Imagination, life is your creation

It was the most alive I’d felt since I got to know about mom, and that happiness buzzed inside me even as I tried to tamp it down, the kind of restless happiness that made me want to do something, go somewhere, see her again. On my way to my summer job teaching sailing, I detoured by the country club, needing to see her again.

I lingered near the ballroom window, watching Y/N struggle through the waltz practice, which left me with the desire to help her. I wanted to walk onto that dance floor, take her in my arms, and guide her through the movements the way I had when we were kids. My body remembered exactly how she felt when we danced together - the way she fit perfectly against me, how she trusted me to lead her through the steps.

But there were too many people there. Nicole, Belly, Jeremiah - all of them watching, all of them potentially reading more into any interaction than I was ready to explain. So I'd waved Nicole, and Y/N looked up at the same moment, making the moment unmistakably awkward. I left quickly before the moment could mean anything more, carrying the image of Y/N's surprised smile with me as I headed to work. With Cleveland on the sailboat, I worked through knots and wind patterns, distracted until he finally asked, "You seem different today," he observed as I helped him with the rigging. "Happier. What's got you smiling like that?". When I brushed it off, he pushed until I admitted, "Come on, Conrad. I've been watching you for weeks, and this is the first time you've looked genuinely happy. What changed?"

Maybe it was his easy manner, or maybe it was just the relief of talking to someone who wasn't part of the complicated web of relationships in Cousins, but I found myself opening up.

"There's this girl," I admitted, adjusting the sail with more attention than it required. "We... we almost kissed this morning. And now I don't know what to do about it."

Cleveland nodded thoughtfully. "The one you're dating?"

"No," I said quickly. "Someone else. Someone I've known forever."

"Ah." Cleveland's tone suggested he understood more than he was letting on. "And that complicates things."

"Everything about it complicates things," I said, the words coming out more bitter than I'd intended.

"Then here's some free advice from someone who's made his share of mistakes," Cleveland said, his voice gentle but firm. "Before you do anything that might change both your lives, make sure you're certain about what you feel. And more importantly, sort out whatever other problems you're carrying around."

Cleveland’s advice: be sure of what I want, fix my own problems, and tell the truth. His words stung—they made me realize if I move forward with Y/N, I’ll have to tell her about Mom. I still don’t know if I can do that to her, or to myself.

Y/N's POV

After waltz lessons, I practically sprinted home, my heart racing with anticipation of seeing Conrad again. The memory of our almost-kiss and his text had been playing on repeat in my mind all day, making it nearly impossible to focus on dance steps or polite conversation.

I quickly changed out of my dancing clothes and headed over to the Fisher house, expecting to find the usual controlled chaos of a summer afternoon. Instead, I walked into what looked like the aftermath of a very strange tornado.

The kitchen counter was covered with an assortment of snacks - chips, cookies, fruit, candy - scattered around like someone had been grazing randomly without any real plan. Laurel was standing in front of an open cabinet, staring at its contents with the kind of intense focus usually reserved for complex mathematical problems.

"Laurel?" I said tentatively. "What's going on?"

She turned toward me with a smile so wide and goofy it was almost cartoonish. "Y/N! Perfect timing. Do you think we have any more of those little crackers? The ones that are... you know... cracky?"

Cracky?

Confused and slightly concerned, I headed outside to see if anyone could explain what was happening. That's when I found Jeremiah sitting by the pool while Susannah stood behind an easel, paintbrush in hand, working on what I could only assume was supposed to be his portrait.

The painting was... well, it was something. If you squinted and tilted your head at exactly the right angle, you might be able to see the resemblance to Jeremiah. Maybe. The proportions were all wrong, the colors seemed randomly chosen, and the overall effect was more abstract art than realistic portrait.

"Oh my God," Jeremiah said when he spotted me, his grin threatening to split his face in half. "Y/N, you have to see this masterpiece. Mom, show her your artistic vision."

Susannah stepped back from the easel with obvious pride. "What do you think? I'm calling it 'Jeremiah in Summer Light.'"

That's when it clicked. The giggling, the random snacking, the... creative interpretation of artistic technique.

"Jeremiah," I said slowly, "are your mom and Laurel...?"

"High as kites," he confirmed cheerfully. "Found some old weed in a drawer and decided to have themselves a little adventure. They've been like this for two hours."

Belly appeared just then, having changed out of her dancing clothes, and took one look at the painting before dissolving into laughter.

"Oh no," she gasped between giggles. "Susannah, this is... this is really something."

"I know, right?" Susannah beamed. "I feel so... inspired. Everything looks so interesting today. The colors are so vibrant!"

Laurel appeared in the doorway, having apparently given up her search for cracky crackers, and announced, "We're going for a walk on the beach! To commune with nature!"

As the two mothers headed off on their nature adventure, still giggling like teenagers, I turned to Jeremiah.

"Where are Conrad and Steven?" I asked, trying to keep my voice casual even though my heart was racing at the mention of Conrad's name.

"Steven's still at the club," Jeremiah replied. "Conrad went out somewhere. Work, I think? Not sure when he'll be back."

Disappointment settled in my chest like a stone, but I tried not to let it show. "Okay. Well, if you and Belly want to hang out..."

"Actually," Jeremiah said, standing up and grabbing his car keys, "I promised to teach Belly how to drive. Perfect day for it, with the moms otherwise occupied."

And just like that, I was alone.

With everyone gone, I settled onto the familiar couch in the Fisher living room and picked up one of the video game controllers lying around. Mario Kart had always been a reliable distraction, and I needed something to keep my mind off the disappointment of not finding Conrad home.

He's probably still at work, I told myself. He'll be home eventually.

I threw myself into the game with the kind of intense focus that came from having nothing else to do and too many confusing emotions to process. The familiar music and bright colors were soothing, and I found myself losing track of time.

That's when the sound of something crashing outside startled me.

Conrad's POV

I'd come home through the pool entrance, hoping to avoid any awkward conversations with family members who might want to know about my day or my mood. The house seemed unusually quiet, which was both a relief and somehow ominous.

The pool area was a disaster zone - art supplies scattered everywhere, brushes and paints and canvases strewn around like the aftermath of some creative explosion. Typical Mom, starting a project and then abandoning it when something else caught her attention.

I started cleaning up automatically, gathering brushes and paint tubes with the kind of mindless efficiency that came from years of being the responsible son. That's when I came across the painting Jeremiah had mentioned.

It was supposed to be him, I could tell that much. But the execution was so far from Mom's usual skill level that it stopped me cold. Susannah Fisher was a talented artist - had always been able to capture not just someone's physical appearance but something essential about who they were. Her portraits were beautiful, thoughtful, full of love and insight.

This painting looked like it had been done by a child.

Then I realized with crushing clarity. The cancer is going to affect her abilities. Her hands, her coordination, her artistic vision.

The rage that hit me was white-hot and overwhelming. It wasn't fair. Mom was only in her late thirties; she had decades of life and art and joy ahead of her, and this was going to take it all away piece by piece.

I picked up the painting and threw it down in frustration, not caring when it knocked over a container of brushes with a loud crash.

That's when I heard footsteps behind me.

Y/N's POV

I found Conrad by the pool, standing among scattered art supplies with an expression on his face that I couldn't quite read. There was anger there, and sadness, and something that looked almost like desperation.

"Hey," I said softly, approaching carefully. "Everything okay?"

He looked up at me, and for a moment his whole face changed - like seeing me had temporarily chased away whatever dark thoughts had been consuming him. But then the walls came back up, and he was Conrad-at-a-distance again.

"Fine," he said curtly, bending to pick up brushes. "Just cleaning up Mom's mess."

We started cleaning up in silence. Our hands brushed, reaching for the same paintbrush, and I blurted, "So," my heart hammering against my ribs, "about this morning..." Conrad looked lost, playing dumb—“What about this morning?” The hope in my chest began to sour. “We almost kissed,” I said quietly, voice trembling. Conrad went very still. "What about this morning?"

The way he said it - flat, emotionless, like he genuinely didn't know what I was talking about - made my stomach drop.

"We almost kissed," I said, the words coming out smaller than I'd intended.

"I don't know," Conrad replied, still not looking at me. "I was pretty drunk last night. Everything's kind of hazy."

The casual dismissal hit me like a slap. I knew Conrad, had known him for years, and I knew he remembered everything when he drank. He wasn't someone who blacked out or lost time. He was lying to me, and badly.

Anger flared up. “No, you weren't drunk this morning, Connie. Why are you pretending? And you always remember everything when you drink. Why are you acting like this? Like nothing happened?”

My voice broke on the last word, and I hated myself for the weakness it revealed.

Conrad finally looked at me then, and I could see something crack in his expression. "Yeah, I remember," he said quietly. “But what are we supposed to do? I’m kind of with Nicole, and we were both a mess this morning…”

I'm with Nicole. The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs and making my vision blur with tears I refused to shed. I pulled away, stung and furious and humiliated. “Right. You are with Nicole. It was nothing. Just a mistake.” My voice broke, but I refused to let him see how much this hurts me. I turned, left the Fisher house, and went home with tears in my eyes.

"Y/N-" Conrad started, but I was already halfway home.

I collapsed into bed, sobbing, unable to stop the hurt from washing over me. For a while, I just let myself feel it—let myself break, quietly, the way heartbreak always asks for.

How could I have been so stupid? I thought as sobs shook my body. How could I have thought that moment meant something to him when he's clearly with someone else?

But even as I cried, part of me knew he was lying. The Conrad I knew didn't forget things, didn't dismiss important moments, didn't look at people the way he'd looked at me in that kitchen if it meant nothing to him.

So why is he pushing me away?

Eventually, exhaustion won out over heartbreak, and I fell asleep, my face puffy from crying, and my heart feeling like it had been put through a blender.

Conrad's POV

She ran away from me, and I wanted to chase after her, to say—It wasn’t nothing, it was everything. But Cleveland’s words echoed: fix your own mess before you bring hers into it. I looked down at Mom’s ridiculous painting and felt a surge of helplessness about everything I stand to lose.

I saw Y/N shining like sunlight in the Fisher yard, saw her smile fade as she sensed I was shutting her out. I pushed her away again and saw the color leave her face, the tears in her eyes.

I can't be selfish when it comes to her, I told myself as I finished cleaning up the art supplies with mechanical precision. She should be happy, even if it's without me.

But knowing I'd done the right thing didn't make it hurt any less. The look on her face when I'd mentioned Nicole, the way her voice had broken - those images were going to haunt me.

She deserves better, I thought, but it felt more like a punishment than a kindness to both of us. I kept telling myself she deserved someone whole, someone who would not drag her into the darkness with them.

So, for now, I let her go—even though it killed me. Sometimes, the hardest thing to do for someone you love isn’t to fight for them, but to step back until you’re strong enough to share your weight and be completely yourself. As I try to tell myself I can be selfless, but every second apart from Y/N hurts like hell, but the hope that things might change someday will not quite go out. To be continued...

The events of the previous night came back in fragments: the party, too much alcohol, Conrad's face tight with concern, being carried... somewhere. The memories were hazy at best, leaving you with more questions than answers and a growing sense of mortification.

You opened your eyes carefully, wincing as even the dim morning light sent spikes of pain through your skull. This was definitely Conrad's room - you recognized the surfboard in the corner, the stack of books on his nightstand, the way the morning light filtered through his windows.

Oh God, what did I do?

Panic started to set in as you tried to piece together how you'd ended up here. You were still wearing your dress from the party, though someone had put Conrad's hoodie on you at some point. The fact that you were fully clothed was reassuring, but the gaps in your memory were terrifying.

That's when you noticed Conrad, slumped against the headboard beside you, still asleep. His hand was tangled in your hair, and his face looked more peaceful than you'd seen it all summer. Despite your embarrassment and confusion, seeing him so close made your heart do complicated things.

He stayed with me.

The thought sent a flutter through your chest that had nothing to do with your hangover. Whatever had happened last night, Conrad had taken care of you. He'd brought you home, let you sleep in his bed, and stayed close enough to make sure you were ok.

You sat up carefully, testing your body's reaction to movement. The headache intensified, but you managed to stay upright. 

I need to get out of here before he wakes up, you thought, carefully extracting yourself from his gentle grip.

Moving as quietly as possible, you slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. Your reflection in the mirror was exactly as horrifying as you'd expected - smudged makeup, wild hair, and the general appearance of someone who'd made very poor life choices.

You did your best to clean up with what was available, washing your face and taming your hair into something resembling respectability. But no amount of cold water could wash away the shame that was settling in your chest like a stone.

What happened last night? What did I say? What did I do?

The fragments you could remember were bad enough - drinking too much, dancing with strangers, Conrad having to carry you out of the party like a child. But it was the gaps that scared you most, the blank spaces where anything could have happened.

When you finally emerged from the bathroom, Conrad was gone. His absence should have been a relief - one less person to face while you were feeling so vulnerable and confused. Instead, it left you feeling strangely empty, like something important had been taken away.

The Fisher house was eerily quiet as you made your way downstairs, your bare feet silent on the familiar steps. This house was never silent - there was always someone laughing or arguing or playing music. The unusual stillness made your hangover-sensitive nerves feel even more frayed.

You followed the scent of coffee to the kitchen, where you found Conrad standing by the machine with his back to you. The sight of him in the morning light - rumpled t-shirt, sleep-tousled hair, the careful set of his shoulders - made your chest tight with emotions you couldn't name.

The sound of your footsteps made him turn, and when your eyes met across the kitchen, the world tilted slightly. Maybe it was the hangover, or maybe it was the way he was looking at you - soft and concerned and something else you couldn't identify.

The morning sunlight streaming through the windows felt like knives behind your eyes, and you had to steady yourself against the kitchen counter as a wave of nausea and dizziness washed over you.

The combination of alcohol withdrawal and emotional overwhelm hit you all at once. You gripped the kitchen counter for support, dropping your head into your hands as the throbbing in your skull became nearly unbearable.

This is what you get for trying to drown your feelings in vodka, you thought miserably, holding your head in your hands.

Pull yourself together, you commanded silently. Don't fall apart in front of him.

Conrad's POV

I'd woken up alone in my bed, Y/N already gone, with only the sound of running water from the bathroom to indicate she was awake. After a long while, I had woken up happy. Part of me had wanted to stay and talk to her, to check on how she was feeling and maybe address some of what had happened the night before. But another part of me knew she'd need space to process everything, especially given how little she typically remembered after drinking heavily.

So I'd gone downstairs to make coffee, knowing she'd need the caffeine to function through her inevitable hangover.

When she appeared in the kitchen doorway, she looked exactly like I'd expected - pale, squinting against the light, moving carefully like someone trying not to disturb a fragile equilibrium. My heart clenched at the sight of her obvious discomfort.

I poured coffee into her favorite mug and turned to find her gripping the counter, her head buried in her hands. She looked small and vulnerable in my oversized hoodie, and every protective instinct I possessed flared to life.

Without thinking, I moved toward her, setting the coffee cup on the counter beside her. She looked up at me through the curtain of her hair, and I found myself reaching out to brush the strands away from her face.

The moment my fingers touched her skin, everything else faded away. The kitchen, the hangover, the complicated history between us - none of it mattered. There was just Y/N, looking up at me with those eyes that had always seen too much, her lips slightly parted in surprise.

I was too close to her, close enough to count her eyelashes, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes. My gaze dropped to her mouth almost involuntarily, and when I looked back up, I realized she was staring at my lips too.

The pull between us was magnetic, inevitable. I found myself leaning in, and she mirrored the movement, her eyes fluttering closed. We were so close that I could feel her breath on my skin, could smell the lingering scent of my shampoo in her hair.

Just a little closer and we'd be kissing. Just a little closer and everything would change forever.

That's when we heard the front door opening, followed by the familiar voices of our mothers.

Y/N's POV

The sound of approaching voices hit you like cold water, snapping you back to reality with jarring suddenness. You and Conrad sprang apart so quickly it was almost comical, both of you moving to opposite sides of the kitchen island with practiced efficiency.

Your heart was hammering against your ribs, and you gripped your coffee mug so tightly your knuckles went white. The taste of almost-kissing Conrad lingered in the air between you, electric and terrifying and absolutely undeniable.

We almost kissed. We were about to kiss. In his kitchen. Where anyone could walk in.

"Good morning, you two," Susannah said brightly as she entered with Laurel and your mother in tow. If she noticed the tension crackling between you and Conrad, she didn't let it show.

Your mother, however, took one look at you and immediately switched into parental mode.

"Y/N," she said, her tone carrying that particular mixture of concern and disapproval that only mothers could master. "Why didn't you come home last night? And why do you look like you've been hit by a truck?"

Because I drank enough alcohol to kill a small horse and almost kissed my best friend's crush, you thought, but what came out was: "I just had a little too much to drink. Conrad made sure I got home safely."

"A little too much?" Your mother's eyebrows rose. "Sweetheart, you look terrible. And you have waltz lessons at the country club in two hours."

The reminder hit you like a sledgehammer. Waltz lessons. Debutante season. The formal dance training that would prepare you for the final ball.

Oh no.

In your panic to process this information, you tried to down your entire cup of coffee in one gulp, forgetting that it was still scalding hot. The liquid burned your tongue and throat, making you gasp and nearly drop the mug.

"Careful!" Conrad said automatically, reaching toward you before stopping himself.

"Where's Belly?" you asked quickly, desperate to change the subject and get away from Conrad's concerned gaze.

"She went to the beach with Jeremiah," Laurel replied. "They should be back soon."

As if summoned by her words, the back door opened and Belly and Jeremiah appeared, both looking sun-kissed and relaxed in a way that made your hangover feel even worse by comparison.

"Oh good, you're awake," Jeremiah said cheerfully, taking in your obvious discomfort with practiced ease. "Rough night?"

Before you could answer, Conrad spoke up. "She could probably use one of your hangover cures."

Jeremiah grinned and immediately went to work, pulling ingredients from various cabinets with the efficiency of someone who'd done this many times before. Within minutes, he was pressing a glass of some green concoction into your hands.

"Trust me," he said. "This will help."

You downed the mixture in one go, grimacing at the taste but grateful for anything that might ease your suffering. When you finished, you impulsively hugged Jeremiah in thanks, then caught Conrad's eye across the kitchen.

There was something unreadable in his expression - surprise, maybe, or a flash of something that looked like jealousy. But before you could analyze it further, you were already backing toward the door.

"I should go get ready for waltz," you said to no one in particular. "Thanks for... everything."

And then you fled, leaving behind a kitchen full of confused family members and one boy whose almost-kiss was burning on your lips like a promise.

Conrad's POV

I watched Y/N practically run from the kitchen, and my chest ached with a mixture of longing and frustration. That moment between us - the almost-kiss that had felt like the most natural thing in the world - was now hanging in the air like something fragile that we'd both pretended not to see.

What if the moms hadn't walked in? I wondered. What would have happened?

But I knew the answer to that question, and it terrified me. If we'd kissed, there would have been no going back. No more pretending that what was between us was just friendship. No more careful distance to protect everyone's feelings.

"Conrad, honey," Mom said gently, pulling me from my thoughts. "Are you all right? You look a little..."

"I'm fine," I said quickly, though I wasn't sure I believed it myself.

Through the kitchen window, I could see Y/N's house, could picture her upstairs getting ready for waltz lessons while trying to process everything that had almost happened between us. Part of me wanted to go over there, to finish the conversation we'd started with our eyes and our proximity. But another part of me knew that pushing things further would only make everything more complicated.

She's dealing with enough right now, I told myself. The last thing she needs is me making things worse.

But as I poured myself another cup of coffee, I couldn't shake the memory of how she'd looked at me, the way she'd leaned in like she wanted that kiss as much as I did.

Just then, my phone buzzed with a text from her - "GOOD MORNING 🌻" which brought a wide smile to my face

Y/N's POV

Back in your room, you collapsed onto your bed and pressed your hands to your face, trying to process what had just happened in the Fisher kitchen.

We almost kissed. Conrad and I almost kissed.

Your heart was still racing, your lips still tingling with the memory of his proximity. The way he'd brushed your hair from your face, so gentle and careful, like you were something precious that might break under rougher handling. The way his eyes had gone dark when he looked at your mouth. The way the world had seemed to narrow to just the two of you in that sun-drenched kitchen.

What does it mean? Does he want me the way I want him? Or was it just a moment of weakness?

You impulsively texted Conrad: "GOOD MORNING 🌻."

Get it together, you told yourself firmly. You have waltz lessons to get through, and then you can figure out what this all means.

But as you got ready, choosing a dress that would be appropriate for dancing and trying to make yourself look less like someone who'd spent the night drinking, you couldn't stop thinking about the way Conrad had almost kissed you.

What happens now?

Belly's POV

I'd seen them.

When I had come back from the beach just a few minutes before Jere, I'd caught a glimpse through the kitchen window of Conrad and Y/N in his hoodie standing impossibly close together, his hand in her hair, their faces inches apart.

My heart had clenched with a familiar ache, even though I was supposedly moving on with Cam. Even though I'd been trying to convince myself that my feelings for Conrad were just a childhood crush that I could outgrow.

But seeing them together like that - seeing the way Conrad looked at Y/N like she was sunlight itself, seeing the way she leaned into his touch like it was the most fragile thing in the world - made me realize that some part of me had still been holding onto hope.

They're going to be together, I thought with painful clarity. Maybe not today, maybe not this summer, but eventually. It's inevitable.

The knowledge sat heavy in my chest as I got ready for waltz lessons. I should have been excited - dancing had always been something I loved, and the idea of learning formal ballroom techniques should have thrilled me. But all I could think about was Conrad's hand in Y/N's hair and the way they'd sprung apart when the adults walked in.

At least I have Cam, I reminded myself. At least someone wants me.

But it wasn't quite enough to ease the sting of watching Conrad choose someone else, even if that someone was one of my best friends.

Y/N's POV

The ballroom at the country club was exactly as intimidating as you'd expected - all polished floors and crystal chandeliers and girls who moved with the kind of natural grace you'd never possessed. Your hangover had faded to a dull ache, but your nerves were still frayed from the morning's events.

When you spotted Nicole across the room, looking effortlessly elegant in her practice dress, guilt crashed over you like a cold wave. As far as you knew, she and Conrad were still... something. Dating, maybe, or at least heading in that direction. And here you were, harboring feelings for him and almost kissing him in kitchens while she was being nothing but kind to you.

She doesn't deserve this, you thought miserably. She doesn't deserve to have her sort-of-boyfriend's neighbor complicating everything.

She's been nothing but nice to you, you reminded yourself. And you almost kissed her... whatever Conrad is to her.

Since neither you nor Belly had asked any boys to be your escorts, you ended up partnered together for the lesson. Which created a whole new level of awkwardness.

"So," Belly said as you took your positions, "how are you feeling? You looked pretty rough this morning."

There was something careful in her voice, like she was testing the waters. You wondered if she'd seen anything, how much?

"Better," you said simply. "Thanks to Jeremiah's miracle cure."

She knows something, you realized as you moved through the basic waltz positions. She saw something, or she figured it out, and now everything is weird between all of us.

The guilt multiplied, sitting in your stomach like a stone. This was supposed to be Belly's summer, her time to shine as a debutante and maybe finally get Conrad's attention. Instead, you were inadvertently complicating everything just by existing.

As you moved through the basic waltz steps, muscle memory kicked in from years of childhood dancing lessons. There had been so many summer evenings when you and Belly had practiced in the Fisher living room while the boys played chess or video games nearby.

"Just follow my lead," he'd said, his eleven-year-old voice serious with concentration. "And don't worry about stepping on my feet. That's what practice is for."

Conrad was the first boy I ever danced with, you remembered suddenly. Susannah had insisted her boys learn proper ballroom etiquette.

The memory made your chest ache with nostalgia and longing.

The lesson was proceeding normally - all careful steps and corrected posture - when the ballroom doors burst open and Jeremiah appeared in his lifeguard uniform, grinning like he owned the place.

"Ladies," he announced with a theatrical bow, "I hope you don't mind the interruption."

Before anyone could respond, he was pulling Belly into an impromptu dance, spinning her around the floor with his characteristic charm and energy. Her delighted laughter filled the ballroom, and you found yourself smiling despite everything.

This left you without a partner, standing awkwardly on the sidelines until Nicole appeared at your elbow.

"Want to practice together?" she offered with genuine kindness. "It's always easier with a partner."

Her offer only made your guilt worse. Here she was, being nothing but sweet and generous, while you harbored feelings for the boy she was interested in.

"Thank you," you managed. "That's really nice of you."

As you danced together, Nicole chatting easily about the upcoming debutante ball and various social events, you tried to push down the shame that was eating at you. She didn't deserve to be caught in the middle of whatever was happening between you and Conrad.

Jeremiah, being Jeremiah, couldn't resist pushing boundaries. After a few minutes of proper waltz music, he called out to Alex, 

"Hey Alex! Play 'So Pretty'!"

The formal ballroom music was immediately replaced with something contemporary and infectious, and the other debutantes shrieked with excitement as they abandoned their structured dance positions in favor of something more fun and spontaneous.

That's when Katie, the etiquette instructor, appeared with a face like thunder.

"Jeremiah," she said icily, "shouldn't you be at your post by the pool?"

Jeremiah's charm offensive went into overdrive. "I just needed to grab keys to the chemical closet," he explained with his most innocent smile. "Pool maintenance emergency. But thank you for letting me borrow your lovely students for a few minutes."

As he prepared to leave, he made his rounds saying goodbye. When he reached you, he pressed a quick kiss to your cheek and whispered, "Take care of yourself, Y/N. And maybe ease up on the drinking?"

His gentle teasing made you blush, but there was real concern in his eyes. Jeremiah might be the more carefree Fisher brother, but he was also incredibly perceptive when it came to the people he cared about.

As he headed for the exit, you found yourself scanning the area around the ballroom entrance,

That's when you saw him.

Conrad was standing in the ballroom doorway, watching the scene with an expression you couldn't quite read. When your eyes met across the room, he raised his hand in a small wave, and you found yourself waving back automatically.

But Nicole was right in front of you, and she waved back too, her face lighting up with pleasure at seeing him. Conrad's expression shifted slightly, and he gave a more general nod to both of you before he turned and left.

Your phone buzzed with a text: See you at home

Four words that somehow carried the weight of everything that had almost happened in the kitchen, everything that might still happen when you saw each other again.

You'd had boyfriends before, had received sweet texts and romantic messages, but nothing had ever affected you the way Conrad's simple words did. There was something about the phrase "at home" that felt intimate and possessive and full of promise.

He thinks of it as home for both of us, you realized. Not his home or my home, but our shared space where we both belong.

But then Nicole appeared in your line of sight, practically glowing from her brief glimpse of Conrad, and reality crashed back down around you.

What am I doing? you thought desperately. She likes him. She's been nothing but kind to me. And I'm standing here getting butterflies over a text from the guy she's interested in.

The tornado of emotions was overwhelming - excitement about seeing Conrad again, guilt about Nicole, confusion about what any of this meant, and underneath it all, the growing certainty that this summer was going to change everything, whether you were ready for it or not.

As the waltz lesson resumed and you went through the motions of learning proper ballroom technique, your mind kept drifting to that almost-kiss in the kitchen and the promise implicit in Conrad's text.

See you at home.

You were too excited to see him again, and that terrified you more than anything else.

To be continued...

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I kept telling myself I was just playing the game, just having fun like everyone else. But the truth was, I hadn't taken my eyes off Y/N for more than a few seconds all night. Something about the way she was acting - reckless, wild, so completely unlike herself - had every protective instinct I possessed on high alert.

This wasn't the Y/N I'd grown up with. The girl I knew was thoughtful, careful, someone who preferred a good book to a wild party. But tonight she was dancing with strangers, drinking everything put in front of her, and laughing with a brightness that seemed forced and desperate.

She's running from something, I realized as she lined up another shot, swaying slightly on her feet. But what?

"Conrad, your turn," Jeremiah called out, pulling me from my thoughts.

I took my shot automatically, my muscle memory handling the game while my mind stayed focused on Y/N. She was beautiful even in her intoxicated state - flushed cheeks, bright eyes, that smile that never failed to stop my heart - but there was something fragile about her tonight that made my chest ache.

That's when Belly appeared out of nowhere, her face tight with some emotion I couldn't read.

"Cam," she said abruptly, not even acknowledging the rest of us. "Can we leave? I want to go home."

The urgency in her voice caught everyone off guard. Cam immediately set down his cup, concern written across his features.

"Of course. Are you okay?"

Belly nodded quickly, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she was holding herself like she might break apart. "I just... I need to get out of here."

As they gathered their things and said quick goodbyes, I felt the dynamic shift around the beer pong table. Jeremiah spotted some girl across the room and excused himself with his trademark grin, leaving just me and Y/N standing in the sudden quiet.

I was about to suggest we head home too - she clearly had enough to drink, and the responsible thing would be to get her somewhere safe. But before I could speak, Nicole appeared at my elbow with that warm smile and confident energy that had initially drawn me to her.

"Hey," she said, sliding her arm around my waist in a gesture that felt more possessive than affectionate. "Want to stay the night? My parents are out of town, and I have that big house all to myself..."

The invitation hung in the air between us, loaded with implications I wasn't sure I was ready for. I glanced at Y/N, who was swaying slightly by the beer pong table, and felt that familiar tug of responsibility mixed with something deeper.

"I can't," I said finally. "My mom asked me to make sure everyone gets home safely."

It was a lie - Mom hadn't said anything of the sort - but I couldn't leave Y/N in this condition. Not when she was clearly not herself, not when every instinct I had was screaming that she needed someone to look out for her.

Nicole's face fell slightly, but she recovered quickly. "Oh. Okay, I understand."

But I could see in her eyes that she didn't really understand, and maybe that was for the best.

Y/N's POV

The beer pong game had been a welcome distraction from the chaos in my head, the alcohol making everything feel softer and less sharp around the edges. But when Belly and Cam left abruptly, and Jeremiah disappeared with some girl whose name I couldn't remember, suddenly it was just me and Conrad standing by the table.

The air between us felt charged, dangerous in a way that made my already fuzzy thoughts even hazier. He was looking at me with that expression I couldn't read - concern, maybe, or frustration, or something else entirely.

He opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but before any words came out, Nicole appeared with her perfect smile and her obvious intentions.

"Want to stay the night?" she asked, her arm sliding around his waist like she had every right to be there.

The question hit me like a physical blow, even though I'd been expecting something like this all night. The alcohol in my system made everything feel more intense, more raw, and suddenly I felt like I might be sick.

This is your cue to leave, I told myself, backing away from the table. He made his choice. Let them have their night.

I stumbled slightly as I turned away, but I managed to make it back to the dance floor without completely embarrassing myself. The music was loud and overwhelming, but it was better than standing there watching Conrad decide whether or not to spend the night with another girl.

Conrad's POV - Panic

When I finished declining Nicole's invitation and turned back to where Y/N had been standing, she was gone. Completely vanished, like she'd never been there at all.

Panic hit me with surprising force. How could someone disappear in the span of two minutes? And where would she go in her current state?

"Have you seen Y/N?" I asked a couple of people near the beer pong table, but they just shrugged or shook their heads.

I checked the bar first - it seemed like the logical place for someone who'd been drinking as much as she had. But the bartender hadn't seen her. I tried upstairs next, pushing through groups of people and checking every room I could access.

Finally, I found her on the dance floor.

And I immediately wished I hadn't.

She was dancing with some guy I didn't recognize, someone older who definitely wasn't from our usual crowd. His hands were all over her - waist, hips, places that made my blood boil with protective rage. She was laughing and moving with him, but there was something desperate about it, something that didn't feel like real joy.

I watched as the guy leaned in, trying to kiss her. She ducked away at the last second, but he tried again, more persistent this time. That's when I started pushing through the crowd toward them, ready to intervene whether she wanted me to or not.

But before I could reach them, she moved closer to the guy's face and said something I couldn't hear over the music. Whatever it was made him back off immediately, his hands dropping from her body as he melted back into the crowd.

What did she say to him? I wondered, but she was already moving away, heading back toward the bar with that same determined expression she'd worn all night.

How much more does she want to drink? The question filled me with genuine concern. I'd never seen her act this recklessly, and something was clearly driving her to these extremes.

Y/N's POV

The dance floor interaction had left me feeling shakier than I wanted to admit. The guy had been too pushy, too grabby, and for a moment I'd felt truly unsafe. But I'd handled it - told him exactly what I thought of his behavior in language that would have made my mother wash my mouth out with soap - and now I just wanted another drink to wash away the unpleasant memory.

I was reaching for the vodka bottle when a familiar hand closed over mine, stopping me mid-pour.

"That's enough," Conrad's voice was firm but not unkind. "We need to leave. The moms will be worried if we're too late."

The reasonable part of my brain knew he was right. It was getting late, I'd already had too much to drink, and staying here would only lead to more poor decisions. But the alcohol-fueled, emotionally raw part of me bristled at being told what to do.

"Why should I listen to you?" I demanded, pulling my hand away from his. "Why do you care how much I drink? You should be with your girlfriend."

The last word came out bitter and spiteful, loaded with all the hurt and jealousy I'd been trying to drown in alcohol all night.

Conrad's jaw tightened. "Y/N, you're drunk. Let me take you home."

"I'm fine," I insisted, even though I had to grip the edge of the table to keep myself steady. "I don't need you to take care of me. I don't need anything from you."

But Conrad had apparently reached the end of his patience. Before I could react, he was scooping me up and throwing me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing at all.

"Put me down!" I shouted, pounding on his back with my fists. "Conrad, I swear to God, put me down right now!"

But he just grabbed my purse from the table and carried me straight toward the exit, ignoring my protests and the curious stares from other party guests.

Conrad's POV

When I finally set Y/N down by my car, she was furious. Her cheeks were flushed with anger and alcohol, her eyes bright with tears that could have been from rage or hurt or both.

"How dare you-" she started, pulling back her fist to punch me.

But the alcohol had thrown off her balance and coordination. Instead of connecting with my chest, she stumbled sideways, her momentum carrying her toward the asphalt.

I caught her before she could fall, pulling her against my chest and holding her steady while she regained her footing. For a moment, she struggled against my grip, still angry and wanting to fight. But then something seemed to leave her, and she went limp in my arms, her hands dropping to her sides in defeat.

That's when I really looked at her face. Her flushed cheeks had gone pale, and there was a green tinge around her eyes that I recognized immediately.

"Oh no," I murmured, and her eyes widened with the same realization.

She pushed away from me and stumbled toward the edge of the parking lot, making it just far enough from my car before she started throwing up. Everything she'd consumed that night - the beer, the vodka, Laurel's birthday dinner - came up in violent waves that shook her whole body.

I was beside her immediately, gathering her hair back from her face and rubbing soothing circles on her back while she retched. This was the inevitable consequence of the amount she'd been drinking, but seeing her so sick and vulnerable still broke something inside me.

When the worst of it was over, I ran to get water and towels from my car, helping her clean up and rinse the taste from her mouth. She was still drunk, still unsteady on her feet, but the anger had gone out of her completely.

"Come on," I said gently, guiding her toward the passenger seat. "Let's get you home."

She didn't protest as I helped her into the car and buckled her seatbelt, making sure she was secure before closing her door. As I walked around to the driver's side, I heard her voice - small and fragile in a way that made my chest ache.

"Connie?" she said when I slid behind the wheel. "I'm sorry for getting you dirty. I feel... I feel dirty."

Her eyes filled with tears, and whatever composure I'd been maintaining cracked completely. I reached over to cup her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing away the moisture on her cheeks.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," I said firmly. "And you're beautiful. Don't ever think otherwise."

I pressed a kiss to her forehead, gentle and protective and full of all the feelings I couldn't put into words. I knew she probably wouldn't remember this in the morning - Y/N never remembered details when she drank this much, always complained that everything became a blur. But I would remember. I always remembered everything when it came to her.

Conrad's POV

Before starting the car, I grabbed my hoodie from the backseat and helped Y/N put it on. She was shivering slightly, whether from the night air or the aftermath of being sick, and the sweatshirt swallowed her small frame in a way that made her look impossibly young and vulnerable.

I love seeing her in my clothes, I realized with startling clarity. There was something possessive and protective about it that appealed to parts of me I didn't want to examine too closely.

As we drove through the quiet streets of Cousins, she hummed along to the radio with that contentment that always came over her when she was drunk. Despite everything that had happened tonight, hearing her happy humming brought a smile to my face. This was the Y/N I remembered from previous summers - silly and giggly and completely without pretense.

After a while, the humming stopped. When I glanced over, she was curled up in the passenger seat like a child, half-asleep and looking more peaceful than she had all night. The turmoil that had been written across her features at the party was gone, replaced by something soft and unguarded that made my heart clench.

When we reached our street, I sat in the driveway for a moment longer than necessary, reluctant to break the spell. These quiet moments with her felt precious, like something I should hold onto while I still could.

But eventually, reality intruded. I parked the car and texted Steven to open the front door, then carefully lifted her from the passenger seat. She was completely asleep now, her head falling against my shoulder as I carried her toward the house.

Steven met us at the door with wide, concerned eyes.

"What happened?" he whispered, taking in Y/N's condition.

"Too much to drink," I replied quietly. "She'll be okay, but she needs to sleep it off."

"Her mom's going to kill her if she goes home like this," Steven observed.

"That's why she's staying here tonight," I said, already heading for the stairs.

Conrad's POV

I carried her up to my room and laid her gently on my bed, trying not to wake her as I pulled my hands away. But the movement disturbed her anyway, and her hair fell across her face in a way that seemed to bother her even in sleep.

Carefully, I brushed the strands away from her eyes, tucking them behind her ear with the kind of gentleness I usually reserved for injured animals. She stirred at my touch, her eyes fluttering open as she tried to focus on my face.

"Go back to sleep," I whispered, stepping back toward the door.

But as I reached for the light switch, her voice stopped me.

"Connie?" she said, her words slightly slurred but audible. "I don't want to be alone right now. Can you... can you keep me company?"

Every rational part of my brain screamed that this was a bad idea. Y/N was drunk, vulnerable, and we were already walking a dangerous line with our feelings. Staying here, being close to her in this intimate setting, would only make things more complicated.

But the look in her eyes - lost and fragile and so unlike her usual strength - made it impossible to say no.

I sat down on the edge of the bed near her head, my hands automatically moving to her hair. I'd seen her mother do this countless times over the years, knew that having her hair stroked always helped Y/N fall asleep.

She relaxed immediately under my touch, her breathing becoming deeper and more even. For a moment, I thought she'd drifted off again.

Then she spoke, and her words shattered something inside me.

"Connie," she said, her voice breaking, "do you love Nicole?"

The question hit me like a physical blow. "No," I said immediately, the truth coming out before I could think about it.

"So you love Belly?" she continued, her words getting sleepier but no less devastating.

The question caught me completely off guard. I opened my mouth to answer, but before I could find the words, she continued.

"If you do, I don't want you to keep breaking her heart... and mine." Her voice was barely a whisper now, full of pain that cut right through me. "It's just too much."

And then she was asleep, leaving me sitting there with her words echoing in my head like an accusation I couldn't escape.

She thinks I love Nicole or Belly.

The realization was devastating. Without even meaning to, without even being with her, I was hurting the person I cared about most in the world.

I knew I should leave. Should go sleep on the couch and give Y/N the space she needed to recover from tonight's mistakes. But my selfish heart wanted to stay close to her for as long as possible, to hold onto these quiet moments before the real world intruded again.

Dawn was only a few hours away anyway, I reasoned. And Y/N looked so peaceful with her head resting near my lap, her breathing deep and even under my gentle touch.

I made myself more comfortable against the headboard, careful not to disturb her, and let my heavy eyelids drift closed. For the first time in weeks - maybe months - I felt truly peaceful. The constant anxiety about Mom's diagnosis, the guilt about pushing everyone away, the confusion about my feelings - all of it faded into the background when Y/N was near.

Sleep took me gradually, my hand still tangled in her hair, my heart finally quiet in a way it hadn't been all summer.

To be continued...

Tag list: @katelyn-not-taken @tremendousstarlighttragedy @babycowgal @wertyuizxcvbnm @sydsicr @eddiemunsons-lover @crystalposts @nikilolo787 @jaasworld @messagingmusic @idkman5335 @im-damnedifidogiveadamn @midnightlullaby0710 @trvstedgia

She was right about everything. About Belly, about my cruelty, about the way I'd been pushing everyone away. In that moment, I'd wanted to tell her everything - about Mom's diagnosis, about the fear that was eating me alive from the inside out, about how terrified I was of losing everyone I loved. But the words had stuck in my throat, and before I could find them, she was gone.

For days after that night, Y/N and I existed in the same space without really seeing each other. She'd nod politely if we passed in the yard, would smile and make small talk if forced into conversation by our parents, but the easy warmth that had always existed between us was gone. Every interaction felt stilted and careful, like we were strangers pretending to be friends.

I missed her with an intensity that scared me. I missed her laugh, her insights about the books she was reading, the way she'd look at me like I was worth understanding. Now when she looked at me at all, it was with a careful blankness that hurt more than anger would have.

Y/N's POV

Belly's sixteenth birthday dawned bright and beautiful, the kind of perfect summer day that seemed designed for celebrations. From your bedroom window, you could hear the cheerful chaos of the Fisher house coming to life - voices calling out birthday wishes, the sound of Laurel making her famous Mickey Mouse pancakes, the general buzz of excitement that always accompanied important occasions.

Most summers, you would have been over there already, probably helping with breakfast preparations or adding your own voice to the birthday chorus. You would have run across the yard in your pajamas to hug Belly and be the first to wish her happy birthday, the way you had every year since you were kids.

But this summer was different. This summer, everything felt complicated and fragile, and you weren't sure where you fit in the Fisher-Conklin family dynamic anymore.

You wanted to go over there. Every fiber of your being was pulling you toward that house. But the memory of your last real conversation - stilted and awkward and full of everything you weren't saying - made you hesitate.

What if I make it weird? you wondered, watching through your window as Steven and Jeremiah chased each other around the pool with water guns. What if she doesn't want me there?

The arrival of Taylor's at the Fisher driveway made your decision for you. Belly's best friend from home had come for the birthday celebration, which meant the dynamic would shift even more. Taylor had never been particularly warm to you, and you'd learned over the years that it was easier to give her space when she visited.

Conrad probably is there anyway, you told yourself, settling back against your pillows with a book. He's been avoiding everything lately.

AFTER SOME TIME

You'd been trying to lose yourself in your novel by your pool when the sound of laughter and splashing from next door became too much to ignore. Glancing over, you could see the group had migrated to the Fisher pool - Belly in a new bikini that made her look stunning, Taylor with her confident smile, and the boys engaged in their usual pool antics.

That's when Jeremiah spotted you and immediately started waving you over with his characteristic enthusiasm.

"Y/N! Come join us!" he called out, his grin infectious even from across the yard.

"Maybe later!" you called back, but you should have known that Jeremiah Fisher never took no for an answer.

Before you knew it, he was jogging across the lawn toward you, his hair still dripping from the pool.

"Absolutely not," he said, grabbing your hand and pulling you to your feet. "It's Belly's birthday, and you're sitting over here reading like some kind of hermit. Come on."

Your book was still clutched in your free hand as Jeremiah dragged you across the yard, and you couldn't help but laugh at his determination. This was why you loved Jeremiah - he had this ability to cut through awkwardness and just make things happen.

When you reached the pool area, Belly's face lit up with genuine happiness.

"Y/N!" she exclaimed, and for a moment it felt like old times as she pulled you into a warm hug. "I'm so glad you're here."

"Happy birthday, beautiful," you said, meaning it completely. "You look absolutely stunning in that bikini."

Belly beamed, doing a little spin to show off the new suit. "Taylor picked it out for me. Isn't it perfect?"

"It really is," you agreed, then turned to acknowledge Taylor with a polite smile. "Hi, Taylor. Good to see you again."

Taylor's return smile was perfectly pleasant and completely cold. "Y/N. Still spending all your time with books, I see."

There was something in her tone that made you feel like you were being assessed, but you pushed the feeling aside. This was Belly's day, and you weren't going to let Taylor's subtle digs ruin it.

"I'll just sit on the side for a while," you told Jeremiah as you settled onto the pool's edge with your book. "Maybe jump in later."

As you tried to focus on reading, you couldn't help but scan the area for Conrad. He was nowhere to be seen, which shouldn't have surprised you but somehow did. Even with everything that had happened between you, you'd expected him to be here for Belly's birthday.

The chicken fight that erupted in the pool was entertaining to watch - Taylor perched on Steven's shoulders while Belly sat on Jeremiah's, both pairs trying to knock each other over with maximum drama and minimum actual violence. When Steven and Taylor inevitably lost and crashed into the water with spectacular splashes, you got thoroughly soaked.

"Sorry!" Belly called out through her laughter, but you were already closing your book and accepting that resistance was futile.

"Water volleyball?" Jeremiah suggested as you slipped into the pool, the cool water a relief from the summer heat.

"Teams?" you asked, automatically falling into the familiar summer routine.

Usually, it would have been Conrad, you, and Steven against Jeremiah, Belly, and whoever else was playing. But with Conrad absent, the teams shifted.

"How about Steven, Jeremiah, and Y/N against Belly and me?" Taylor suggested with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "We can take you."

There was something in her tone - a challenge, maybe, or subtle mockery - but you just nodded and took your position. You'd been playing water volleyball in this pool for years, and muscle memory took over as you settled into the familiar rhythm of the game.

That's when Conrad appeared.

You saw him before the others did, emerging from the house with that careful, distant expression he'd been wearing all summer. Your concentration wavered for just a second - long enough for Taylor to spike the ball directly at your face.

The impact caught you just below your faded bruise, and the surprise more than the pain sent you tumbling backward into the water. You came up coughing and disoriented, pool water burning your throat and your vision blurry from being underwater.

Conrad was there immediately, standing at the pool's edge with concern written across his features.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice sharp with worry.

"I'm so sorry!" Belly exclaimed from the water. "Taylor, that was way too hard!"

"It's fine," you managed, though your voice came out rough from coughing. "Just part of the game."

But Conrad was already extending his hand to help you out of the pool, and the look he shot Taylor was absolutely withering. You'd never seen him look at anyone with such obvious disapproval, and something about his protective instinct made your heart race despite everything that had happened between you.

"Do you want some water?" he asked once you were standing on the deck, a towel wrapped around your shoulders. "You're still coughing."

You nodded, grateful for the excuse to get away from Taylor's satisfied smirk and the group's awkward attention.

Following Conrad into the Fisher kitchen felt like stepping back in time. How many summer days had you spent in this room, hopping up onto the counter while Susannah cooked or the boys raided the refrigerator? The familiar comfort of it made you momentarily forget about all the tension and complications of the past few weeks.

You settled onto the counter with practiced ease as Conrad filled a glass with water, the movement so natural you didn't even think about it. This was your second home, after all, and you'd been making yourself comfortable here since you were barely tall enough to climb up.

Conrad approached with the glass, his expression still creased with worry. As you accepted the water gratefully, his fingers brushed against yours - just for a moment, but long enough to send familiar electricity shooting up your arm.

"Better?" he asked, and you nodded, taking another sip.

That's when he did something that made your breath catch. His hand came up to gently touch your face, his fingers tracing the air just above where the ball had hit you, checking for damage with the kind of careful attention that made your chest ache.

"I'm okay," you said softly, but you didn't pull away from his touch.

"I just... I care," he said, his voice rough with emotion that he was trying to hide.

"I know," you replied, offering him a small smile that felt like forgiveness for everything and nothing all at once.

The moment was intimate and fragile, filled with everything you weren't saying but both feeling. For the first time in weeks, Conrad's walls were down, and you could see the boy you'd fallen for underneath all the distance and complicated feelings.

That's when someone cleared their throat behind you.

Both you and Conrad spun toward the sound to find Susannah standing in the kitchen doorway, her expression knowing but not disapproving. The reality of the situation hit you immediately - you were sitting on the counter in a wet bikini, Conrad's hand still hovering near your face, both of you looking guilty as charged.

You practically launched yourself off the counter, colliding with Conrad in your haste and sending both of you stumbling.

"Sorry!" you blurted out, grabbing towels to clean up the water you'd dripped everywhere. "I'm so sorry about the mess, Susannah. I didn't mean to-"

"Sweetheart," Susannah interrupted with that warm smile that could ease any anxiety, "this is your home too, remember? Stop apologizing for existing here."

Her words made your chest tight with emotion. Despite everything that had happened, despite the awkwardness, arguments, and complicated feelings, Susannah still considered you family. The Fisher house was still your second home.

"I don't need to formally invite you," Susannah continued, "since you already know, but we're having a dinner party for Belly tonight. I hope you'll join us."

"Of course," you said immediately. "I wouldn't miss it."

As you headed back to your house to get ready, you could feel Conrad's eyes following you. The kitchen moment had cracked something open between you, but you weren't sure what it meant or where it could possibly lead.

Birthday Dinner

Y/N's POV

The birthday dinner was everything a Belly celebration should be - warm, chaotic, filled with laughter and embarrassing childhood stories that made everyone groan and giggle in equal measure. You'd given Belly the charm bracelet you'd picked out months ago, the one she'd admired during last summer's shopping trip, and her genuine delight had made all the awkwardness worth enduring.

Cam's presence at the table added a sweet dynamic that you loved seeing. He looked at Belly like she hung the moon, and she glowed under his attention in a way that made your heart happy for her.

The conversation flowed around the table in familiar patterns - Susannah telling embarrassing stories about all the kids, Laurel adding her own mortifying details, the boys groaning and protesting while everyone else laughed. It felt normal in a way that made you remember why these people were your chosen family.

Even Conrad seemed more relaxed than he had in weeks, though you caught him watching you throughout the meal with an expression you couldn't quite read.

Then all of us decided to go to the party Nicole was having.

Nicole's Party

Y/N's POV

The party at Nicole's house was exactly what you'd expected - loud music, too many people, and the kind of social chaos that made you grateful for the liquid courage provided by whatever was in your red solo cup.

As you enter through the front door, you start to search for familiar faces. You spot Jere with a guy, and Conrad with a beer, surrounded by friends, but Steven is nowhere to be seen.

Then Nicole immediately pulled you and Belly into her circle of friends, and Taylor went to get a drink. For the first time since the debutante season began, you felt like you were actually enjoying yourself. The other girls were funny and welcoming, and without the formal structure of etiquette lessons, you could just be yourself.

The karaoke session was predictably hilarious, with Jeremiah charming everyone with his natural stage presence. Even Cam got in on the action, creating a competition that had everyone laughing and cheering.

But when the music shifted to something slower and couples began pairing off, your good mood evaporated like morning fog.

Belly and Cam moved together naturally, her head fitting perfectly against his shoulder as they swayed to the music. Jeremiah had found some girl you didn't recognize, his easy charm working its magic as always. Taylor and Steven were dancing with the kind of obvious attraction that had been building all summer.

And Conrad... Conrad was dancing with Nicole.

Watching Conrad hold Nicole close while they moved to the slow song felt like someone was slowly extracting all the air from your lungs. They looked good together - both beautiful, both effortlessly elegant, both moving with the kind of natural grace that suggested they belonged in each other's arms.

This is what you wanted, you tried to tell yourself. You told him to stop messing with people's hearts. Well, here he is, not messing with yours.

But knowing something intellectually and feeling it emotionally were two completely different things. Every time she looked up at him with obvious interest, you felt like someone was twisting a knife in your gut.

You needed air. You needed space. You needed alcohol.

The makeshift bar was set up on Nicole's back patio, and you made your way there with determined focus. The beer was too weak, too slow, so you went straight for the harder stuff.

Just enough to numb the edges, you told yourself as you poured vodka into your cup with an unsteady hand. Just enough to get through tonight.

But as you stood there drinking, you could feel eyes on you. That familiar sensation of being watched made you turn, and sure enough, Conrad was looking at you from across the patio. Even with Nicole in his arms, even while he was supposedly focused on her, his attention kept drifting to you.

Why? you thought desperately. Why do you keep looking at me when you're with her? Why do you care what I'm doing if you don't want to be with me?

The frustration and confusion and hurt combined with the alcohol in your system, creating a dangerous cocktail of emotions you couldn't control. So you did the only thing that made sense in your current state - you drank more.

The vodka burned going down, but it also created a blessed numbness that made everything feel less sharp, less painful. You could still see Conrad dancing with Nicole, could still feel the twist of jealousy in your gut, but it all felt distant now, like watching a movie instead of living your life.

Better, you thought hazily as you reached for the bottle again. Much better.

But as the alcohol continued to work its way through your system, turning your thoughts fuzzy and your coordination questionable, you had the dim awareness that you might be making a mistake. The last clear thought you had before everything became a blur was wondering if Conrad was still watching you, and whether that meant anything at all.

Everything after that was just hazy fragments - laughter that might have been yours, hands that might have been someone's, and the growing certainty that tomorrow was going to hurt in more ways than one.

To be continued...

CHAPTER 7 IS OUT!!!

Where is he? you wondered, checking your reflection one more time. The bruise had faded to a pale yellow-green, still noticeable but manageable with makeup. You looked like a proper debutante candidate, even if you felt like an imposter.

Laurel and your mother dropped you and Belly off at the country club with a flurry of encouraging words and promises to pick you up later. Standing before the imposing white columns and manicured lawns, you felt your anxiety spike.

"This place is huge," Belly murmured beside you, equally overwhelmed. "Where are we supposed to go?"

You were both standing there looking lost when a familiar voice called out, "Y/N! Belly!"

Jeremiah appeared jogging toward you in his lifeguard uniform, his hair still damp from the pool. The sight of a friendly face was such a relief that you could have hugged him.

"Thank God you're here," you said. "We have no idea where we're going."

"Follow me," Jeremiah grinned, leading you through the club's pristine halls. "Fair warning though - it's about to get very... formal."

Inside the tea room, things go downhill fast: you’re placed at a round table beside Nicole, who you’d seen Conrad kissing at the bonfire, her presence a punch in the stomach.

Across the white linen, Shyla (the girl Steven was flirting with at the bonfire) gives you an understanding nod, shifting so you can sit with your bruised cheek pointed away from the crowd.

As you took your seats, Shayla immediately noticed your attempt to cover the bruise. "Rough night?" she asked with a knowing smile, then expertly helped you adjust your concealer. "There, much better."

Her kindness broke the ice, and soon the conversation flowed around the table. The inevitable topic turned to the Fisher boys, the other girls—sparkly, eager, sometimes catty—ask you and Belly with questions about the Fisher boys: “Are they really that hot?” 

"So what are they really like?" one girl asked, leaning forward with interest. "Living next door to them must be amazing."

"They're... just boys," you said carefully, trying to ignore Nicole's sharp attention.

"Come on," another girl pressed. "Conrad and Jeremiah are like the most gorgeous guys in Cousins. You must have noticed."

Heat flooded your cheeks as you fumbled for a response. Before you could answer, Nicole spoke up.

"Y/N, are you okay?" she asked, her voice carrying genuine concern. "You look a little pale. And speaking of Conrad - have you talked to him lately? He hasn't reached out to me in weeks, and he seemed so... closed off at the bonfire. More than usual."

The direct question caught you off guard. Nicole's genuine worry for Conrad made it harder to dislike her, which somehow made everything worse.

"He's just... going through some stuff," you managed. "Senior year stress, you know?"

But even as you said it, you knew it wasn't the whole truth. Whatever was wrong with Conrad went deeper than college applications and graduation anxiety.

By the end of the day, you realize you actually know more people than the Fishers and Conklins.

As you and Belly were finally preparing to leave, exhausted from hours of forced socialization, a boy approached you both near the entrance. He looked familiar, but you couldn't quite place him until Belly's face lit up with recognition.

The bonfire, you realized. You'd seen him talking to Belly that night, before everything went wrong. In all the chaos that followed, you'd forgotten about him entirely.

"Belly, hey," he said with a shy smile. "I wasn't sure if you'd remember me."

"Of course I remember you, Cam," Belly replied, and you could hear the genuine happiness in her voice.

You watched their interaction with growing interest, noting the way Belly's posture relaxed, how her smile became more natural than it had been all day. There was an easy chemistry between them that made something in your chest loosen with relief.

Maybe this is good, you thought. Maybe this is exactly what she needs.

You caught fragments of their conversation - something about poetry camp, shared interests, a tentative invitation - but you were too lost in your own thoughts to follow the details. When they finally parted ways, Belly was practically glowing.

"So," you said carefully, "who was that?"

"Cam," Belly said, unable to suppress her smile. "We went to poetry camp together when I was in eighth grade. He... he asked on a date to the drive-in."

The joy in her voice was infectious, and for the first time in days, you felt like you were talking to your real friend again instead of navigating around a Conrad-shaped obstacle.

"That's amazing, Belly," you said, and meant it. "Tell me everything."

As Belly launched into the story of reconnecting with Cam, you felt a lightness you hadn't experienced since the summer began. This was what friendship was supposed to feel like - easy, supportive, uncomplicated by unspoken feelings and competing desires.

For these few minutes in the car, you were just two teenage girls talking about boys and first dates and summer possibilities. It felt normal in a way that made you realize how much you'd missed it.

By the time you reached home, your social battery was completely drained. You collapsed onto your bed still wearing your debutante outfit, too exhausted to even change clothes. The day had been a marathon of small talk and careful smiles, and you needed time to process everything that had happened.

You must have dozed off, because the next thing you knew, your mother was knocking on your door.

"Y/N, sweetheart, you need to get ready," she called. "Susannah's book signing starts in an hour, and you promised you'd be there to support Laurel."

The book signing. In all the debutante chaos, you'd almost forgotten about Laurel's event. Part of you wanted to stay home, to hide in your room and avoid any more social interaction, but your love for Laurel won out.

Besides, you realized with a flutter of anticipation, Conrad would probably be there. After not seeing him all day, the possibility of even catching a glimpse of him was too tempting to resist.

Conrad's POV

Conrad had spent the entire day in self-imposed isolation, moving restlessly between surfing, swimming, and lying around the house with books he couldn't concentrate on reading. The need to avoid social interaction warred with an inexplicable longing to see Y/N, to catch even a glimpse of her.

What's wrong with me? he wondered, staring at his ceiling for the hundredth time that day. In all their previous summers together, he'd never felt this desperate need for her presence. They'd always been together, part of the same group, sharing the same experiences. This separation felt unnatural and painful in ways he didn't understand.

When his mother finally forced him out of his room with pointed comments about finding a summer job and stopping his moping, Conrad knew she was right. But the prospect of the book signing filled him with both dread and hope.

He'd be surrounded by people, forced to make conversation and pretend everything was fine. But Y/N would be there, and maybe - he could find a way to be near her without falling apart completely.

While Conrad wrestled with his conflicted feelings, Belly was experiencing pure joy for the first time all summer. Susannah had volunteered to help her get ready for her date with Cam, and the Fisher house buzzed with excited energy.

"You look absolutely stunning, sweetheart," Susannah gushed as she put the finishing touches on Belly's hair. "Cam is a lucky boy."

When Laurel stopped by to check on the preparations, she was delighted to hear about Belly's date.

"You know what? Skip the book signing," Laurel said with a warm smile. "You've been to enough of these things over the years. Go have fun being a teenager."

As Belly made her way downstairs, she encountered Conrad, Jeremiah, and Steven sprawled in front of the TV playing video games. All three boys looked up when she appeared, and the compliments came immediately.

"Belly, you look amazing," Jeremiah said with genuine warmth.

"Stop, flirting with my sister, you look nice tho," Steven added.

Conrad remained silent, but Belly caught him watching her from the corner of his eye. There was something in his expression - an acknowledgment, maybe, that she'd grown up, that she wasn't the little girl he'd always seen her as.

It should have felt like a victory, but instead it just made her sad. She'd waited so long for Conrad to really see her, and now that it was happening, she was already moving on.

The Book Signing

Y/N's POV

The book signing was being held in the country club's main event room, transformed for the evening with elegant lighting and carefully arranged displays of Laurel's latest novel. You arrived with your mother, scanning the crowd automatically for familiar faces.

Your eyes found Conrad's across the room as if drawn by magnetic force. Despite the sea of people between you. For one perfect moment, everything else faded away - the chatter of conversation, the clink of glasses.

It was just you and Conrad, looking at each other across a crowded room, and the world felt like it made sense again.

Then someone called your name, breaking the spell and pulling you back to reality. But the warmth that had flooded through you at that moment of connection lingered, making everything else feel more manageable.

Conrad's POV

Seeing Y/N across the room hit Conrad like a shot of pure oxygen after being underwater. The relief was so intense it was almost painful - she was there, she was beautiful in her simple dress with her hair catching the soft lighting.

For the first time all day, he felt like he could breathe properly. The dopamine rush from just seeing her face was embarrassing in its intensity, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

As the evening progressed, Conrad found himself gravitating toward the bar, using wine glasses as a prop to avoid conversation while keeping Y/N in his line of sight. She was helping Susannah manage the event, moving efficiently through the crowd with stacks of books and that focused expression she got when she was concentrating.

Y/N's POV

You were carrying a precariously tall stack of books, trying to navigate through the crowd without dropping anything, when your vision was completely blocked by the pile in your arms. You couldn't see where you were going, and you were starting to panic about running into someone important when suddenly the weight lessened.

Conrad appeared beside you, having wordlessly taken half the stack from your arms. When you could finally see his face again, you both smiled - the first genuine, uncomplicated moment you'd shared all summer.

"Thank you," you said softly as you placed the books beside Laurel's signing table.

"Anytime," he replied, and for a moment it felt like the old Conrad was back.

Your brief moment of normalcy was interrupted when Laurel called Conrad over to meet Cleveland, a sailing enthusiast who was interested in lessons. Conrad accepted the man's business card with polite interest, but you could see his mind was elsewhere.

Later in the evening, you found yourself collapsed on the event room's only couch alongside Conrad, Jeremiah, and Steven. The formal atmosphere of the book signing had worn you all down, and you were grateful for a moment of casual interaction.

That's when the boys started hatching what might have been the worst plan in Fisher family history.

"We should crash Belly's date," Jere announced suddenly.

"What?" you said, sure you'd misheard.

"Think about it," Jeremiah added, warming to the idea. "We could just drive by the drive-in, make sure she's okay..."

"Absolutely not," you said firmly. "That's a terrible idea. Belly is happy, and you want to ruin it by spying on her?"

But even as you argued against it, you watched Conrad's expression change. The distant, conflicted look that had become his default was replaced by something that looked almost like determination.

"Actually," Conrad said slowly, "that's not the worst idea."

You stared at him in shock. "Conrad, no."

But the boys were already standing up, energized by their plan. You watched in disbelief as Conrad agreed to join them.

Conrad's POV

Conrad knew the plan to crash Belly's date was stupid and potentially harmful. But sitting next to Y/N on that couch, feeling the warmth of her presence and knowing that she could see right through all his carefully constructed defenses, panic had set in.

If he stayed there with her, if they ended up alone together, she would ask questions he couldn't answer. She would look at him with those perceptive eyes and demand to know what was wrong, and he would tell her. He would burden her with the knowledge of his mother's diagnosis, would drag her down into the darkness that had been consuming him for weeks.

She doesn't deserve that, he told himself as he stood up with the other boys. 

But as he walked away, he caught sight of Y/N's expression - hurt, confused, disappointed - and he hated himself for putting that look on her face.

The drive-in movie date crash went exactly as badly as you'd predicted. Belly was furious when the boys showed up, their presence turning what should have been a romantic first date into an awkward family intervention.

"What is wrong with you?" Belly demanded when she found them lurking near the concession stand. "I'm trying to have a nice time, and you're acting like I'm twelve years old!"

The boys slunk home in defeat, knowing they'd messed up but not quite understanding why Conrad had been so insistent on coming along. When Belly returned from her ruined date, her earlier joy had been replaced by frustration and hurt.

Belly's POV

When I got home from my disastrous date, I was still seething with anger and disappointment. Cam had been understanding about the interruption, but the magic of the evening had been completely destroyed by their interference.

I found Conrad by the pool, sitting in the same spot where he'd been smoking the night before. The sight of him there, looking brooding and mysterious like he thought he was in some kind of movie, made my anger flare even hotter.

"What is wrong with you?" I demanded, approaching him with my hands on my hips. "Why did you crash my date? Why did you want to remind me that you existed?"

Conrad looked up at me with that infuriating blank expression he'd been wearing all summer. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," I shot back. "For weeks, you've been acting like I don't exist. And then, the one night I'm actually happy, actually having fun with someone who likes me, you decide you need to show up and ruin it."

"Belly, that's not-"

"Don't," I interrupted. "Just don't. I'm tired of making excuses for you, Conrad. I'm tired of pretending that your moods and your distance don't hurt. Stop playing these games."

Conrad's jaw tightened, and I could see I was finally getting through his armor. "It was just harmless fun," he said.

"That wasn't harmless, and you know that. You just crashed my date for fun on Saturday night," I said in a furious voice.

"And maybe you should go smoke some more pot," I fired back, wanting to hurt him the way he'd hurt me.

"Why don't you go look in the mirror some more," he replied, and there was something vicious in his tone that I'd never heard before.

The words hit me like a slap. I'd never heard Conrad be deliberately cruel before, and coming from him - the boy I'd loved for so long - it was devastating.

Y/N's POV

You'd been sitting by your own pool when the argument started, trying to give them privacy but unable to avoid overhearing the escalating voices. When Conrad's cruel comment about the mirror reached your ears, something inside you snapped.

You'd watched Belly's face crumple with hurt, watched her walk away, and you couldn't stand it anymore. This wasn't the Conrad you'd grown up with - the boy who used to comfort you when you cried, who always tried to protect the people he cared about.

You marched over to where Conrad sat by the pool, your anger making you braver than usual.

"What is wrong with you?" you demanded, standing over him with your hands clenched into fists. "Have you completely lost your mind?"

Conrad looked up at you with surprise, clearly not expecting you to confront him.

"She is finally happy," you continued, your voice shaking with emotion. "For the first time all summer, she's actually smiling and excited about something, and you guys decide to ruin it? And then you say something like that to her?"

"Y/N, you don't understand-"

"No, I don't understand," you interrupted. "I don't understand why you're acting like this. I don't understand why you're pushing everyone away. I don't understand why you're being so mean to people who care about you."

Conrad stood up, his own anger finally showing. "Maybe because people need to stop expecting me to be something I'm not!"

"We're not expecting you to be anything except decent!" you shot back. "We're expecting you to care about your friends, to not deliberately hurt people who care about you!"

He opens his mouth, but you cut him off: “Either you like her, or you need to let her go. Don’t keep breaking hearts just because you’re hurting."

"Don't you dare," you said quietly, your voice deadly serious. "Don't you dare dismiss her feelings like that. Belly is one of the best people I know, and she deserves so much better than whatever this is."

"You know what? Keep messing with everyone's hearts if that's what makes you feel better. But I'm done watching you hurt people I care about."

With that, you turned and walked away, leaving Conrad alone by the pool with his guilt and his secrets and the growing realization that he was destroying everything good in his life.

As you stormed back to your house, you could feel tears of frustration burning behind your eyes. This summer was supposed to be about growing up, about possibilities and new beginnings. Instead, it felt like everything was falling apart, and you didn't know how to fix it.

TO BE CONTINUED...

CHAPTER 6 is OUT NOW :)

The tension was everywhere - in the way Belly's smile didn't quite reach her eyes when she waved from across the yard, in the careful distance Conrad maintained whenever you were in the same room, in the way conversations seemed to stop mid-sentence whenever the three of you were together.

You'd tried to lose yourself in a book by your pool, settling into the familiar comfort of your favorite chair under the striped umbrella. The story was engrossing enough that you almost forgot about bruised cheeks and complicated feelings, about the boy next door.

Conrad's POV

Conrad had been watching Y/N read for longer than he cared to admit, drawn to his bedroom window by the sight of her curled up in her chair, completely absorbed in whatever story had captured her attention. There was something about the way her expressions shifted as she read - a smile here, a furrowed brow there - that made his chest ache with something he didn't understand completely.

Just go talk to her, he told himself. Check on her injury. Be a friend.

But as he made his way down from the porch, his nerves got the better of him. His elbow caught the edge of a potted plant, sending it crashing to the ground with a sound that seemed to echo across both properties.

Smooth, Fisher. Real smooth.

Y/N's POV

You barely noticed someone watching and approaching you

The sound shattered your concentration like glass, pulling you back to reality with jarring suddenness. You looked up from your book to find Conrad standing a few feet away, looking guilty and slightly panicked as he stared at the broken pottery scattered around his feet.

When your eyes met his, the world seemed to narrow to just that moment - the space between you charged with everything you weren't saying, everything you weren't acknowledging.

He approached. Now, up close, even in the bright midday sun, you felt the gravity Conrad Fisher always carried. He moved slowly, sliding into the lounge chair next to you, closer than seemed comfortable. You felt the heat rising from where his knee brushed yours.

He reached out, fingers hovering, and grazed a thumb just below your bruise, gentle as a whisper. “Does it hurt?” he asked quietly, his voice rough with concern. You could smell his cologne, could see the way the morning sun caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes, could feel the heat radiating from his skin in the humid air.

“All good,” you replied, gaze flicking from his hand to his eyes and away, nerves skittering across your skin.

The porch had never felt smaller.

The moment stretched between you, intimate and fragile, until your mother's voice cut through it like a knife.

But your mother’s call rang out from inside: “Y/N! I need you in here!”

You bolted upright, grateful for—and yet resenting—the interruption, moving away from Conrad so quickly you almost stumbled. The spell was broken, but the memory of his touch lingered on your skin like a burn.

Conrad's POV

Watching Y/N flee from him stung more than Conrad wanted to admit. He sat alone by her pool, staring at the chair she'd vacated, trying to convince himself that the distance was for the best.

She's better off without you, he told himself.

Surfing was his usual escape. He'd thought about asking if she wanted to come with him - they'd always shared a love of the waves - but her injury made him hesitate. The last thing he needed was to be responsible for hurting her again. Instead, Conrad caught only the early morning waves, alone, paddling out far enough that no one could see his face.

He returned to find Susannah waiting, art supplies in hand. “Sit for me, Connie—please? I'm working on a portrait, and you're the only one available. Steven and Jeremiah are at work, and the girls are... well, they're dealing with their own things."

He did, posing stoically as she mixed colors and asked gentle questions he dodged. It was easier to hold still.  He wondered, as his mother worked, if she could see through him as easily as she always had.

Dinner at the Fishers

Y/N's POV

You'd spent the day helping your mother with various household tasks, grateful for the distraction but unable to shake the memory of Conrad's gentle touch and the way your body had responded to his proximity.

By evening, nerves about the debutante season were coiling tight in your stomach. But a promise was a promise: tonight, dinner at the Fishers. You put on a light dress, swept your hair over your fading bruise.

The meal was like a game of emotional chess.

The dining room was warm and welcoming as always, filled with the sound of easy conversation and Susannah's infectious laughter. But underneath the veneer of normalcy, you could feel the tension thrumming between you, Conrad, and Belly like a live wire.

Conrad looked up when you entered, his eyes immediately finding yours across the room. For a moment, his carefully constructed mask slipped, and you saw something raw and vulnerable underneath. Then Belly appeared at your elbow, and he was looking away again, building walls faster than you could tear them down.

"Y/N, sweetheart, you look lovely," Susannah said, pulling you into one of her famous hugs. "How are you feeling? That bruise is looking much better."

"Much better, thank you," you replied, though you were hyperaware of the fading purple shadow on your cheek, of the way it made you feel exposed and fragile.

Dinner conversation flowed around the table in familiar patterns - Jeremiah regaling everyone with stories from his job at the country club, Steven complaining about difficult customers, Laurel and Susannah planning various summer activities.

You noticed Conrad pushing food around his plate, not really eating. He answered small talk, but you saw Susannah watching him closely, concern in her every glance. The conversation turned to plans and aspirations—college, sports, traditions—

Then it slipped: Conrad casually mentioned he’d quit football.

You choked on your water. “But… I thought you loved it.”

He looked away. “Things change.”

The simple statement landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples of concern around the table. Football had been Conrad's passion for as long as anyone could remember - the thing that gave him purpose, that connected him to his future. For him to just walk away from it...

His answer set off alarms; even Belly turned from her plate, brow furrowed. You felt sure something important was shifting beneath the surface.

Then Susannah’s tone turned bright: “So, girls, are you ready for debutantes tomorrow? Big first day!”

The question hit you like a punch to the stomach. All day, the thought of tomorrow had been lurking at the edges of your consciousness, building anxiety like a gathering storm. The debutante season was everything you weren't - formal, structured, performative.

You and Belly nodded almost in unison, both of you forcing halfhearted smiles. The thought of waltzing into that world of etiquette, judgment, and hidden rivalries with a bruise on your face was overwhelming, and the tension with Belly, making everything feel fractured, made the prospect even more daunting.

If this had been any other summer, you and Belly would have been giggling about the prospect, planning your outfits and gossiping about the other girls. Instead, you sat in uncomfortable silence, both of you hyperaware of Conrad's presence at the other end of the table.

Susannah's smile faltered slightly as she picked up on the mood. "It's going to be wonderful," she said, but there was something forced about her enthusiasm now. "

You managed a weak smile in return, but your heart wasn't in it. How could you enjoy anything when everything felt so complicated, so fraught with unspoken feelings and broken friendships?

Y/N's POV

After dinner, you escaped to your house as quickly as politeness allowed, pleading tiredness and the need to rest before tomorrow's big day. But once you were alone in your room, sleep felt impossible. Your mind was racing with anxiety about the debutante season, with confusion about Conrad's behavior, with guilt about the growing distance between you and Belly.

I need to move, you thought desperately. I need to do something or I'm going to lose my mind.

Swimming had always been your solace, the one activity that could quiet the chaos in your head. You changed into your swimsuit and made your way outside, only to discover that your mother had chosen tonight to put the pool maintenance team to work. The familiar blue expanse was covered with a tarp, equipment scattered around the deck.

Perfect, you thought bitterly. Just perfect.

But the Fisher house was like your second home, and you liked their pool just a bit more than yours for obvious reasons :) Without really thinking about it, you found yourself walking through the gate that connected your properties, your bare feet silent on the warm deck.

Conrad's POV

Conrad had given up on sleep around 11 PM, his mind too restless to settle. The conversation at dinner had left him feeling exposed and defensive - Y/N's shock about him quitting football had hit closer to home than he'd expected.

She notices everything, he thought. 

The pool deck was quiet and peaceful, the underwater lights casting dancing patterns on the surface. Conrad sat with his feet in the water, a cigarette burning between his fingers as his mind became quiet with each puff.

He knew the smoking was stupid. But somehow, the small act of rebellion felt like the only thing he could control in a world that was spinning further out of his grasp every day.

The sound of footsteps on the deck made him tense, and he turned to see Y/N approaching in her swimsuit, her expression a mixture of determination and surprise.

Y/N's POV

Of course, you weren’t alone.

He sat by the pool, feet dangling, cigarette between his fingers—a rare act of rebellion you never associated with him. The glow burned in the blue dark, and he looked old and tired.

"Using the pool since mine's under maintenance," you announced, trying to sound casual despite the way your heart was racing at the sight of Conrad smoking by the poolside.

Without waiting for a response, you dove into the water, grateful for the shock of coolness against your heated skin. Swimming had always been meditative for you, the rhythm of strokes and breathing usually enough to quiet your anxious thoughts.

But tonight, you were hyperaware of Conrad's presence just a few feet away, of the way the smoke from his cigarette drifted across the air. It bothered you more than you wanted to admit - not just the smoking itself, but what it represented. This wasn't the Conrad you'd grown up with, the boy who'd lectured you about taking care of your body.

What happened to him? you wondered, completing another lap and trying to ignore the way he was watching you move through the water.

He watched as you made swift laps, then asked, quieter now, “Why are you smoking, Conrad? You always lectured me about this stuff.”

The question came out sharper than you'd intended.

Conrad took another drag, his expression deliberately blank. "People change."

"Not like this," you insisted. "This isn't you, Conrad. The smoking, quitting football, pushing everyone away - what's going on?"

"Nothing's going on," he said flatly. "Maybe you just never knew me as well as you thought you did."

The words stung, "You should quit", you said in frustration.

Before you turned around and started swimming again, he said something that made your cheeks flush with heat.

"What will you give me if I do?" he asked, his voice low and challenging.

The question caught you off guard, sending warmth flooding through your body as you remembered this morning's almost-moment, the way his fingers had felt against your skin.

"Nothing," you managed, though your voice came out breathier than intended. "Do it because it's good for you, not because I-"

The sound of the back door opening interrupted your heated exchange, and both of you turned to see Belly emerging from the house in her own swimsuit.

Belly's POV

I'd come outside hoping - a peaceful swim to clear my head before tomorrow's debutante debut. The last thing I'd expected was to find Conrad and Y/N in what looked like an intense, intimate conversation.

The sight of them together - Y/N dripping wet and flushed, Conrad with a cigarette burning between his fingers and something almost dangerous in his expression - made my stomach clench with a familiar mixture of hurt and jealousy.

"Conrad, are you smoking?" I asked, though the evidence was right there in his hands.

His face darkened with annoyance. "Jesus, does everyone need to have an opinion about my choices?"

Before either Y/N or I could respond, he was standing up, crushing the cigarette under his heel with more force than necessary.

"You know what? Forget it. Enjoy your swim."

He stalked back toward the house, leaving Y/N and me alone in the uncomfortable silence that had become our new normal.

Y/N's POV

The silence that followed Conrad's departure was deafening. You and Belly sat by the pool, both of you staring at the space where he'd been as if he were still there.

"That was weird," Belly said finally, her voice carefully neutral.

"Yeah," you agreed, though 'weird' felt like a massive understatement.

The conversation that followed was stilted and awkward, both of you trying to navigate around the elephant in the room. When Belly asked if you had a boyfriend, you almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

"No, actually just broke up with someone before summer started," you said. "What about you?"

"Nobody serious," Belly replied, but there was something wistful in her tone that made your chest ache.

You both knew who she was thinking about. You both knew why the question had come up in the first place.

Eventually, you found yourselves swimming together, falling into the familiar rhythm you'd shared for years. For a few minutes, it almost felt normal - just two friends enjoying the summer night, the way it used to be before everything got so complicated.

But even as you swam, you could feel the weight of everything unspoken between you. The debutante season starting tomorrow, the growing distance in your friendship, the boy you were both trying not to think about, who was somewhere in the house behind you.

When you finally climbed out of the pool, both of you exhausted and waterlogged, Belly surprised you by pulling you into a quick hug.

"See you tomorrow," she said softly.

You nodded, returning the embrace and trying to ignore the way it felt like a goodbye.

Y/N's POV

Back in your own room, you collapsed onto your bed, still damp from the pool, too exhausted to even change into pajamas. The combination of physical exercise and emotional turmoil had finally worn you down enough that sleep seemed possible.

But as you drifted off, your mind kept returning to Conrad's face in the pool light, to the way he'd asked what you'd give him if he quit smoking.

Tomorrow would bring the debutante season, with all its formal expectations and social pressures. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new tensions, and new opportunities.

But tonight, finally, mercifully, you slept.

Chapter 5 is OUT NOW!!

Your cheek throbbed with a dull ache that reminded you of everything that had changed in the span of a few hours. You touched the bruise gingerly, wincing at the tenderness, and wondered what you looked like in the harsh light of day.

The house was quiet except for the distant murmur of voices from downstairs. You could smell coffee brewing and something that might have been bacon, the familiar scents of a Fisher family breakfast that had been the soundtrack of your summers for as long as you could remember.

Time to face the music, you thought, reluctantly pulling yourself out of the warm cocoon of Conrad's bedding.

You made your way to the guest bathroom to splash water on your face and attempt to make yourself presentable. The mirror confirmed your fears - the bruise had darkened overnight, spreading across your cheek in shades of purple and blue that made you look like you'd been in a much more serious fight than you had.

Taking a deep breath, you headed downstairs, Conrad's hoodie still wrapped around you like armor.

Belly's POV

I'd been awake since sunrise, staring at the ceiling and replaying the events of the previous night on an endless loop. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Conrad's face when Y/N had been hurt - the raw terror, the desperate tenderness, the way he'd looked at her like she was his entire world.

I'd been so naive, so willfully blind to what was right in front of me. All those summers of watching them together, of seeing the way they moved around each other like they were connected by invisible strings - how had I convinced myself it was just friendship?

The sound of a door opening upstairs made my stomach clench with anxiety. Y/N was awake, which meant I was about to have to face her and pretend that my heart wasn't breaking into a thousand pieces because of her.

I was coming out of the bathroom when I saw her emerge from Conrad's room, and the sight hit me like a physical blow. She was wearing his clothes, looking rumpled and vulnerable in the morning light, and despite the darkening bruise on her face, she was beautiful.

Of course she is, I thought bitterly. Of course Conrad Fisher would choose someone like her.

"Morning," Y/N said softly when she spotted me, and I could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

"Morning," I replied, working hard to keep my tone neutral.

We walked downstairs together in uncomfortable silence, and I couldn't shake the feeling that everything between us had fundamentally changed. The easy friendship we'd shared for years felt strained now, weighed down by unspoken truths and competing feelings for the same boy.

My brain knew the truth, but my heart wasn't ready to accept it.

Conrad's POV

Conrad had given up on sleep around five AM, when it became clear that his brain wasn't going to stop replaying the sight of Y/N hitting the sand. He'd made his way to the kitchen and started coffee, hoping the routine would settle his nerves.

By the time the rest of the house began stirring, he was nursing his second cup and a headache that was part hangover and part emotional exhaustion. The couch hadn't been particularly comfortable, but that wasn't why he hadn't slept.

Every time he'd closed his eyes, he'd seen Y/N's face, heard the sound of impact, felt the terror that had consumed him when she'd crumpled to the beach. The memory made his chest tight with anxiety all over again.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs made him look up from his coffee, and his breath caught in his throat. Y/N was descending slowly, still wearing his hoodie, her dark hair tousled from sleep. Behind her, Belly followed with an expression he couldn't quite read.

When Y/N's eyes met his across the kitchen, he managed a small smile - the first genuine expression he'd worn in weeks. Just seeing her upright and moving under her own power loosened some of the knots in his chest.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice still rough from sleep and worry.

"Hey," she replied, and that simple exchange felt loaded with everything they couldn't say.

Jeremiah's POV

Jeremiah had appointed himself the family's hangover specialist, a role he'd perfected over several summers of dealing with various morning-after situations. He stood at the kitchen counter, methodically preparing his secret weapon - a concoction of coconut water, electrolytes, and vitamins that he swore could resurrect the dead.

"One hangover cure, coming right up," he announced to Conrad, who was slumped at the kitchen table looking like he'd been hit by a truck.

"I don't think vitamins are going to fix what's wrong with me," Conrad muttered, but he accepted the drink anyway.

Susannah and Laurel were working together at the stove, moving around each other with the practiced ease of old friends. The smell of bacon and fresh coffee filled the air, creating an atmosphere of normalcy that felt almost surreal after the chaos of the previous night.

"How's your brother this morning?" Susannah asked, glancing toward the living room where Conrad was still nursing his headache.

"He'll live," Jeremiah replied, though privately he was more concerned about Conrad's emotional state than his physical one. "Eventually."

That's when Y/N and Belly appeared in the kitchen doorway, and Jeremiah felt the mood in the room shift immediately. Both girls looked uncomfortable, like they were bracing themselves for difficult conversations.

Susannah's POV

Susannah Fisher had raised two boys and spent countless summers surrounded by teenagers, so she'd developed something of a sixth sense for emotional undercurrents. The moment Y/N and Belly entered her kitchen, she could feel the tension radiating from both girls like heat from a flame.

When Y/N and Belly appeared in the kitchen, she took one look at Y/N's face and felt her heart clench with concern. The bruise was spreading across the girl's cheek in angry shades of purple and blue.

"Oh, sweetheart," Susannah breathed, immediately moving toward Y/N. "How are you feeling? That looks terrible."

"It's really not as bad as it looks," Y/N said, but Susannah could see the way she favored her injured side, the careful way she moved her head.

"Has anyone looked at this properly? Have you seen a doctor?" Susannah asked, her voice taking on the tone that had successfully managed decades of scraped knees and hurt feelings.

Y/N touched her cheek self-consciously. "It's really not that bad. Just looks worse than it is."

"Nonsense," Susannah said firmly, her voice taking on the tone that had successfully managed decades of scraped knees and hurt feelings. "This could be serious. You could have a concussion, or-"

"Mom," Conrad's voice held a warning note, but Susannah ignored him. Y/N had been like a daughter to her for years, and she wasn't about to take any chances with her health.

The Morning Intervention

Conrad could see her calculating, could practically hear her internal debate about whether to stay or go. Part of him wanted to ask her to stay, to sit with him and let him take care of her the way he should have last night. But the rational part of his brain knew that would only complicate things further.

"I should probably head home," Y/N said, as if reading his thoughts. "Let my parents know I'm okay before they wake up and panic."

It was the sensible thing to do, but Conrad found himself wanting to protest anyway. The thought of her leaving, of going back to the careful distance they'd maintained all summer, made him feel physically ill.

"Sit," Susannah commanded, gesturing toward the kitchen island.

"I'm making breakfast," she announced, in a tone that brooked no argument. "You're eating, and then we're discussing medical attention."

As Y/N and Belly picked at their breakfast in relative silence, Jeremiah delivered his hangover cure to Conrad with theatrical flourish.

"Drink," he ordered. "All of it. And don't complain about the taste."

Conrad grimaced as he took the first sip, but he dutifully continued drinking while the adults fussed over Y/N's injury and tried to piece together exactly what had happened the night before.

"It really was just an accident," Y/N insisted for what felt like the hundredth time. "I shouldn't have gotten involved in the fight."

"You were trying to help," Conrad said quietly, speaking up for the first time since everyone had gathered. "It's not your fault some drunk asshole can't control himself."

The guilt in his voice was palpable, and Y/N turned to look at him with an expression that was part frustration and part concern.

"It's not your fault either," she said firmly. "These things happen."

But Conrad was already looking away, building walls faster than anyone could tear them down.

That's when the front door opened and Y/N's mother appeared, still in her pajamas and robe, her face tight with worry.

"Y/N?" she called out. "I woke up and you weren't in your bed - where have you been?"

The next few minutes were a blur of overlapping explanations and reassurances. Y/N's mother was caught between relief that her daughter was safe and alarm at the obvious injury she was sporting.

"Oh my God," she breathed when she got a good look at Y/N's face. "What happened to you?"

Susannah and Laurel worked together with practiced ease, gradually calming the worried mother while also expressing their own concern about Y/N's condition.

"She needs to see a doctor," Y/N's mother said firmly. "Head injuries are nothing to mess around with."

"I completely agree," Susannah said, and Y/N could see the wheels turning in her head. "We should take her to the hospital right now, just to be safe."

"I'm sitting right here," Y/N said with mild exasperation. "And I'm fine. It's just a bruise."

But she could see she was fighting a losing battle. When Susannah Fisher and her mother agreed on something, resistance was generally futile.

"The only problem," Susanna said with a sad face, glancing at her watch, "is that we all have plans today. Steven and Jeremiah are supposed to be at the country club for their summer jobs, and Belly and Y/N agreed to be debutantes this summer, and we need to get them fitted for dresses."

Belly looked up at the mention of the debutante program, and for a moment, her carefully constructed composure slipped. Y/N caught a glimpse of pain and disappointment before Belly quickly masked it.

"We could reschedule," Belly offered quietly.

"Absolutely not," Susannah interrupted. "You've been looking forward to this for weeks, and the debutant season starts next week, and it's already Saturday. We'll figure something out."

"I have to be at the country club for the event; it cannot be rescheduled," Your mother said with a stressed face.

"Jeremiah and I are supposed to be at the country club for our summer jobs," Steven added.

"Connie can take her; he is free," Susannah said, looking at Conrad.

"I am good, I'll go by myself. The doctor is just 15 minutes away," you said as fast as possible.

Conrad, who had been silent throughout the entire conversation, suddenly straightened and said, "I'll take her."

Everyone turned to look at him, and he seemed to realize he'd spoken more forcefully than intended.

"Conrad, are you sure?" you asked.

"I don't have any plans," Conrad said, his voice carefully casual. "And someone should make sure you get proper medical attention."

The suggestion hung in the air for a moment, and you could feel everyone processing the implications. Conrad volunteering to spend several hours alone with you, to take care of you, to be responsible for your wellbeing - it felt significant in a way that made her pulse quicken.

Y/N's mother looked relieved. "That's very sweet of you, Conrad. If you're sure you don't mind..."

"I don't mind," Conrad said, and when his eyes met Y/N's across the kitchen, something passed between them that made her breath catch.

Belly was watching this exchange with an expression you couldn't quite read, but you thought you saw a flicker of pain cross her features before she looked away.

"Well then," Susannah said with satisfaction, "that's settled. Conrad will take Y/N to get checked out, and the rest of us can proceed with our plans."

Y/N POV

An hour later, you found yourself in the passenger seat of Conrad's car, the morning sun streaming through the windshield and the radio playing softly between them. You changed out of his clothes and into a simple sundress, but she'd kept his hoodie, unable to give up the comfort it provided.

The drive to the hospital was quiet but not uncomfortable. Conrad seemed more relaxed away from the chaos of the house, and he also gave you a small, cute smile when he caught your eyes, though there was still some tension in his shoulders.

"Are you okay?" you asked quietly, studying his profile in the morning light.

Conrad's hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. "I should be asking you that."

"I'm fine," you said. "But you... you seem different this summer. Like you're distant from everyone else."

For a moment, you thought he might actually tell you what was wrong. His jaw worked like he was trying to find the right words, and you held your breath, hoping he would finally let you in.

But then his expression shuttered, and the moment was lost.

"Just tired," he said. "Senior year was rough."

You wanted to push, wanted to demand the truth, but something about his posture warned you off. Whatever Conrad was dealing with, he wasn't ready to share it yet.

The hospital visit was mercifully straightforward. The doctor was thorough but reassuring, confirming that while the bruise looked dramatic, there was no sign of serious injury. He prescribed a topical cream for the swelling and sent you on your way with instructions to rest and return if you experienced any concerning symptoms.

Conrad had waited in the hallway during the examination, pacing like a caged animal.  When you emerged with the doctor's clean bill of health, the relief on his face was palpable.

"See?" you said with a smile. "I told you it wasn't that serious."

"I'm glad," he said simply, but there was something in his eyes that suggested his relief went deeper than just your physical wellbeing.

The drive to meet the others took them through the heart of Cousins, past familiar landmarks and summer memories. You found yourself relaxing for the first time since the previous night, lulled by the familiar rhythm of summer mornings and Conrad's quiet presence beside you.

When he pulled up to the boutique where Susannah, Laurel, Belly, and your mother were waiting, you hesitated before getting out of the car.

"Conrad," you started, but he was already looking away.

"I'm glad you're okay," he said, and there was something final in his tone that made your chest ache.

You wanted to stay, to push past whatever walls he'd built around himself, but the sight of Belly waving excitedly from the boutique window reminded you of all the reasons why that was complicated.

"Thank you," you said softly. "For taking care of me."

Something flickered across his face - pain, maybe, or longing. "Anytime," he said, and they both knew he meant it.

The afternoon dissolved into a whirlwind of fabric and fittings, with Susannah enthusiastically orchestrating everyone's preparation for debutante season. When she'd suggested that you be a debutant alongside Belly, you protested initially.

"I'm not really the debutante type," you had said. "All those people, all that formality..."

But Susannah had been persuasive in that gentle, irresistible way of hers, and eventually you had agreed. Now, watching Belly try on elegant dresses and forcing smiles that didn't quite reach her eyes, you wondered if your participation with her would only make things more complicated.

By the time you all made it home that evening, exhaustion had settled into your bones. The shopping trip had been fun but emotionally draining, with undercurrents of tension that no amount of enthusiastic dress shopping could completely mask.

You climbed the stairs to your own bedroom, Conrad's hoodie still wrapped around you like armor. Your reflection in the mirror showed a girl with a spectacular bruise and confused eyes, someone who looked like she'd been through a battle and wasn't sure if she'd won or lost.

What happens now? you wondered, settling onto your bed and pulling the hoodie tighter around yourself. The events of the previous night had shifted something fundamental between all of them, and there was no going back to the careful balance they'd maintained before.

Conrad's scent still clung to the fabric, ocean air, and something uniquely him that made her chest ache with longing. Whatever was happening between them was getting harder to ignore, let go, and she wasn't sure how much longer she could pretend that her feelings were just friendly concern.

But there was Belly to consider, and there was Conrad himself, who might or might not feel the same way, and carrying whatever burden that was making him so distant and closed off.

This summer was going to test all of you in ways you weren't sure you were ready for. The question was whether they'd all survive it with their friendships and their hearts intact.

Outside your window, the lights of the Fisher house glowed warm against the gathering dusk, and you found yourself wondering what Conrad was doing, what he was thinking, whether he was lying awake thinking about you the way she was thinking about him.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new tensions, and new opportunities for everything to either come together or fall apart completely. But tonight, wrapped in Conrad's hoodie and surrounded by the familiar comfort of your childhood bedroom, you allowed yourself to hope that maybe, just maybe, everyone will come out of this summer unscathed.

The summer had only just begun, and already nothing would ever be the same.

Chapter 4 is out NOW!!

Till then if you are F1/ Charles Leclerc fan you can read my another story

Racing hearts

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"We're thrilled to welcome Christine to the McLaren family," Zak Brown had said during the press conference. "Her experience across multiple teams, including her championship-winning work with Red Bull, makes her the perfect person to lead our media strategy as we continue our journey back to the front of the grid."

Christine had felt a mixture of excitement and trepidation as she signed the contract. McLaren was a team on the rise, with Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri forming one of the most promising driver lineups on the grid. The opportunity to shape their narrative, to be part of their climb back to championship contention, was professionally irresistible.

Personally, it also meant she'd be working more closely with drivers again—something she'd missed during her time in Red Bull's more corporate structure.

She hadn't spoken to Charles since he'd confessed his feelings. The admission had hung between them like an unresolved chord, beautiful but unfinished. Christine had spent months thinking about his words, about the possibility he'd offered, but the professional complications remained as daunting as ever.

Her first day at the McLaren Technology Centre was overwhelming in the best possible way. The facility was a marvel of modern architecture and engineering, all sleek lines and cutting-edge technology. Unlike Ferrari's passionate chaos or Red Bull's corporate efficiency, McLaren had an atmosphere of focused innovation that appealed to Christine immediately.

"Welcome to the madhouse," Lando Norris said with his characteristic grin when she was introduced to the drivers. At twenty-four, he'd grown from the giggly teenager she remembered into a serious championship contender, but his humor remained intact. "Hope you're ready for answering impossible questions and doing miracles."

"I've worked in Formula 1 for six years," Christine replied with a smile. "Impossible questions and miracle demands are basically my job description."

Oscar Piastri, quieter but equally sharp, shook her hand with genuine warmth. "We've heard great things about your work at Red Bull. Looking forward to working with you."

The early weeks were a whirlwind of meetings, media planning sessions, and getting to know the team dynamics. Christine found herself energized by the challenge, by the hunger she sensed throughout the organization.

But the shadow of Charles lingered over everything. During meetings about race weekend communications, she'd find herself wondering how Ferrari would respond to their initiatives. When planning media strategies to highlight McLaren's strengths, she'd think about how Charles might be affected by their success.

The first race weekend where they'd be in direct competition came at the Bahrain Grand Prix. Christine arrived at the Sakhir circuit with butterflies in her stomach, knowing that she'd inevitably cross paths with Charles in the paddock.

The encounter came during the drivers' parade preparations. Christine was coordinating media access when she spotted Charles across the staging area, resplendent in Ferrari red, talking with journalists. For a moment, their eyes met across the chaos of the pre-race buildup.

Charles's expression flickered—surprise, pleasure, something that might have been hope—before settling into professional neutrality. He nodded formally in her direction, and she returned the gesture with equal formality. To any observer, it would have looked like simple professional courtesy between acquaintances from different teams.

But Christine felt the weight of everything unsaid between them, the memory of his confession, the possibility that still hung in the air like a question mark.

The race itself was a revelation. McLaren's car was genuinely competitive, with both Lando and Oscar scoring points in strong positions. Christine watched from the team's pit wall, coordinating with broadcast teams and managing real-time communications, but part of her attention was always on the red car making its way through the field.

Charles finished fourth, a respectable result but clearly frustrated by Ferrari's strategic miscommunications. During the post-race media sessions, Christine caught glimpses of him in the media pen, his jaw tight with disappointment despite his diplomatic answers.

She wanted to comfort him, to offer the kind of support she'd given him countless times during their Ferrari days. Instead, she focused on celebrating McLaren's strong showing, pushing thoughts of Charles aside.

But those thoughts kept returning as the season progressed. Every race weekend brought new encounters—brief nods in the paddock, carefully neutral exchanges during official functions, the constant awareness of each other's presence despite their professional distance.

The closest they came to a real interaction was during the Monaco Grand Prix weekend. Charles Home Race. He wanted to win in Monaco since he was a kid. But something always went wrong. As the Monaco curse was feeling like a real thing. She was more concerned about how Charles was feeling, how stressed and anxious he would be.

Christine was rushing between the McLaren motorhome and the media center before the qualifying session when she literally collided with someone coming around a corner—a scenario that felt achingly familiar.

"I'm so sorry—" she began, then stopped when she realized it was Charles.

"My fault entirely," Charles said quickly, steadying her with a hand on her arm. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

They stood there for a moment, his hand still on her arm, both remembering their first collision years ago in Singapore. The parallel was so obvious that Christine almost smiled despite herself.

"Some things never change," Charles said softly, and she knew he wasn't talking about their tendency to run into each other.

"Charles—" she began, but was interrupted by Lando's voice calling her name.

"Christine! There you are. We need you for the strategy briefing."

The moment was broken. Charles stepped back, his hand falling away from her arm, his expression closing off.

"You should go," he said formally. "Your team needs you."

"Yes," Christine agreed, though she didn't move immediately. "Charles, I wanted to say GOOD LUCK"

"Go," he repeated gently. "It's okay and thanks :)"

She nodded and turned away, feeling his eyes on her as she walked toward Lando. When she glanced back from the McLaren motorhome entrance, Charles was gone.

In the qualifying, Charles got the POLE position, which is the best possible way to start in Monaco.

That weekend, Charles won his home race for the first time, a victory that had eluded him for years. Christine watched from the McLaren garage as he crossed the finish line, saw his team erupt in celebration, and witnessed his radiating happiness as he climbed out of the red car.

Her heart swelled with pride and joy for him, emotions that had nothing to do with team loyalties or professional obligations. This was Charles achieving a dream he'd carried since childhood, finally conquering the demons that had haunted him at his home circuit. She wanted to run to him, hug him, and be happy with him, but she couldn't do that, so she just watched him smile from ear to ear, as her heart kept growing with happiness.

During the podium ceremony, as Charles stood on the top step with the Monaco flag draped around his shoulders along with Carlos and Oscar beside him, Christine felt tears on her own cheeks. Lando noticed her emotional state and followed her gaze to the podium.

"You're crying," he observed quietly.

"It's beautiful," Christine said, not bothering to deny it. "He's wanted this for so long."

Lando studied her face with the perceptiveness that made him such a good driver. "You care about him."

It wasn't a question, and Christine didn't try to deflect it. "Yes. I do."

"Even though he drives for Ferrari?"

"Especially because he drives for Ferrari," Christine replied. "Because I know how much this means to him."

Lando was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "Love doesn't stop just because it's complicated, does it?"

Christine looked at him sharply. "Love?"

"Christine," Lando said gently, "I've been watching you all season. The way you track Charles during races, the way you tense up when he's in battles, the way you just cried watching him win. That's not just caring. That's love."

She wanted to deny it, to maintain the professional distance she'd worked so hard to establish. Instead, she found herself nodding.

"Yes," she whispered. "It's love."

The admission hung between them as the Monaco anthem played and Charles raised his trophy toward the sky. Somewhere in the crowd below, Christine caught sight of Kelly and Penelope, who'd been cheering for Charles despite Max not even racing due to a mechanical failure during the formation lap.

Now, please look at the poor boy. He is staring at you. Give him something." Lando said with a smile.

Then you caught Charles' eyes and blew him a small kiss, which is not noticeable by the people around you.

"What are you going to do about it?" Lando asked.

"Nothing," Christine replied. "There's nothing I can do. We're on different teams, there are professional complications, media scrutiny—"

"Christine," Lando interrupted gently, "you're making excuses."

"They're not excuses. They're real obstacles."

"Maybe. But from where I'm standing, you and Charles are both miserable pretending you don't love each other. At some point, you have to decide if the obstacles are bigger than the love."

That night, Christine stood on her Monaco apartment balcony, looking out at the harbor where the celebrations were still continuing. Somewhere out there, Charles was probably celebrating with his team, his family, finally having conquered the race that had tormented him for years. She wanted to celebrate with him so bad, as they had discussed many times during their Ferrari days.

She pulled out her phone several times, typing messages of congratulations that she never sent. What could she say that wouldn't open doors she'd worked so hard to keep closed? How could she express the joy she felt for his victory without revealing the depth of her feelings?.

In the end, she sent nothing. But as she finally went to bed, she whispered into the darkness: "I'm proud of you, Charles. You deserved this."

Charles was parting in a Monaco club with his friends and family, but there was one person who was still missing from his happiest moment, and then his phone buzzed as he read the message. He gave a small smile, and he realized she was there with him, even if she wasn't there physically.

The season continued with McLaren growing stronger and more competitive with each race. Christine threw herself into her work.

But even as her professional life flourished, the personal void remained. Every interview she watched Charles give, every battle between McLaren and Ferrari, every glimpse of him in the paddock reminded her of what she'd given up, what she was continuing to sacrifice for the sake of her profession.

The world came back to you in fragments - the rough texture of sand against your skin, the distant crash of waves, and Conrad's voice, desperate and broken, saying your name over and over like a prayer.

Pain bloomed across your cheek in sharp, throbbing waves, but it was nothing compared to the ache in your chest when you saw the expression on Conrad's face. He looked terrified, his usual composure completely shattered as his hands hovered over you, afraid to touch but unable to pull away.

"I'm okay," you managed to whisper, though the words felt thick and clumsy in your mouth.

"No, you're not," Conrad said, his voice rough with guilt and self-loathing. "This is my fault. I should have - I never should have -"

"Conrad." The sound of his name seemed to break something loose in him, and suddenly his hands were cupping your face with infinite gentleness, his thumbs tracing the air just above your injury.

The moment was intimate and raw and everything you'd been dreaming of for years, and it was happening in the worst possible circumstances.

The sound of police sirens grew louder, and suddenly people were scattering in every direction. Someone - Jeremiah, maybe - was pulling you to your feet, supporting your weight as the world swayed around you.

"We need to go, NOW," he was saying.

The next few minutes were a blur of movement and panic. You found yourself being bundled into Jeremiah's car, Conrad sliding into the backseat while Belly climbed in beside him. Your head was throbbing, and you were having trouble focusing on anything except the warmth of Conrad's presence behind you.

Jeremiah drove with careful urgency, his eyes flicking between the road and your reflection in the rearview mirror. "How are you feeling? Any nausea? Dizziness?"

"I'm fine," you lied, because the truth was too complicated to explain. You weren't fine - your face hurt, your heart was racing, and you were hyperaware of every sound Conrad made from the backseat.

That's when you felt it - the soft touch of Conrad's fingers against your cheek. His fingertips brushed against your cheek, and you winced involuntarily. The sound made him pull his hand back as if he'd been burned.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry, Y/N."

In the rearview mirror, you caught a glimpse of Belly's face, and what you saw there made your heart clench with guilt. She was staring at Conrad with an expression of dawning realization, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

She was finally seeing what had been there all along - the connection between you and Conrad that ran deeper than friendship, the unspoken understanding that had been building for years. And it was breaking her heart.

Belly's POV

The car ride home was suffocating. I sat pressed against the window, as far from Conrad as I could get in the cramped backseat, watching the way his entire focus was consumed by Y/N.

He couldn't stop apologizing, couldn't stop reaching out to touch her and then pulling back when she winced. His hands were shaking, and there was something raw and desperate in his voice that I'd never heard before.

This wasn't the careful, controlled Conrad I'd been in love with for years. This was someone completely undone, someone who looked like he might fall apart if anything else happened to the girl in the front seat.

How could I have been so blind?

All those summers of watching them together, of seeing the way they moved around each other like planets in orbit, of noticing how Conrad's entire demeanor would shift when Y/N entered a room - I'd told myself it was just friendship. I'd convinced myself that Conrad's feelings for Y/N were the same as his feelings for me, just familial affection born of years of shared summers.

But watching him now, seeing the way he looked at her like she was his entire world, I finally understood the truth I'd been refusing to see.

Conrad Fisher had never looked at me the way he was looking at Y/N. He never would.

The realization sat in my chest like a stone, heavy and cold and final. All my plans for this summer, all my hopes and dreams and carefully constructed fantasies - they crumbled to dust in the face of this simple, undeniable truth.

Y/N's POV

When Jeremiah pulled into the driveway, you could see the lights on in both houses. Your parents' bedroom light was off, thankfully, but the Fisher house was lit up like Christmas.

"Oh, we are in so much trouble," Jeremiah muttered as Laurel appeared on the front porch, her face a mask of fury.

The next few minutes were a blur of angry voices and disappointed sighs. Laurel was livid about Belly sneaking out, Steven was defensive about not watching his sister better, and Jeremiah was trying to play peacekeeper as usual. Through it all, Conrad remained silent, his eyes never leaving your injured face.

"I should go home," you said quietly when there was finally a lull in the chaos.

"Absolutely not," Laurel said firmly. "Your parents are sleeping, and you shouldn't be alone with a head injury. You'll stay here tonight."

"I can take the couch," you offered, not wanting to impose further on the Fisher family hospitality.

"No." Conrad's voice cut through the conversation, sharp and decisive. "You can have my room. I'll take the couch."

The offer hung in the air like a challenge, and you could feel everyone's eyes on you. Sleeping in Conrad's room felt intimate and dangerous and exactly what your bruised heart needed, even if your rational mind knew it was a terrible idea.

"Conrad, that's not necessary—"

"I insist." His tone brooked no argument, and there was something in his eyes that made your protest die on your lips.

Conrad's POV

Leading Y/N upstairs to his room felt like the most natural and most terrifying thing he'd ever done. She followed him quietly, and he was hyperaware of her presence behind him, of the way she moved carefully as if her head was still bothering her.

His room was exactly as he'd left it that morning - unmade bed, books scattered across his desk, clothes draped over the chair by the window. It felt too personal, too revealing, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Let me get you something to wear," he said, moving toward his dresser. He pulled out a soft t-shirt and a pair of shorts that would probably be too big for her, then grabbed his Stanford hoodie from the closet.

"This should be comfortable," he said, setting the clothes on his bed.

When he turned back to face her, she was standing close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her eyes, could count the freckles across her nose. The bruise on her cheek was already darkening, and the sight of it made him feel sick all over again.

"Y/N," he whispered, her name falling from his lips like a confession.

For a moment, the careful walls he'd built around his heart crumbled completely. She was right there, beautiful and hurt and looking at him with such trust that it made him want to tell her everything - about his mother, about his feelings, about how terrified he was of losing everything that mattered to him.

Instead, he opened his arms, and she stepped into his embrace without hesitation. She felt perfect against him, soft and warm and exactly where she was supposed to be. He held her carefully, mindful of her injury, but the hug was everything he'd been denying himself all summer.

"I should let you get some rest," he said finally, though it was the last thing he wanted to do.

After he left her alone in his room, Conrad made his way downstairs to claim the couch. But sleep was impossible with Y/N just one floor above him, sleeping in his bed. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her falling, saw the moment of impact that had sent her crashing to the sand.

This is why you have to stay away, he told himself. This is why caring about people is dangerous. You hurt them just by existing.

But even as he thought it, he knew he was lying to himself. He couldn't stay away from Y/N any more than he could stop breathing. She was woven into the fabric of who he was, essential and irreplaceable.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs made him look up. Y/N appeared in the doorway, now wearing his clothes, the hoodie swallowing her small frame. She looked young and vulnerable, and Conrad felt his resolve crumbling all over again.

"I couldn't sleep," she said softly. "My head's still throbbing."

He was on his feet before she'd finished speaking, disappearing into the kitchen and returning with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel.

"For the swelling," he explained, as they went to his room.

She sat down on the edge of the mattress, and he settled beside her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body. Gently, he placed the improvised ice pack against her bruise, and she couldn't help the small sound of discomfort that escaped her.

"I know it's cold," he murmured, his thumb tracing the air just above her injury. "But it'll help."

Her hand came up to cover his where he held the ice pack, and the contact sent electricity shooting through his entire body. Her eyes met his, and he saw everything he'd been feeling reflected back at him - the longing, the confusion, the desperate need to close the distance between them.

Kiss her, his heart demanded. Tell her how you feel. Stop being a coward.

But then he remembered Belly's face in the car, remembered his mother's diagnosis, remembered all the reasons why this was impossible.

"You should get some sleep," he said, pulling away before he could do something they'd both regret.

"Conrad, wait," Y/N called as he stood up, but he was already retreating, already rebuilding the walls that kept everyone safe from the disaster he was becoming.

"I'm sorry," he said again, the words feeling inadequate and pathetic. "For everything."

And then he was gone, leaving Y/N alone in his room with his scent surrounding her and a thousand questions neither of them was brave enough to answer.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Christine shot Max a sharp look. "Why wouldn't I be okay with it?"

Max shrugged, but his expression was knowing. "No reason. Just... you and Charles have history."

"Ancient history."

"If you say so."

But it wasn't ancient history, and Christine knew it. Seeing Charles with another woman, seeing him happy and moved on, forced her to confront feelings she'd thought she'd processed and put behind her.

The confrontation came at the Monaco Grand Prix weekend in 2023. Christine was walking back to her hotel after a late dinner when she spotted Charles and Alexandra at a beachside café. They were laughing about something, their heads close together, and the intimacy of the moment hit Christine like a physical blow.

She tried to walk past unnoticed, but Charles looked up at exactly the wrong moment.

"Christine!" he called out, waving her over.

She had no choice but to approach their table, forcing a smile she didn't feel.

"Charles, Alexandra. Good evening."

"Christine, this is Alexandra. Alexandra, this is Christine - she used to work with me at Ferrari."

"The famous Christine," Alexandra said with a warm smile. "Charles has told me so much about you."

"Has he?" Christine managed, not trusting herself to look at Charles.

"All good things," Alexandra assured her. "He says you were one of the best strategists he's ever worked with."

"That's very kind." Christine finally met Charles's eyes and saw something complicated there - pride, perhaps, but also something that looked like regret.

"Would you like to join us?" Alexandra offered graciously.

"No, thank you. I don't want to intrude. I was just heading back to my hotel."

"You're not intruding," Charles said quickly. "We were just talking about—"

"Really, I should go. Early morning tomorrow. Nice to meet you, Alexandra."

Christine escaped before either of them could protest further, but she could feel Charles's eyes on her as she walked away.

The next grand prix media day brought unexpected developments. Christine woke to her phone buzzing with an urgent call from Christian Horner.

"Christine, we have a situation. I need you at the paddock immediately."

An hour later, she was in the Red Bull motorhome dealing with a media crisis involving allegations of technical irregularities. The situation required all her focus and expertise, pushing thoughts of Charles and Alexandra to the back of her mind.

It was while she was rushing between meetings that she literally collided with Charles in the paddock. They both stumbled, and Charles's hands instinctively went to her arms to steady her.

"Sorry, I wasn't looking where I was—" Christine began, then stopped when she realized who she'd run into.

"Are you okay?" Charles asked, his hands still on her arms.

"Fine. Just distracted. Busy morning."

"I heard about the Red Bull situation. Media giving you trouble?"

"Nothing I can't handle."

They were standing very close, and Christine was acutely aware of Charles's hands on her arms, of the familiar scent of his cologne, of the concerned way he was looking at her.

"Charles—"

"I know you're busy," he interrupted. "But can we talk? Later, after practice?"

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Please. There are things I need to say."

Something in his tone made her look at him more carefully. There was an urgency there, a tension she couldn't identify.

"Charles, you have Alexandra now. Whatever you think needs to be said—"

"It's about Alexandra," Charles said quietly. "Among other things."

Despite her better judgment, Christine found herself nodding. "After practice. But Charles, I can't... we can't do this if it's going to make things complicated."

"I know. I just... I need you to understand some things."

They met that evening at the same balcony where Charles had first shown her during their Ferrari days. The irony wasn't lost on either of them.

"You wanted to talk," Christine said, keeping her voice neutral.

Charles was quiet for a long moment, looking out over the Monaco harbor. "Alexandra and I broke up."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

"Of course I'm sorry," Christine replied, but there was an edge to her voice. "I don't wish unhappiness on anyone, especially not you."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

Christine turned to face him fully. "Then what did you mean, Charles?"

"I meant are you sorry that we broke up, or are you sorry that I'm available again?"

The bluntness of the question took her breath away. "Charles, you can't ask me things like that."

"Why not? We're both adults. We both know there's still something between us."

"There's nothing between us," Christine said, but the words sounded hollow even to her own ears.

"Isn't there?" Charles stepped closer. "Then why did you look like someone had punched you when you saw me with Alexandra last night?"

"I didn't—"

"You did. And I know because I've been watching for it every time we've crossed paths since you left Ferrari. Every time I've been with someone else, I've looked for your reaction, hoping to see something that would tell me you still care."

Christine's heart was racing. "Charles, stop."

"Charles—"

"I couldn't love her the way she deserved because I'm still in love with you."

The words hung in the air between them, raw and honest and terrifying. Christine felt tears prick at her eyes.

"You can't say that," she whispered.

"Why not? It's true. It's been true since the day you left Ferrari, and it's still true now."

"Because..." Christine struggled for words. "Because we work for competing teams. Because it's been three years and we've both moved on. Because too much has happened."

"Have we moved on?" Charles asked softly. "Have you moved on?"

The question she'd been avoiding for three years hung between them, demanding an answer. Christine looked at Charles - really looked at him - and saw the same vulnerability, the same hope, the same fear that had been there that night in Abu Dhabi when they'd first admitted their feelings.

"No," she whispered finally. "I haven't moved on."

Charles closed his eyes, relief and pain warring in his expression. "Christine..."

"But that doesn't change anything," she continued quickly. "The complications are still there. We're still on different teams. The professional risks—"

"I don't care about the professional risks."

"Well, I do," Christine said firmly. "I've worked too hard to get where I am to throw it away for... for whatever this is."

"Whatever this is?" Charles's voice rose slightly. "Christine, this is love. This is the thing we've been dancing around for five years. This is the reason neither of us has been able to make a relationship work with anyone else."

"And what if it doesn't work out?" Christine shot back. "What if we try this and it falls apart? Then what? I lose you as a friend, I potentially compromise my career, and for what?"

"For the chance to be happy," Charles said simply. "For the chance to stop wondering 'what if' for the rest of our lives."

Christine stared at him, seeing the earnestness in his face, feeling the pull of possibility and the weight of risk in equal measure.

"I need time to think," she said finally.

"How much time?"

"I don't know. This is... it's a lot, Charles."

As Christine walked back to her hotel that night, her mind was spinning. Charles's confession had shattered the careful emotional distance she'd maintained, forcing her to confront feelings she'd buried but never actually resolved.

She loved him. She'd never stopped loving him. But love wasn't always enough, was it? There were still all the same complications that had driven them apart in the first place, plus new ones created by three years of separation and professional growth.

But that was exactly the point - we had been here a million times before, and I was tired of being seen as the same little girl who used to build sandcastles and chase fireflies. This summer, I looked different, felt different. This summer, Conrad Fisher was finally going to notice me.

The front door burst open before we'd even gotten out of the car, and Susannah Fisher came rushing down the porch steps with her arms wide open, her face glowing with that infectious joy that made everyone around her feel loved.

"My babies!" she called out, enveloping first me and then Steven in hugs that smelled like sunscreen and vanilla. "Look at you two! Belly, you're absolutely radiant, and Steven, you've gotten so tall!"

Behind her, I caught a glimpse of Jeremiah hanging back on the porch, his easy smile already in place. But there was no sign of Conrad, and my stomach clenched with disappointment.

"Where's Conrad?" I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.

Something flickered across Susannah's face - so brief I almost missed it. "He's around somewhere. You know how he is."

But I did know how he was, and this felt different. Conrad was usually the first one to greet us, with his crooked smile and teasing comments about how much we'd changed. The fact that he wasn't here felt like a sign, and not a good one.

Y/N's POV

From your bedroom window, you watched the familiar chaos of the Conklin family's arrival with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Summer at Cousins meant the return of your chosen family - the people who had shaped every important memory of your childhood.

But it also meant the return of Conrad Fisher, and the complicated feelings you'd been trying to ignore for months.

You'd been here for a week already, helping your parents open up the house and get everything ready for the season. In that time, you'd caught glimpses of Conrad around the Fisher property, but he'd seemed different - distant, almost hollow in a way that made your chest ache with worry.

The Conrad you'd fallen for over years of shared summers was thoughtful and intense, yes, but never empty. Never like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

A soft knock on your door interrupted your thoughts. "Y/N, sweetheart," your mother called. "The Conklin's are here. Why don't you go say hello?"

You smoothed down your sundress and headed outside, your bare feet familiar with the path through the gate that connected your properties. The Fisher backyard was already full of voices and laughter, but your eyes immediately sought out Conrad.

You found him leaning against the side of the house, partially hidden in shadow, watching the reunion with an expression you couldn't quite read. When his eyes met yours across the yard, something passed between you - a recognition, maybe, or a question neither of you knew how to ask.

"Y/N!" Belly's voice pulled your attention away, and suddenly you were being swept into a hug that smelled like vanilla perfume and summer hopes. "I missed you so much!"

"I missed you too," you said, and meant it. Belly had always been like a little sister to you, even though you were the same age. There was something about her perpetual optimism that made you want to protect her from anything that might dim her light.

Even if that something might be your own feelings for the boy she'd been in love with for years.

Conrad's POV

CANCER.

The word echoed in Conrad's head like a death sentence, which, he supposed, they might be. He'd been carrying them around for two weeks now, ever since he'd overheard his parents' conversation in the kitchen late one night.

We can't tell the boys yet. Let them have one more normal summer.

Normal. As if anything could ever be normal again.

He watched from his position against the house as Y/N emerged from her family's property, and his chest tightened with a familiar ache. She looked beautiful in the golden afternoon light, her hair catching the breeze, her smile warm as she greeted everyone.

She was the one person who might understand, who might be able to help him carry this impossible weight. But she was also the one person he couldn't burden with it. Y/N had always been his safe place, his refuge from the expectations and pressures that came with being the responsible older Fisher son. How could he destroy that by telling her that his mother - the woman who had been like a second mother to Y/N her entire life - might be dying?

You're being dramatic, he told himself. The doctors said treatable. Susannah Fisher is the strongest person you know. She'll beat this.

But the rational part of his brain was being drowned out by the part that kept replaying his father's broken voice saying aggressive and we caught it late and we'll have to see.

"Conrad!" Belly's voice cut through his spiral, bright and hopeful in a way that made him feel even worse. "There you are! I was wondering where you'd disappeared to."

She'd grown up over the winter - he could see it in the confident way she held herself, in the dress that was definitely not something the old Belly would have worn. She was beautiful, and he should feel something about that. Instead, he just felt tired.

"Hey, Belly," he managed, forcing what he hoped looked like a smile.

But his eyes drifted back to Y/N, who was watching him with that perceptive gaze that had always seen too much. She knew something was wrong - he could see it in the way her brow furrowed with concern.

Stay away, he wanted to tell her. Don't look at me like that. It's too dangerous.

Susannah's POV

Susannah Fisher was a master at reading the emotional currents that flowed through her house each summer, and this year, those currents were more complicated than ever.

There was Belly, practically glowing with excitement and hope, her eyes tracking Conrad's every movement with barely concealed adoration. There was Y/N, beautiful and concerned, her gaze soft with the kind of love she probably didn't even realize she was broadcasting. And there was Conrad, her serious boy, who was carrying something heavy enough to dim the light in his eyes.

She'd noticed the change in him over the past few weeks, the way he'd grown quieter and more withdrawn. At first, she'd attributed it to the stress of finishing his senior year, the pressure of college applications and impending adulthood. But this felt different, deeper.

But Conrad had always been a light sleeper, and he'd always been too perceptive for his own good.

"Dinner in an hour!" she announced to the group. "Y/N, will you be joining us?"

"Actually," Y/N said, glancing toward her own house, "my parents wanted me home for dinner tonight. Rain check?"

Conrad's head snapped up at that, and for a moment, his mask slipped enough for Susannah to see the disappointment underneath. Oh, my sweet boy, she thought. Why won't you just tell her how you feel?

"Of course, sweetheart," Susannah replied. "Tomorrow night, then."

As Y/N headed back toward her house, Susannah caught the way both Conrad and Belly watched her go, though for very different reasons. This summer was going to test all of them in ways she wasn't sure they were ready for.

She just hoped they'd all survive it intact.

Y/N's POV - Evening

The text came just as you were finishing dinner with your parents: Bonfire tonight at the beach. You in? - Jere

You stared at the message for a long moment, weighing your options. Part of you wanted to stay home, to avoid the complicated dynamics that seemed to be brewing between you and Conrad and Belly. But a bigger part of you needed to be there, needed to try to figure out what was wrong with Conrad and how you could help.

I'll be there, you typed back.

An hour later, you were walking across the dunes toward the glow of the bonfire, your bare feet sinking into the still-warm sand. The beach was already crowded with local kids and summer residents, the air filled with laughter and the sound of someone's Bluetooth speaker competing with the crash of waves.

You spotted the Fisher boys immediately - Jeremiah was holding court near the fire, animated and charming as always, while Conrad stood apart from the group, a beer in his hand and that same distant expression on his face.

What you didn't expect was to see him with Nicole Martinez, a local girl you'd known peripherally for years. She was beautiful in an effortless way, with sun-streaked hair and the kind of confidence that came from never doubting your place in the world. Her hand was resting casually on Conrad's arm as she laughed at something he'd said.

The sight hit you like a physical blow, jealousy and hurt flooding your system before you could stop them. You had no claim on Conrad Fisher - you'd never even told him how you felt - but seeing him with someone else made you realize just how deep your feelings actually ran.

Get it together, you told yourself firmly. You're here for the same reason you've always been here - because these people are your family, and family shows up.

You made your way over to where Steven and Jeremiah were debating the merits of different surfboard brands, forcing a smile and trying to ignore the way your eyes kept drifting back to Conrad and Nicole.

"Y/N!" Steven greeted you with a grin. "Thank God you're here. Maybe you can talk some sense into Jere about his ridiculous board choices."

"Hey, my board choices are excellent," Jeremiah protested. "I'm just ahead of my time."

Their easy banter was exactly what you needed, and you let yourself sink into the familiar rhythm of summer friendships. But even as you laughed at their jokes and joined their conversations, you remained hyperaware of Conrad's presence across the fire.

He looked up once and caught your eye, and for a moment, his expression softened into something that looked almost like longing. But then Nicole said something that made him laugh, and the moment was broken.

Belly's POV

Sneaking out had seemed like such a good idea than watching movies with the moms. Mom had been clear that I wasn't allowed to go - something about it being too late and not properly supervised - but I was seventeen, not seven. I could handle a beach party.

Now, standing at the edge of the firelight in my carefully chosen outfit, I was starting to second-guess myself. Everyone looked older, more sophisticated, more like they belonged here. And Conrad was definitely not alone.

I spotted Conrad with a girl - she looked the kind of girl who made everything look effortless. She was exactly the kind of girl Conrad Fisher should be with.

The thought made my chest ache with something that felt suspiciously like defeat.

"Belly?" Steven's voice cut through my spiral, sharp with surprise and anger. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Great. Now I was going to get lectured by my brother in front of everyone. This night was going exactly as planned.

"I'm hanging out," I said, lifting my chin with more confidence than I felt. "Same as everyone else."

"You're supposed to be at home," Steven shot back, moving toward me with that protective-brother expression I knew all too well. "Mom's going to kill you when she finds out you snuck out."

"I'm not a child, Steven," I snapped, my embarrassment making me defensive. "I can make my own decisions."

"Obviously not, if this is the kind of decision you're making," he retorted.

I could feel people starting to stare, could see Y/N looking concerned and Jeremiah moving toward us with diplomat written all over his face. The last thing I wanted was to cause a scene, but Steven was treating me like I was still twelve years old.

"You don't get to control my life," I said, my voice rising despite my efforts to stay calm.

"I'm trying to protect you," Steven replied, grabbing my arm. "From making stupid mistakes that could get you in serious trouble."

"Get off me!" I yanked my arm away, and that's when Jeremiah finally reached us.

"Hey, hey," he said, his voice calm and soothing. "Let's all take a step back here. Belly, Steven, just worried about you. Steven, maybe we can find a middle ground?"

But before anyone could respond, the sound of raised voices erupted from somewhere near the water's edge. A fight was breaking out, and from the sound of it, it was getting serious fast.

That's when I heard Conrad's voice, sharp with anger and slurred with alcohol, and my blood ran cold.

Conrad's POV

The fight had started over something stupid.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the crushing weight of pretending everything was fine when his world was falling apart, but something in him just broke. The stranger was bigger and clearly looking for trouble, but Conrad was beyond caring about consequences.

Through the haze of adrenaline and rage, he was dimly aware of people shouting, of the crowd forming a circle around them. This was exactly the kind of scene he usually went out of his way to avoid, but tonight he couldn't seem to care about anything except hitting something until the pain in his chest went away.

The stranger lunged at him again, and Conrad barely managed to duck out of the way. That's when he saw them - Y/N and Belly, both rushing toward the fight from different directions, both with expressions of panic and determination.

No, he thought desperately. Stay back. Don't get involved.

But it was too late. Y/N reached the stranger first, grabbing his arm to try to pull him away, just as the guy's elbow came back hard and fast. The sound of the impact was sickening, and Conrad watched in horror as Y/N crumpled to the sand, Belly stumbling and falling nearby.

Everything else ceased to matter. The fight, his anger, the stranger who was still looking for round two - all of it disappeared in the face of Y/N's still form on the beach.

He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands shaking as he gently touched her shoulder. "Y/N, oh my God, Y/N," his voice was rough with panic. "Can you hear me?"

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and confused, and the relief that flooded through him was so intense it made him dizzy.

"I'm here," he whispered, fighting to keep his voice steady. "I'm here. You're going to be okay."

Somewhere behind him, he could hear Belly getting to her feet, could hear sirens in the distance. But his entire world had narrowed to Y/N's pale face and the growing bruise on her cheek.

This is your fault, the voice in his head whispered. She got hurt because of you. Because you can't control yourself. Because you're exactly the kind of person who brings chaos to everyone around you.

"Can we talk?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

Charles looked up from his laptop, and his smile faded when he saw her expression. "What's wrong?"

Christine closed the door behind her and sat across from him, the familiar conference table suddenly feeling like a chasm between them.

"I got a job offer," she said without preamble. "From Red Bull. Senior communications manager."

Charles's face went carefully blank—a look she'd seen him use with difficult journalists. "That's... that's great, Christine. It's what you deserve."

"I'm going to take it."

The silence stretched between them like a physical thing. Outside, rain lashed against the windows, and the sound filled the space where words should have been.

"When?" Charles asked finally.

"After the season ends. I'll start in January."

Charles nodded slowly, his jaw working as he processed the information. "So you'll be working with Verstappen."

"Yes."

Another silence. Christine watched emotions flicker across Charles's face—hurt, anger, disappointment, resignation. Finally, he closed his laptop with a sharp click.

"Well, you'll be good at it," he said, his voice professionally neutral. "Red Bull's lucky to have you."

"Charles—"

"I should congratulate you." He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "This is a big opportunity. You've worked hard for this."

"Charles, please—"

"What do you want me to say, Christine?" The professional mask slipped, revealing the hurt underneath. "That I'm happy you're leaving? That I'm thrilled you'll be working with our biggest rival? That I'll enjoy watching you celebrate Max's victories instead of mine?"

Christine stood too, her hands clenched at her sides. "I want you to say what you're really thinking. For once in three years, I want you to tell me what you're actually feeling instead of hiding behind politeness."

"What I'm feeling?" Charles's voice rose, matching the intensity of the storm outside. "I'm feeling like you're abandoning everything we've built here. I'm feeling like three years meant nothing to you if you can just walk away like this."

"Walk away?" Christine's voice cracked. "You think this is easy for me? You think I want to leave?"

"I don't know what you want!" Charles exploded, running his hands through his hair. "I've never known what you want because we've spent three years dancing around each other, pretending this is just friendship when we both know it's more than that!"

The words hung in the air between them, finally spoken after years of careful avoidance. Christine felt tears prick at her eyes, but she blinked them back.

"It has to be friendship," she said quietly. "You know it does. The team, the media attention, the complications—"

"So you're running away."

"I'm advancing my career."

"With Max Verstappen."

"Yes, with Max Verstappen!" Christine snapped, her own composure cracking. "Because maybe working with someone I don't have complicated feelings for will actually let me focus on my job instead of worrying about whether you're okay, whether you're eating enough, whether some journalist is being too aggressive with you!"

"No one asked you to worry about me!"

"No one had to ask! That's what you do when you—" She stopped herself before the words could escape, but Charles heard them anyway.

"When you what, Christine?"

She looked at him across the conference table, this man who had become the center of her world without her permission, and felt her careful walls crumble.

"When you love someone," she whispered.

The admission hung between them like a live wire. Charles stared at her, his green eyes wide with shock and something that might have been hope.

"Christine," he began, but she was already shaking her head.

"I can't do this," she said, backing toward the door. "I can't have this conversation with you. Not now, not when I'm leaving."

"Then when?" Charles moved around the table, reaching for her. "If not now, when?"

"Maybe never," she said, her voice breaking. "Maybe that's better for both of us."

She reached for the door handle, but Charles's voice stopped her.

"I love you too."

The words hit her like a physical blow. She turned slowly, tears she couldn't hold back anymore streaming down her face.

"Charles—"

"I love you," he repeated, stepping closer. "I've loved you since that first night you fell asleep at your desk and I carried you to my car because I couldn't bear the thought of you walking home alone. I've loved you through every victory and every disappointment, every late-night strategy session and every moment you believed in me when I didn't believe in myself."

"Then why didn't you say anything?" Christine's voice was barely a whisper.

"Because I was scared," Charles admitted. "Because Ferrari is your dream job and I'm Ferrari's golden boy and mixing those things felt dangerous. Because I was terrified that if I told you and you didn't feel the same way, I'd lose the most important person in my life."

"And now you're losing me anyway."

Charles cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away her tears. "Then let's not waste any more time."

He kissed her like a man drowning, desperate and hungry and full of three years of unspoken longing. Christine melted into him, her hands fisting in his Ferrari polo as she kissed him back with equal desperation. They stumbled backward until her back hit the door, Charles's body pressing against hers as they tried to pour years of love and frustration into a single kiss.

When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Charles rested his forehead against hers.

"Come home with me," he whispered. "Tonight. Let me love you properly before you go."

Christine closed her eyes, knowing she should say no, knowing this would only make leaving harder. Instead, she nodded.

Charles's apartment in Monaco was exactly what she'd expected—minimalist, elegant, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor. Under normal circumstances, she might have admired the view or commented on his decoration choices. Instead, the moment the door closed behind them, Charles had her pressed against it again, his mouth finding hers with desperate hunger.

"Are you sure?" he asked against her lips, even as his hands tangled in her hair.

"I've never been more sure of anything," she breathed back.

They made love with the intensity of people who knew they were stealing time—tender and desperate, slow and frantic, trying to memorize every touch, every sound, every moment. Charles worshipped her body like he was trying to imprint the memory into his soul, and Christine gave herself to him completely, holding nothing back.

Afterward, they lay entwined in his bed, Christine's head on Charles's chest, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow. The rain had stopped, and moonlight streamed through the windows, casting silver patterns on the sheets.

"This doesn't change anything," Christine whispered into the darkness.

Charles's arms tightened around her. "I know."

"I'm still leaving."

"I know."

"It's better this way. Cleaner."

"I know." His voice was rough with unshed emotion.

Christine pressed a kiss to his chest, tasting salt from tears she wasn't sure were his or hers. "I love you too," she whispered. "More than I should. More than is smart."

"Then stay," Charles said desperately. "Stay and let's figure this out together."

Christine closed her eyes against the temptation. "You know I can't."

They didn't sleep that night. Instead, they held each other and talked—about dreams and fears, about what might have been and what could never be. When dawn broke over Monaco, Christine slipped out of bed and dressed quietly.

"This is goodbye, isn't it?" Charles asked from the bed, sheet pooled around his waist, hair mussed from her fingers.

"This is goodbye," she confirmed, though it felt like tearing her own heart out.

Charles nodded, understanding even though it destroyed him. "Be happy, Christine. Promise me that."

"You too," she whispered, and fled before she could change her mind.

Her first year at Red Bull was a whirlwind of success and personal upheaval. Max Verstappen was everything Charles wasn't—direct, uncompromising, refreshingly honest about his feelings and motivations. Working with him was easier in many ways because there were no complicated undercurrents, no unspoken feelings to navigate.

Max's family embraced her quickly. Kelly Piquet treated her like a sister, and Penelope adopted her as an honorary aunt. Christine found herself spending weekends in Monaco with them, playing on the beach with P, joining Kelly for shopping trips, becoming part of their unconventional but loving family unit.

"You're good for him," Kelly told her one evening as they watched Max and Penelope build sandcastles on the beach. "He's less intense since you started working with him. More... human."

Christine smiled, watching Max patiently help P add turrets to their elaborate construction. "He's good for me too. Simple, you know? No complications."

Kelly gave her a knowing look. "Simple is overrated sometimes."

The complications in Christine's life had a name, and that name was Charles Leclerc. Even working for Red Bull, she couldn't completely avoid him. The paddock was a small world, and their paths crossed regularly—in the media center, at drivers' briefings, during the chaos of race weekends.

Their interactions were painfully polite, professionally cordial, and absolutely devastating. Charles would nod formally when they passed in the paddock. Christine would offer a tight smile during press conferences where they both had to be present. They spoke when necessary, about logistics and scheduling, their voices carefully neutral.

But Christine felt his eyes on her constantly. During Max's post-race interviews, she'd catch Charles watching from across the media pen. At FIA briefings, she'd find him looking at her with an expression that made her heart ache. Most painful were the moments when muscle memory took over—when Charles would start to approach her with a smile before remembering they weren't friends anymore, or when Christine would automatically scan the garage for Charles's familiar figure before catching herself.

The worst moment came during Max's first world championship celebration in Abu Dhabi. The Red Bull garage erupted in chaos as Max crossed the line in first place, securing his first title in the most dramatic fashion possible. Christine was swept up in the celebration, champagne soaking her hair as the team lifted Max on their shoulders and chanted his name.

Through the crowd, she caught sight of Charles watching from the Ferrari hospitality area. Even from a distance, she could see the longing in his expression—not for the championship, though she knew he wanted that desperately, but for her. For the life they might have had if things had been different.

Their eyes met across the paddock chaos, and for a moment it was just them, surrounded by hundreds of people but feeling completely alone. Charles raised his hand in a small wave—congratulations for the championship, acknowledgment of her success, goodbye to what they'd lost. Christine waved back, tears mixing with champagne on her cheeks.

That night, as Red Bull celebrated long into the Abu Dhabi night, Christine stepped outside for air and found a quiet corner of the paddock. Her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown Monaco number.

"Congratulations. You helped build something incredible this year. I'm proud of you."

She stared at the message for a long time before typing back: "Thank you."

The three dots appeared and disappeared several times before another message came through: "I miss you."

Christine closed her eyes, phone trembling in her hands. She started to type several responses—"I miss you too," "We can't do this," "Please don't"—before finally settling on: "I know."

The dots appeared once more, then stopped. No more messages came.

2022 and 2023 blurred together in a haze of Red Bull dominance and carefully maintained distance. Max won his second and third championships with overwhelming superiority, and Christine's career flourished as she managed communications for the most successful team in the sport. She became part of the Red Bull family in ways that went beyond professional relationships—joining Christian Horner and Geri Halliwell for dinner parties, becoming Kelly's confidant and Penelope's beloved "Aunty Christine."

But even surrounded by success and chosen family, Christine felt the Charles-shaped hole in her life like a constant ache. She followed his career obsessively, celebrating his wins in private and worrying through his crashes and disappointment. When Ferrari's strategies failed him or mechanical issues robbed him of victories, she had to resist the urge to text him comfort.

Their paths crossed more frequently now that she was established in Monaco. The principality was small, and they moved in similar circles—the same restaurants, the same beaches, the same charity events. They developed an elaborate dance of avoidance, each somehow always knowing when the other would be somewhere and finding reasons to be elsewhere.

The few times they couldn't avoid each other were torture. A charity gala where they had to make small talk for exactly three minutes before other people claimed their attention. A chance encounter at a Monaco café where Charles was leaving just as Christine arrived, their "hello" and "goodbye" overlapping awkwardly. A beach day with their respective friend groups that turned into careful positioning to avoid being in the same conversations.

The most painful part was seeing Charles with Alexandra. Christine had been having lunch with Kelly and Penelope at a harborside restaurant when Charles walked in with his new girlfriend. They looked happy—Charles was smiling that genuine smile Christine remembered so well, and Alexandra was beautiful and charming and everything Charles deserved in a partner.

Christine excused herself to the bathroom and spent ten minutes gripping the marble countertop, forcing herself to breathe through the jealousy and heartbreak. When she returned to the table, Kelly was watching her with knowing eyes.

"Want to get out of here?" Kelly asked quietly.

"Please," Christine whispered.

Later, P finally asleep and Max gaming with friends online, Kelly and Christine sat on the balcony with wine and honest conversation.

"You still love him," Kelly said. It wasn't a question.

"It doesn't matter," Christine replied, staring out at the Monaco harbor where Charles probably was at that very moment, happy with someone else.

"Of course it matters. Love always matters."

"Not when it can't go anywhere."

Kelly was quiet for a moment, swirling wine in her glass. "You know, when I first met Max, I was recently divorced and with a baby girl. The logistics were impossible, the timing was terrible, and everyone said we were crazy."

Christine looked at her friend, surprised by this confidence.

"But love finds a way," Kelly continued. "If it's real love, it finds a way around the obstacles."

"And if it doesn't find a way?"

Kelly's smile was sad but understanding. "Then it wasn't the right time, but that doesn't make it less real."

As 2023 wound down, Christine thought more and more about Kelly's words. Love finds a way. But some obstacles felt insurmountable—different teams, public scrutiny, the complexity of their shared history. Maybe some love was meant to be admired from a distance, like art in a museum. Beautiful and moving, but untouchable.

She had no idea that across Monaco, Charles was having similar thoughts, staring out at the same harbor and wondering if love was worth fighting for, even when the fight seemed impossible to win.

"How did the Italian press react to yesterday's pace?" he'd ask, perching on the edge of a workbench while she scrolled through her notes.

"Mixed," she'd reply, appreciating how he actually listened to her insights rather than dismissing them like some drivers did with junior staff. "Gazzetta dello Sport is optimistic about the car's potential, but La Repubblica is questioning the strategy calls."

Charles would nod thoughtfully, sometimes asking follow-up questions that showed he valued her perspective. These briefings became longer, more detailed, until they weren't really about work at all.

Working alongside Sebastian Vettel added another layer to their relationship. The four-time world champion took both Charles and Christine under his wing, recognizing their potential and dedication. Seb often invited them to strategy meetings, and Christine found herself staying late with Charles, poring over data and discussing race scenarios until the paddock was empty except for security guards.

"You don't have to stay this late," Charles told her one evening in Bahrain, looking up from telemetry data as the clock ticked past midnight.

"Neither do you," Christine replied, not looking up from her laptop where she was drafting media statements for various race scenarios. "But here we are."

"Here we are," he agreed softly.

Their friendship deepened through shared experiences—celebrating podiums, commiserating over mechanical failures, navigating the intense pressure that came with Ferrari's expectations. Christine learned that Charles was fiercely competitive but incredibly kind, driven but never cruel. Charles discovered that Christine was brilliant under pressure, fiercely loyal, and had an uncanny ability to read people and situations.

The first time Christine truly worried about Charles was during the 2019 Belgian Grand Prix weekend. The memory of Antoine Hubert's tragic accident hung heavy over everyone, but Charles carried an additional burden—Antoine had been one of his closest friends. Christine watched from the garage as Charles struggled through interviews, his usual composure cracking.

After qualifying, she found him sitting alone in his driver's room, staring at his phone. Without a word, she sat beside him on the small couch.

"He sent me a message yesterday," Charles said quietly. "Just joking around about something stupid. I keep reading it over and over."

Christine didn't offer empty platitudes. Instead, she sat with him in the silence, her presence a quiet comfort. When Charles finally broke down, she held him as he cried for his friend, for the cruel randomness of their sport, for the weight of carrying on when others couldn't.

"I don't know how to race tomorrow," he whispered against her shoulder.

"You don't have to know," she whispered back. "You just have to try."

The next day, Charles won his first Grand Prix, dedicating the victory to Anthoine. As the Ferrari crew celebrated around them, Christine felt something shift between them—an invisible line crossed, a deeper understanding forged.

Their feelings grew slowly, like vines reaching for sunlight. Charles started bringing Christine coffee exactly how she liked it (two sugars, splash of milk). Christine began staying at the circuit until Charles finished his debriefs, claiming she had work to do but really just wanting to make sure he got back to the hotel safely after long days.

The turning point came during a factory day at Maranello in early 2020. Christine had been working sixteen-hour days preparing for the season launch, surviving on caffeine and determination. Charles found her asleep at her desk at three in the morning, her head pillowed on a stack of press releases.

"Christine," he said softly, touching her shoulder. "You can't sleep here."

She stirred, disoriented. "Charles? What time is it?"

"Late. Too late for you to be here." His voice was gentle but firm. "Come on, I'm taking you back to the hotel."

"I have to finish this," she protested weakly, but Charles was already closing her laptop and gathering her things.

"It will be here tomorrow," he said. "You need sleep."

In the car, Christine dozed against the window while Charles drove through the quiet Italian countryside. When they reached her hotel, she was too tired to protest as he helped her to her room, made sure she had water on her nightstand, and tucked the blanket around her shoulders as she curled up on the bed, still in her work clothes.

"Get some sleep," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face. The gesture was tender, intimate, and it made something flutter in Christine's chest even through her exhaustion.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Charles paused in the doorway, looking back at her with an expression she couldn't quite read in the dim light. "Always."

Their care for each other became a constant. Christine worried when Charles pushed too hard in practice, when Ferrari's strategic mistakes frustrated him to the point of throwing things in his driver's room. Charles worried when Christine worked too late, when she forgot to eat during busy race weekends, when the stress of her job made her shoulders tense with anxiety.

They attended team events together, always as friends but with an undercurrent that everyone noticed. Charles would appear at Christine's side with a plate of food when she was too busy networking to eat. Christine would rescue Charles from overly persistent journalists or fans when she saw his smile becoming strained.

After a particularly difficult race in Austria where Ferrari's strategy calls cost Charles a potential win, Christine found him in the team hospitality area, staring out at the track with his jaw clenched.

"Want to get out of here?" she asked without preamble.

They ended up driving aimlessly through the Austrian countryside, windows down, music low. Neither spoke about the race until Charles finally pulled over at a scenic overlook.

"I should have won today," he said, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

"You drove perfectly," Christine replied. "The team let you down."

"The team includes me."

"Charles." She turned to face him fully. "You can't control everything. You can only control how you drive, and you drove like a champion today."

He looked at her then, really looked at her, and Christine felt the air between them change. His eyes dropped to her lips, and for a moment she thought he might kiss her. Instead, he reached over and took her hand, intertwining their fingers.

"What would I do without you?" he asked quietly.

Christine's heart hammered against her ribs. "You'll never have to find out," she promised, and meant it.

But even as the words left her lips, she had no idea how wrong she would be.

CHAPTER 3 IS OUT!!!!

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Christine nodded, not trusting her voice. There was something magnetic about the way Charles carried himself—confident yet humble, focused yet approachable. She found herself stealing glances whenever their paths crossed in the paddock, which became more frequent as the season progressed.

Their first real interaction came in Singapore, during the chaos of a rain-delayed qualifying session. Christine was rushing between the garage and the media center, arms full of press releases and timing sheets, when she collided with someone coming around the corner.

Papers scattered like confetti, and Christine found herself looking up into those impossibly green eyes she'd been observing from afar.

"I'm so sorry," Charles said, immediately dropping to help gather the scattered documents. His English carried the soft edges of his French accent, making even his apology sound musical.

"No, no, it's my fault," Christine stammered, her cheeks burning as she scrambled to collect the papers. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

"Neither was I," he admitted with a self-deprecating smile that made her stomach flutter. "I was too busy trying to figure out why my car felt like it was floating in qualifying."

They knelt there for a moment, both reaching for the same sheet of paper, their fingers brushing. The contact was brief but electric, sending a jolt up Christine's arm that she told herself was just surprise.

"Christine," she said, finally introducing herself as they both stood.

"Charles." His smile was warm, genuine. "You work for Ferrari, right? I've seen you around."

The fact that he'd noticed her made her heart skip. "Just an intern," she said quickly, downplaying her role.

"Important job," he said seriously. "The media side is crucial. I should know—I'll be dealing with a lot more of it next year."

So the rumors were true. Ferrari had signed him. Christine felt a strange mix of excitement and nervousness at the thought of working more closely with him.

"Well, when you're in red, I'll make sure not to crash into you in the paddock," she said, surprised by her own boldness.

Charles laughed—a rich, warm sound that she'd replay in her mind for weeks. "I'd appreciate that. Though I wouldn't mind if you did."

The comment hung in the air between them, loaded with possibility, before Charles seemed to realize what he'd said. His cheeks reddened slightly, and he cleared his throat.

"I mean, you seem nice. It would be good to have a friendly face around."

Christine's heart hammered against her ribs. "I'll do my best to be friendly," she managed.

As the season wound down, their brief encounters became the highlights of Christine's race weekends. A smile across the paddock. A wave from the garage. Sometimes, if she was lucky, a few minutes of conversation about everything and nothing—his thoughts on the track, her observations about the media circus, their shared love of late-night gelato runs in European cities.