”

Remus shakes his head once, clearing his throat before turning the crinkled page towards him. “Did you know anything about this?”

“What is it?”

“Healer’s instructions.”

Sirius feels the floor giving out under him. “What? Yours?” he asks, stupid really. He knows Remus would rather suck it up and suffer than go to St. Mungo’s, and, last time he checked, he hasn’t stopped by, either. And the only person they could belong to— “No.” 

“They’re from different dates.” Remus goes through them. Stacked together with a few potions’ instructions and the notes they’ve left for you. The first ones. “For fuck’s sake.”

“What is it?”

Remus doesn’t answer at first, but his posture has tensed up. He reads and reads and reads like the pages would change contents, turning them over and going through each before handing them over to Sirius to read. Trouble sleeping. Loss of appetite. Sleeping too much, or sleeping too little. Shortness of breath. Then, the notes. He runs a hand through his face, hand shaking and heart heavy. saw you in passing on my way out of the ministry, you looked really lovely today. love you. sirius xx. thank you for the chocolates dovey. they really help. love, remus xx. Notes and notes and more notes. It isn’t until he gets to the very last one, that he feels his heart being cracked open, to pieces and completely torn. Treatment options, Janus Thickey Ward or— 

He looks up, frowning at the ripped corner. “Or what?” 

Remus shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“How,” he goes through the notes again. Reading and rereading, trying to understand the words and somehow make them fit into you—surely they would’ve noticed? Right? “How didn’t we notice?”

“I thought…” Remus looks away, hunching over his knees. He runs a cruel hand over his face, elbows digging into his knees as he tries to think. “Fuck.”

Sirius paces around the room and ignores the fact that he’s left the tea to go cold in the kitchen. He sets the notes aside, on the dresser and away from his sight before doing a full turn out the room. Towards the foyer, with a shaking hand, he reaches for his jacket. Steps follow and a scarred hand is holding him back, stopping him from taking another step out the door.

“I’m going to look for her, Remus.”

“And do what?”

“She can’t be alone. It’s late, she—”

“She could be anywhere, how do you plan to find her?”

Sirius steps away. “And what do you suggest we do? Wait?”

Remus only nods, jaw tight. “Yes,” he says plainly. Eyebrows furrowed and face cracked open with guilt. “We wait for her to get home and try to talk to her.”

So they wait. 

They make themselves useful, tidying the living room and cleaning the cupboards. Sirius starts on the tea again and completely ignores the flower vase, staring back at him like the proof of what they’ve done. Remus only lays down the clothes on the bed, neat and clean. He folds the notes and the pages carefully and puts them back inside your drawer, chest heavy with guilt at his blindness and for finding them in the first place. They wait and wait, they make dinner and pretend it’s normal for you to take this long to get home. They wait and shower and get into their own pajamas to wait for you. 

₊˚⊹ ᢉ𐭩

When you return, it’s hours later. Long into the night. You look exhausted and awfully sad. Resigned, almost. It’s too late, and Remus and Sirius have fallen asleep waiting for you. The tea remains untouched, the bath goes cold and you change into your comfies in silence before settling on your side of the bed. You fall asleep crying, knowing you’ll wake up to empty sheets and an even emptier flat. A new note if you’re lucky. 

Except, when you wake. They’re there.  

You don’t open your eyes at first, they feel heavy and you give yourself a couple of minutes to start waking up. It’s still early, your alarm isn’t set to go off until a couple of hours. Maybe they’re having an early morning, a head start on the day before work. You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling and aware that the bed is empty but the flat isn’t. 

Maybe if you go into the living room, you might have a couple of minutes before they’re set to leave. Maybe you can have a quick breakfast, or a small lie in. Maybe Sirius would let you sleep a little on the sofa with him before Remus wakes him up and scolds him for being late again. Maybe you can bring your makeup to the living room and get ready while they drink their coffee?

You glance at the door, seeing their shadows under the sliver of light. Maybe today you’ll let them be. It’s okay, you tell yourself, you’ll talk to them later at dinner. You’ll try to do what the muggle therapist advised you to do and talk to them, maybe you’ll stop by the café on your way out of work for a few pastries—sweeten the conversation and pretend it’s not a coaxing technique to get them home early. Maybe it’s best to let them be, have a day for themselves before you… well, ruin it. 

A lump forms in your throat, and you turn to your side, curling into yourself and pretend it doesn’t hurt. Pretend you didn’t spend the previous day crying and sobbing inside a tiny office and hear a muggle tell you exactly what you feared was wrong with you. 

There’s a rasp on the door, quiet and tentative at first before it opens. Achingly slow before Remus pokes his head in. He’s not wearing his uniform, and his hair is tousled—like he’s just woken up or ran a hand through it over and over again. 

“Oh,” he blinks, surprised to see you awake. “Hi, dovey. Good morning.”

You turn, clearing your throat and pretending this isn’t turning your morning upside down. Your heart, too. “Hi.”

“Uh,” he steps fully inside, looking heartbreakingly lost and confused. It makes your throat constrict, and it’s a conscious effort to not make your eyes flicker down the bed. To your drawer where you’ve shoved the therapist’s notes and written instructions. “Sirius ran to that café you like down the street for breakfast, he should be back soon. Would you like a cup while we wait?”

You push yourself to sit. The question crawls and crawls up your throat, trying to escape. You’re staying? “That’s… okay, yeah,” you turn to the clock. “I’ve still got a couple of hours.”

“A couple of hours?”

“It’s Friday,” you explain, despite yourself. Knowing how against this is to your heart’s deepest wishes. They’re here, they’ve got breakfast for you and you’re saying you have to work? “I… well, I still have to go to work. I left early yesterday, I can’t miss it.”

You regret your words immediately after you speak, Remus’ shoulder slump, nodding in understanding and you turn to sit on the edge of the bed so you don’t have to see the heartbreak that comes with his amber eyes. So you don’t have to see him walk out of the room and let you be. 

Except… he doesn’t. You stand, forcing yourself to get started with your day and remind yourself that the heaviness of your chest is just something you’ll have to learn how to handle, how to endure and carry by yourself for a while. Or at least until you muster any ounce of courage to tell them about it. Maybe tomorrow night? Remus is looking at you in a way that makes you consider calling in sick—but what if it’s just for a couple of hours? What if they end up needing to go? They’re important at work now, they might be needed. But so do you. You can’t simply call in sick, even if… well, you do have a note. A reason—No, you can’t. You’ll tell them at dinner.

Right as you’re about to round the bed, start on your day and get changed, Remus stops you before you can get to your dresser. His touch is dizzying and overwhelming at once, thumb sweeping at your elbow as he tries to coax you to look at him. You want to, you so desperately want to let him hold you and look directly into his pretty eyes, but you know better. You know how weak you are, how easily you can give into the high of being on the receiving end of their attention, their affections. You know you will either let them kiss you and drag you back to bed, or end up spilling your heart open before breakfast. You’re at crossroads and Remus is looking at you like he can see it, like he knows. You wish he knew. Maybe everything would be easier… or maybe… just maybe… this wouldn't have happened, if they knew.  

No. You shake your head. Don’t go there. 

“...sweetheart?

You blink, forcing your head up to meet his gaze. “Hm? Yes?”

Remus parts his lips a bit, like he’s actively holding himself back and bracing for whatever he will ask you. You find yourself doing the same. But he shakes his head, too. His hand coasts up from your elbow higher and higher the length of your arm, all the way to your shoulder. It’s a nice touch, you almost shudder like your body is finally catching up and recognizing the feeling of his skin touching yours. You swallow thickly, feeling your weak defenses and self mantras dissolving when he pulls you to him into a hug. 

You suck in a breath, quiet so he doesn’t hear how complete you feel with his arms around you, chests pressed together in a way you know he’d hear your pounding heart if he pressed you closer. His arms tighten in the right places, around your back and shoulders with a hand up the back of your head that makes you think that maybe… things really are changing. Maybe you can call off work and talk things through. Maybe, yes, they’re what’s wrong with you, but there’s still time to make them right. But how can you even open your mouth to speak when the tears have already won you over? So you stay silent instead. Just a couple of minutes like this. You’ll take this, you’ll take the hug and the breakfast and the extra hours of morning light and warm coffee. 

His thumb strokes at the baby hairs of your neck, an absentminded sweep that one would think it’s just muscle memory if you didn’t know better. Remus’ hand splays over your back, pulling you closer like he physically wants—needs to mould you to him. It’s enough to make a sniffle escape you, traitorous and hopeful and pathetic. Naturally, more follow. Then, a sob tears right through your throat and the jumble of feelings you’re desperately trying to push down. And you can’t keep silent this time. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, a warm breath in your ear. His thumb strokes your nape again, again and again. “I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head, finding in yourself the strength to speak. “No. S’fine, I just…” your breath stutters, not quite catching up with the adrenaline of his arms around you. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately.”

Remus makes a sound, quiet but evident in his pain as he guides you a little away. His hands travel up to your face, eyebrows bunched together when your gazes meet and his eyes flit down to the tears in your cheeks. How many nights you spent the same way, crying, and crying and crying hoping they would come back—hoping they would hear or notice you’re falling apart between them in their sleep.

The front door opens and closes, followed by paper bags crinkling and tentative steps. You silence yourself immediately, knowing that, if he knew, if he heard… any plans to contain this would go down the drain. But Sirius has never been one to ignore the sound of your pain or the tension in the room once he notices it. Papers cling as he sets them down, boots stomping against the wooden floors as he starts towards the room.

Something primal about their worry, their combined panic and pain makes you move. You turn around, brushing your hair away and pretending nothing has happened, that you’re simultaneously choking on your own tears and the tension that has taken over the room. Sirius looks frustrated and sad and you’re desperately reminding yourself that it’s not at you. It can’t be at you. He would never.

“Hey—”

“I’ll be ready in a few minutes,” you speak over him, sidestepping Remus to get to your dresser. “Sorry.”

Sirius shakes his head. “What are you sorry for?”

You rummage a bit sharper inside your drawers, searching for what? You don’t know, but you have to move. You have to go. Their attention, while intoxicating as it used to be, now it feels like it’s cutting the oxygen of the room. You can’t tell them. You can’t, not when you’ve already ruined a perfectly good morning. Their plans for breakfast. Maybe walking you to work. All gone. Because you gave in, you clung to Remus and his touch and the way he hugged you. You can’t.

“You can’t what, sweetheart? Remus asks.

Your eyes snap up. “Huh?”

Sirius takes a step closer, deeper into the room. “You can’t… what?”

“What?”

They share a look, and alarm bells ring inside your head. You close the drawer, holding your clothes against your chest and trying to walk between them to get to the bathroom. Just a couple of minutes, a couple of steps—

“Wait.” Sirius says. His hand takes your elbow, too. It’s shaking. Or maybe that’s just you. 

“Sirius, I have to get ready,” you point at your clothes.

He bends slightly to the side, searching for your gaze and finding it hard to even look at him. Not when it’s hard to pinpoint what it means. Months ago, you used to know him and his moods, the way he thought and the way he went quiet when he struggled. Now you don’t know if the frown between his eyebrows has anything to do with you. Or stress. Or how he went out early in the morning for breakfast and returned to a flat full of doom and pain. This was a bad idea. You shouldn’t have waited, you should’ve get started on your day as you woke up and head out before it could get to this point. You should’ve stayed silent.

“Can you look at me, my love?”

You don’t at first. Not because you don’t want to, you so desperately want to look at him. But first you must swallow down whatever is obstructing your breath, the weight on your chest and make yourself better until it’s time to go. You want to look at him and smile and let him kiss you and guide you to the kitchen for breakfast. But part of you, the deepest and most selfish parts of you, wants to simply bite the bullet and look up. Let him see how much you’re hurting, even if that’s the least you want. It’s useless—you still don’t know what’s wrong with you.

He exhales deeply, it sounds shaky even to your own ears. But he only takes a step closer, hand lowering until he’s coaxing your arm out of holding onto your clothes to hold it to his chest. “Why don’t you stay home today?” he asks, voice at odds with his face. Soothing himself in real time when your eyes flicker up in surprise. “I know you need to go to work, but I… we can’t let you go like this. Not when there’s still something we’d like to talk to you about.”

Your throat constricts. “Talk?” you ask, eyes flickering from him to Remus. “About what? Can’t it wait?”

He glances up, definitely sending Remus a panicked look that you do catch this time. When you try to take his distraction to step away, to give them a moment, Sirius threads your fingers together. Pressed against his chest. 

“No, actually,” he says, surer this time. “It can’t. I’m sorry, love.”

You nod, swallowing nervously. “Okay. I’ll… um, see if I can call in sick at work.”

Remus clears his throat. “Why don’t you change, clean your face or take a quick shower while we set breakfast, hm?” His hand returns to your nape, grounding and heavy at once. Like the hand tightening around your heart.

A panicked and intrusive thought crashes into your mind out of sudden—what if they’re breaking up with you? What if this is it? What if all this time they were slowly pulling away to make the fall less painful, the news easy to digest? What if—

“It’s okay, dove. Nothing’s wrong,” Remus reassures quickly, like he can feel the panic radiating off you. Or picking up the way your heart pounds. Either way, it doesn’t help to calm you down. He takes a step closer. “We just want to talk, uh… catch up, more like it.”

“Catch up?”

“Yeah.”

Sirius’ thumb brushes the back of your hand, looking more and more like he wants to cry. You nod. You’d accept anything to lessen whatever tension has them looking so devastated, so sad. He mirrors it, looking a tad relieved and kissing your cheek before walking out the room. Remus does the same, giving your nape a loving squeeze before following him out. 

You don’t allow yourself to process it, not yet. You go through the motions first. You make the bed, switch your clothes and tidy the room before going into the bathroom to clean your face and brush your teeth and do your hair. Then, you call Marlene. It’s a conscious effort to keep your voice even when she asks if you’re okay, and you reassure her many times that you are, that you’re only feeling under the weather and that you owe her a favour for covering for you. When she hangs up. You let yourself cry. 

When you step out, a couple of minutes later, you think you’ve successfully rearranged your insides so they don’t come spilling out the moment you open your mouth. It takes a bit, and a hurried and pathetic attempt to remember everything the mind healer told you, the breathing exercises and the quiet mantras to calm yourself. They help, but just a bit. All the work comes undone when you step out the bathroom, finding the empty room and the door ajar. Whispers echo from the living room, quieter and broken despite their desperate attempts to even their tones. 

You muster your courage, your strength and your pain altogether to round the bed; crouching down to open the drawer and collect your notes. A small museum of your relationship, the good and the bad. The notes and the silence, the love and the loneliness. All cramped between your clothes and old books under the bed. You fold them and tuck them in your pocket before walking out of the room. Not yet. 

“It’s okay, love. It’s okay, we’re okay,” Remus whispers, over and over as Sirius holds onto him. “She’s okay. We’ll talk, yeah? We’ll fix it.”

“I don’t know.” Sirius whispers back, voice fraught and quiet. Too quiet. You stay silent, watching with a tightness inside your chest. He shakes his head. “I don’t know if this is something we can fix, Remus.”

“But we’ll try, yeah? We will.”

You look away. You stay silent. And you let them be. Not yet.

You walk back to the room, sitting on the edge of the bed and trying to ignore the dark pitch on your stomach, growing and growing. Maybe you were right. Things were changing, but it took you a bit to realize you’re not part of those changes. 

This time, you don’t check the lock before the first sob escapes your lips, embarrassed and frustrated at yourself for all your attempts going in vain. For staying silent in hopes of salvaging this, hoping things would go back to normal, that your patience was a small sacrifice for a greater purpose. That you clung to them, to stop this good love from slipping away. Not noticing it was already far from reach.

You let them be, and stay silent as you cry. You cry and cling to traitorous hope that they’ll notice, or not. Or let you be. You’ve trapped yourself in a dilemma that is ultimately the result of your own actions, wanting to be seen without having to beg. 

No. 

You shake your head, rub your face, then press the heels of your hands into your eyes. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet. You can still make it right. It doesn’t have to feel wrong, not always. Every love has its period of uncertainty, of pain and loneliness. This is a good love, you can’t let it slip away. Even good love has to go through changes. Not yet. You will talk to them—and say what? You will try, but not yet—

“y/n?” Sirius asks, tentative at first as he pushes the door open. Slow, a contrast to the way your hands fly to clean your cheeks. He sucks in a breath. 

You stand. “Sorry, I’ll be right there.”

He reaches for you, not even giving you enough time to take a step. His arms tighten around you, nearly collapsing into you with the force of his hug. His desperation. Whatever it is, you’re too raw and confused—it must rub off on you. Because it all goes downhill after that. 

₊˚⊹ ᢉ𐭩

The breakfast has turned soggy, you push it around your plate and pretend you’re not eating it because you’re still too raw. Not because you fear this will be the last. 

The notes and pages grow heavy with every passing minute, every hug and every silent look. How funny it all is, that you’ve finally gotten what you wanted, and you can’t bring yourself to enjoy it. Or at least not the way you’d want to. Not when you can’t bring yourself to open your mouth without feeling like you’re running on borrowed time, and silencing yourself immediately. 

You set your fork down, glancing around the flat. The table, same one you’d share early breakfast and late dinners. The first piece of furniture you picked together. Then, the living room, the coffee table, the bookshelves, the turntables and the kitchen and— your hand flies to your face, choking up on realizations and grief. This can’t be. How can it be the end? This is good, you formed a home together. This is a good love, how can it end?

A chair scrapes, and Remus is already crouching by your side, pulling it aside to reach for you. His knees crack but his arms are desperate and steady when they pull you to him. This time, you have no qualms in scolding yourself for melting into his touch, his embrace that feels sacred and devastating at once. Your chest hurts and hiccups as you cry, turning your head and maybe hide away in his arms. 

“I tried,” you whisper. It comes out like a whispered confession, like something that escapes your lips. “I just want you to know that I did try to keep up.”

He pulls away, but it’s Sirius who speaks first. “We know that now,” his voice is quiet, heavy with sorrow. Or grief. Whatever it is, your heart clenches. “We’re the ones who didn’t.”

“No—”

“We didn’t, y/n.”

“You had many things going on. Regulus, and the full moons and the transformations and—”

“And so did you. It seems.”

You suck in a breath, eyes flickering between them. Remus thumbs at your tears, his own eyes glassy and full of despair. “What do you mean?” They share a quick look, and the weight on your chest expands. Heavier and heavier, it cuts your oxygen. “Who told you?”

“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Remus murmurs, thumb sweeping your cheek when tears won’t stop trailing down your face. “Someone had to point it out for us to notice.”

“Who?” you swallow thickly. “Was it Marlene? Lily?”

Remus closes his eyes, and Sirius only runs a hand over his face. “You see now?” he asks, too full of grief. “All the people who noticed before we did?”

“You had many things on your plate and I couldn’t do that to you, I knew you were struggling and—”

Sirius shakes his head. “You were struggling, too! For months!”

You look away. “I didn’t mean for it to get bad,” you confess. “I tried. I really did, I promise.” you explain. No, you beg. You plead. Because the idea of your silence being the reason they walk away is too terrifying to even entertain. “I just…”

Remus strokes your face. “Please don’t silence yourself,” his arm lowers to your lap, holding your hand in his. His scars glisten with the tears he’s cleaned. Yours, Sirius’, his own. “Don’t slip away.”

Your face twists in pain, because it is a virtue to not let good love slip away—and right now it’s beginning to feel like a flaw. For slipping away from them, for letting it get to this point. For staying silent.

“I just…” you hold onto his hand. “I just missed you, so, so much. And I didn’t know why.” Their faces crack at the way your voice catches, heavy with pain and grief and the months you had to endure their absence. 

“Oh, my love—” Sirius’ voice cracks, chair scraping as he stands. You’re fisting his jumper before he can even fully wrap his arms around you, clinging and clinging, and feeling the way they cling to you in return. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. They repeat, over and over and over, and you stay silent. Because it’s starting to feel like the moment they say goodbye. And you’re clinging to hope that maybe, you can get a couple of extra minutes like this. Clinging to hope. Clinging to them.  

Remus’ arms shake when he tries to fix his hold around you, and his fingers brush the pages peeking from the back pocket of your trousers. He draws back a bit, just enough to pull them out. 

Your breath hitches. Then even more when you look up to realize they’re not surprised at what they find. Remus unfolds them like he had been the one folding them back into your pocket, into your drawer. Sirius steps back, hands at your jaw as he cleans your tears. And the table suddenly feels like there’s something hanging in the air that you’re not privy to. 

“I was going to tell you,” you’re quick to explain, words tripping out of your tongue. Barely taking shape before you’re uttering them, barely making sense to your own ears before they make sense to them. “I just… I didn’t know how and I didn’t know…” you falter.

Remus looks up. “Earlier you said that lately you don’t know what’s wrong with you,” his voice is terrifyingly calm as he thumbs at the pages. He hands them back to you. “Is this… why?”

For some reason, you find yourself nodding. Speaking. Pushing past your dread and let the truth slip out. “Yeah,” you rub your eyes. “Yes. I… well, I thought maybe it was work at first but—turns out I’m fine. The healer said I was fine.”

Sirius dabs at his cheeks. “So you kept going.”

“Yeah. I… it didn’t make sense. What she said and how I felt.”

Remus’ hands travel up, resting on your shoulders before thumbing at your jaw, your neck. Grounding motions that only bring more pain rather than comfort. “And how do you feel?”

Even if you try to look away, his sad eyes are a sight too hard to ignore. You thumb at the pages, the corner you ripped with the mind healer’s number to hide it from them, the little love notes you clung to when uncertainty was too big to ignore. To brush off. 

“I…” your eyebrows twitch together, a fleeting movement that tells them everything. Everything you’re trying and failing to put into words. 

He can’t help it, Sirius shakes his head at your silence. Your struggle to find the words. “I’m sorry.”

“I just…” you run a hand through your chest, trying to suppress the weight inside. Forcing it to either dissipate or to take the shape of something that can be easy to understand. You look away, then. “You know, the first person I tried to talk about this with was Lily. One day I stopped by to visit her. I told her as best as I could, hoping she would help me understand… she listened. And all she said is that I seemed very sad for a girl so in love. And it’s the only thing that has made sense through all of this. I love you so much, and yet I’m sad all the time.”

Remus looks away, eyes slipping shut. You wonder if it’s too much for you to clean his tears, but then remember this might be your last chance, so you do. He leans into your palm, and the knot in your throat tightens. Sirius makes a sound that makes your insides rattle and freeze at the same time.

“No.”

“Sirius—”

“No. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Your eyebrows twitch again. The faintest of movements. “I know.”

His voice cracks. “You were supposed to be happy and… and feel loved not—” his face glistens with tears. “Not sad. Not like this.”

You run a finger through Remus’ face, touch featherlight as you follow after a rogue tear that drags a path down one of his scars. He opens his eyes with realization, taking your hand in his to lower them to his chest. 

“You were sad because we kept asking you to wait, wasn’t it?”

Sirius looks back at you, fear and realization dawning on him when you don’t answer. Remus inhales sharply. 

You stare back at him, focusing on his tears and finding a way to make it easier to say. To make the words and their meaning easier to hear. “I just…” you sniffle. “I knew it was out of protection, that it was for my own good,” you pause, swallowing back a sob even when it begs to escape your lips. “But you never once stopped to ask me if that’s what I wanted.”

The silence that follows is deafening enough that you feel it in your own bones, your heart, freezing with dread and refusing to stutter with hope when the words finally leave your lips. Hope that they’ll understand. Hope that you love them despite it all. And hope that they know you would’ve stayed—

“I would’ve stayed,” you whisper, dragging the back of your hand over your cheeks. “There’s nothing none of you could’ve done or said to scare me off. I just…” you take a sharp inhale, and your hand turns, covering your face as the tears start falling again. “I just wanted to be there. Not just for the good—but… the ugly parts as well. That’s all I wanted.”

Sirius shifts, bending to take your face in his hands. Cleaning your tears when all you want to do is clean his. “You can have them. The good and the ugly parts.”

You shake your head. “You don’t have to say this.”

“I do. I do, y/n. I’m so sorry,” he holds you closer, bending down and down until his forehead is nearly pressed against yours. “You can have them.”

“Just,” Remus’ hold tightens around you. “Just please stop talking like you’re already halfway out the door.”

Traitorous hope flickers on inside your chest, too fast and burning too bright you can’t bring yourself to extinguish it. You swallow thickly, hoping it dies down. You know better than to go down that road again, but your heartstrings keep tugging you that way. Back to them, to their arms, their easy affections and the way they cling to you the longer the silence stretches on between you.  

You shake your head, just to yourself at first. Don’t go there, don’t go there. The more you repeat it to yourself, the higher the flame gets. Burning brighter and brighter.

“You said it, you said this isn’t something that can be fixed,” you explain. Almost pleading, pleading for them to understand you. To know why what they’re saying it’s only feeding the fire of your hope. “And maybe you’re right—”

“No.” Sirius says, with resolve and stuttering breaths as he shakes his head. “No, we’re not. Because that’s not what I meant.”

“What?” 

“I don’t know if the way we’ve hurt you is something that can be fixed that easily,” he says, bending closer until he meets your equally teary gaze. “that’s what I meant.”

“We’d never think of us as something unfixable, dove.” Remus adds, voice fraught. “Never.”

“No?” your voice quietens. Why wouldn’t it? When hope keeps pressing down and down at your chest, trying to find its way back in, it doesn’t care if there isn’t room for something else. “Even after this?”

“Even after this,” he agrees immediately. “There’s nothing worth more time and effort and fixing than this. Nothing.”

“But—”

“Earlier you kept saying you tried. Many times.” Sirius steps in, voice gaining momentum. “And you’re not the only one trying. Not anymore.”

You feel like the flame inside your chest has spread throughout your body. Hope is a dangerous thing. As intoxicating as it is painful. 

“I don’t know if I’d handle it again. I won’t survive it,” you confess, first to yourself before glancing up to meet their teary gazes. “Don’t make me hope.”

As soon as the words leave your lips, you brace. You wait for the moment they draw away from you, realizing the depth of your pain. What they’ll have to work with and decide it’s not worth it in the end. 

Except… they don’t. If anything, they get closer.

Remus brings your hands to his chest again. “Then don’t hope.” 

Your breath hitches. “What?”

“You took the risk before, and see how much it hurt you. It’s okay not to hope, and we won’t expect you to,” he goes on. “Because that’s for us to do… for us to earn.” 

“If you need to doubt, doubt us.” Sirius says, thumb sweeping at your cheeks and silently relieved there are no new tears to clean. “And…” he pauses, wetting his lips. “If you need time. Take it.”

And just like that, the flicker of hope extinguishes. But Remus only holds you closer, feeling the way it dims and the way your eyes gloss over again. 

“Not time away. Just time to earn your trust again, to show you that we’ll work through fixing this. To show you the good and the ugly parts.”

You nod, slowly and just once. “Okay,” you exhale deeply. Maybe the first one that actually leaves all the way in a while. “Okay, yeah.”

Sirius mirrors your nod, holding your gaze as you try to gather your thoughts. Remus brings your hand up to his lips, kissing your knuckles and pressing them to his chest. In the same stutter of breath, you reach for each other again. And this time, you don’t cling as hard. 

You nudge closer to him, and he turns his head to kiss your temple. So unbearably soft and tender you feel teary once again. Sirius steps back, holding your face in his hands and kissing the tears away while Remus stands. He drops a quick kiss to the crown of your head before reaching for the plates and the rest of the food to take them to the kitchen.

“Why don’t we go outside for a walk?” he says, rejoining you a bit later with a little, if fleetingly tentative smile. “The weather’s nice enough, maybe we can clear our heads. What do you think, dovey?”

“Actually,” you sniffle, brushing your hair away and feeling acutely aware of how not okay you might look right now. “I was thinking we could have a lie-in?”

Sirius tucks you to his side. “Of course.”

“But we can take a walk later.”

Remus hums, cupping your cheek. “That’s okay, too. But only if you feel like it,” his thumb strokes the corner of your lips. Feeling the way they twitch, the faintest of movements. “But first… breakfast?”

“Sure,” you nod. 

“Perfect.” Sirius holds you to him a bit tighter before letting go, pushing the sleeves of his jumper up his elbows. “What are you in the mood for? I got you french toast but I reckon we can whip you up something better.”

“French toast’s fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course,” you stand, suddenly aware that you’re still holding onto your papers. “But, um, I sort of need a big cup of coffee first.”

Sirius points at you. “You’ve got it, my love.”

Remus tucks you to his side, and your arms come around him in muscle memory that pushes past missed times and your own reservations. He guides you back to the room, pausing by the living room to pick up his book on the way. You settle between the covers, not caring if you’ve made the bed not even hours ago. He follows after you, settling by your side and making himself comfortable. 

“What did you think about it?” he asks, turning the book for you to see the cover. 

It takes you a bit to pinpoint the book and its contents. “Oh,” you shift, turning to lie on your side to look at him. “You were right. S’a bit boring.”

His lips twitch. “Yeah?”

“Heavy world building.”

“Hm,” he turns back to the book, contemplatingly. “Suppose I’ll have to sit this one out, then.”

“I mean,” you reach for the covers, fiddling with a loose thread. “I think you’ll like it, but I personally found it very slow at times.”

Remus shuffles closer, arm around you. “Are you calling me slow?” he asks quietly. Both in a shared secret and like he’s trying to coax a smile out of you. 

It almost works. Your lips twitch more obviously this time. You feel his lips curling into a smile when he kisses your temple.   

“Read it to me?” you whisper. “Maybe you’ll get me to like it.”

He pulls you impossibly closer to him, and your arm circles around his torso for steadying. Slow at first, tentative. But Remus shifts until there’s no other choice but to hug him. 

“Of course I’ll read it to you,” he whispers back. “Are you ready?”

“Now?”

“Sure. Unless you had any other plans in mind?”

“No,” you raise a hand, finger tracing idle patterns on his sternum. “Just sleep in I suppose.”

“Then you’ve asked the right person,” Sirius says as he walks in. Somehow managing to carry three steaming cups of coffee without burning himself. He sets them by your nightstand. “But wait for me?”

“Sure,” you reply, sitting straight to take your coffee. You pass Remus his as Sirius walks back out the room to get started on breakfast. “Here.”

“Thanks, dovey,” he takes it. Then winces at the scorching hot temperature of the mug. He still gives it a sip, and your lips curl around the rim of your mug as you drink yours. He sets it on his nightstand, and gestures at you to return to your previous position. 

You do. Readily. Surely. 

Sirius curses under his breath from the kitchen, cupboards opening and closing as he walks around preparing breakfast. You nuzzle closer to Remus, and he holds you to him before pulling the covers higher over you. Together, you wait for breakfast. 

When Sirius comes back, you share bites and sips of coffee between chapters. Pauses to shift and to ask questions about the book, small debates about what should’ve happened instead and what Remus, personally, had done if he was the writer. You finish your coffee and your french toast, leaving the plates together by the nightstand and settling more comfortably between them. Listening as they argue about whether the protagonist is too romantic with her descriptions of everything or that’s just poor writing—things you thought yourself when you first read the book. Sirius asks about your opinion and you pretend you’re falling asleep. He lets you, dropping a kiss to your shoulder and pulling you to him when Remus gets too heated reading and describing an action scene. 

~

He follows you into the bathroom one day and you have to pee so bad you can’t even be bothered to stop him. You allow him to stand against the counter facing you and continue the conversation.

When you reach to grab toilet paper you just look at him, “Are you seriously gonna watch me wipe?”

“Yeah.” Jason says it so plainly, as if you asked if he wanted a cup of water.

“You’re such a freak.” You say with a shake of your head, finishing your business.

“It’s literally just pee, babe. I don’t care.” He argues. “Besides, you’re just as much of a freak as me. You’ve got no room to talk.”

“Look at us, a pair of freaks.” You’re beside him at the counter now washing your hands.

Jason doesn’t offer a reply, simply leans over to place a gentle kiss to your cheek.

~

“Jay, I’m plucking my eyebrows. Why are you so close to me.”

Your boyfriend slithered up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist while you leaned into the mirror for a better view.

“‘Cause I wanna be. Can’t I be close to my girl?” His words are muffled in your shoulder blade.

Sighing, truly not that upset, you mumble. “Okay.”

He stays curled up behind you as you finish your mission: making your eyebrows perfect. The entire time his face is either in your back or watching your reflection in the mirror as if you’re the most beautiful thing he’s seen. As if you aren’t making the most egregious faces trying to get the angle you need.

“So pretty, baby.”

~

“Okay, that’s it!” You scream out at Jason one day.

You’d walked into the bathroom 30 minutes ago to give yourself a pedicure. Soaking your feet in a warm bath with fancy products.

Jason has been sitting with you the whole time. Not saying a word, simply providing company while you both do your own thing.

When you’d pulled your feet out and began to dry them off, ready to trims your nails, Jason pulled the tools from your hands and dragged your feet into his lap.

That’s when you’d lost it.

“Why the hell are you trying to cut my fucking toenails, Jason Todd!”

His head whips up to look at you, deer in headlights look at your outrage. He makes no comment, looking confused.

“Doesn’t any of this get to you? Watching me piss and pop pimples and cut my damn ingrowns!” You feel insane. Surely this isn’t normal behavior. Not that you mind it, but why is he doing it?

You refuse to admit that deep down you worry all of this was gonna make him sick of you one day. That he’d see a flaw too closely, something about you that’s too real, and maybe he wouldn’t like it.

“Because it’s you.” His reply comes easy. Simple.

“What?” You’re slightly breathless. Chest previously heaving with bewilderment now struck with a deep wave of love for Jason.

“It’s just you, baby. I don’t care what you’re doing, I just wanna be with you. It’s not gross if it’s you. I want to help you with everything. If you’ll have me, that is.” As if to prove his point, he lifts your still damp foot up and places a kiss to your ankle.

“Jason, that’s- you.” You struggle for words. “That’s actually really fuckin’ sweet.” Tears start to form in your eyes as you take in his admission. “You really feel that way?”

“Remember the first time I opened up to you- the day we moved in together. Told you about how hard it might be to live with me?” Jason’s words are soft. You nod in affirmation.

“You told me, that loving me would never be hard. That no matter how much work it was, you’d never mind it because it was me.” His hands rub gently over your legs.

“It changed something for me, I dunno.” He mumbles, “Made me realize how you’ve never once balked or shied away from anything I ever showed you. How you’ve never made any part of me feel wrong. That’s what it’s like for me, too.”

The tears are falling freely now, warm salt dripping down your cheeks.

“I love you.” There’s nothing else you can think to say.

“I love you.”

“And here I was thinking you’re some freak.” You joke, tears still wetting your shirt.