Mae✨

Oscar Piastri - 81

✨SERIES✨ (RUNNING) beyond boundaries - OP81 x Female!reader ↳ parts: part one, part two*, part three*, part four*, part five*, part six*, part seven*, part eight*, part nine*, part ten*, part eleven, part twelve, part thirteen,

✨ONESHOTS✨ Practice makes perfect* - Oscar Piastri x Lando Norris Extraordinary* - Oscar Piastri x Female!Reader First Kiss - Oscar Piastri x Female!Reader

Max Verstappen - MV1

Burning Rivalry* - Max Verstappen x fem!reader

Daniel Ricciardo - DR3

Previous Part

“Dennis, I swear to God…” You dragged a hand down your face, exhaling through your teeth. “Please. Do. Not. Tell. Anyone.”

Dennis’s grin was pure trouble, arms folded as he leaned against the doorframe like this was the best day of his life. “Relax. I wasn’t planning on it. But…” His eyes flicked toward Charles, mischief sparkling like a match about to catch flame. “…pretty sure Casanova over there needs to work on his poker face. Because nobody’s buying that.”

Your stomach dropped as you turned, following his gaze—and yep. Ferrari red. That was the exact shade painting Charles’ cheeks as he tried very, very hard to look like the most unbothered man alive. Spoiler: he failed spectacularly.

You narrowed your eyes at him, voice low and sharp. “You better be good at lying, Leclerc.”

That seemed to snap him out of his daze because his brows shot up, jaw tightening. “Me? I need to lie? You were the one who got on your knees.”

Your lips parted in disbelief. “Excuse me?” You stepped closer, finger jabbing the air between you. “You were in this too! You kissed me! That wasn’t me.”

Charles let out a dry laugh, his mouth curling in that infuriating way that made you want to punch him and kiss him at the same time. “Right. And sticking your tongue down my throat doesn’t count as kissing back anymore? Good to know.” He tilted his head, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

“Next time?” you shot back, heartbeat spiking as your brain short-circuited at those two little words "You and I both know there won't be a next time!"

Behind you, Dennis made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Okay, wow. This is… incredible. Do you guys hear yourselves? I feel like I’m watching a new Netflix drama.”

"Oh shut up, will you" you shot at Dennis, rolling your eyes and smacking his shoulder "Please just don't tell Pierre, he'll kill me. I'll do anything okay!"

Dennis just laughed harder "Like I said, this really has Netflix potential. You'll do anything? This is even better than Drive to Survive. You're turning this into Bribe to Survive"

You rolled your eyes at him, as you heard Charles let out a chuckle at Dennis' comment, causing you to snap your head in his direction, shooting daggers at him.

"Oh come on, that was a good one" Charles commented with a chuckle.

You sighed in defeat, agreeing "Fine, it was. But just don't tell Pierre, or anyone else. Because if anyone knows, he'll know. He'll actually kill me"

He only grinned wider, clearly thriving on the chaos. “Oh, you'd survive.. I'm not worrying about that” His eyes slid back to Charles, full of mock pity. “But you? You better start running, buddy. Because dating his sister would be one… but this?” He gestured vaguely between the two of you with a smirk. “Not sure ‘just fucking around’ is going to sit well with him.”

Heat scorched your face. Charles stiffened, his jaw clenching like he wanted to argue—but Dennis wasn’t done.

You on the other hand didn't bother waiting on Dennis to start talking, because you just needed comfirmation "Will you just keep this between us please?"

Dennis laughed and looked at you again, raising his hand in front of him "No need to worry. I'll zip my lips" he said "I'm just wondering how you're going to hide this from Arthur, because after all, he's your best friend. And he can see right through you"

You sighed "I'll come up with something, okay"

Dennis nodded, shrugging his shoulders “But, honestly?” Dennis pushed off the wall, his tone shifting from playful to blunt. “You two need to drop the pride act and admit what’s actually going on here. Because this whole enemies thing? Total waste of time. Everyone except you two, seem to be able to see you don't actually hate each other.”

You swallowed hard, caught somewhere between indignation and… silence. Because what the hell could you even say to that?

Dennis shrugged when you didn’t answer, his smirk sliding back into place like a mask. “Anyway. You coming?” He jerked his chin toward the hallway. “Because unless you plan on putting on an X-rated sequel right here, everyone’s waiting for you downstairs. And honestly…” He grinned, voice dripping with sarcasm. “…you don’t look sober enough to have a proper conversation right now.”

And with that, he sauntered back inside, leaving you and Charles staring at each other in the heavy, humming silence he left behind.

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Let’s just say the past two nights had been hell.

Sleep barely found you. You spent most of it tangled in sheets, restless and overheated, your thoughts cycling through the same reel of images and moments you tried desperately to forget—and failed. The way Charles looked at you, touched you, the tension, the sarcasm, the aftermath. None of it would leave you alone.

So now, you were exhausted. Irritable. Wound tight like a rubber band that could snap at any second. You'd been avoiding Charles like your life depended on it, ducking into rooms, cutting conversations short, pretending you didn’t notice when he glanced your way. It wasn’t sustainable—and Pierre noticed.

He hadn’t stopped pestering you since breakfast.

You’d brushed him off with half-hearted excuses, but even you could hear how shaky your voice sounded. And now, after nearly tripping over your own thoughts for the tenth time, you finally gave in.

It was early in the afternoon when you found Pierre by the pool, lounging back with his sunglasses on, arms folded behind his head like he hadn’t a care in the world. You nudged him gently on the shoulder.

“Can I talk to you?”

He turned his head slightly, lifting the sunglasses to rest on his forehead. He didn’t even hesitate—just stood up and followed you toward a more private part of the garden, the one tucked away behind tall hedges and flowering olive trees, where the breeze was quieter and the sunlight filtered through the leaves like dappled gold.

The moment you sat down on the bench, Pierre gave you a long, pointed look. “Okay. What’s going on?”

You fiddled with the hem of your shirt, eyes locked on a stray pebble near your foot. “I just… I need to say something. And you need to not freak out.”

He narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. “That’s never a good way to start a conversation.”

You huffed a nervous breath. “I know. But it’s important. And I’ve been driving myself insane over it.”

Pierre tilted his head, concern creeping into his expression. “Is it about Charles?”

Your silence was louder than any answer.

“Thought so,” he muttered, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “What the hell happened between you two?”

You let out a dry laugh, more tired than amused. “That’s the thing. I don’t even know. Some things… happened.”

Pierre blinked, his expression unreadable. “Things?”

You nodded slowly, still refusing to look at him. “Yeah. Not—nothing terrible. Just… things. And now I’m completely confused. About him. About myself. About everything.”

There was a pause. “Did you kiss?”

Your mouth twisted. “Kind of.”

Pierre raised an eyebrow. “Kind of?”

You finally looked up, eyes locking with his. “Not the way you think.”

He stared for a second before realization began to creep into his face like a slow dawn. “Wait, what the fuck does that mean?”

You winced. “Don’t make me say it.”

Pierre made a noise somewhere between a groan and a strangled cough, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my God. Please tell me you’re not talking about what I think you’re talking about.”

You gave a small, mortified shrug. “We were… drunk. It just happened. And then Dennis—” You cut yourself off, already bracing for his reaction.

“Dennis what?”

You closed your eyes for a second. “Walked in. Not in the middle of anything! Just… afterwards.”

Pierre’s eyes widened, the lines between his brows deepening like a warning signal. “What the fuck" he said, before taking a deep breath "So, you slept with Charles?"

You quickly held up your hands. “No, you idiot! It wasn’t like that! Well, stuff happened, more than kissing, but no sex..." you rambled "It was stupid and impulsive and—I don’t know! We’ve been at each other’s throats for months and now suddenly I can’t think straight when he looks at me, and I just—” You trailed off, heart hammering against your ribs.

Pierre let out a slow, measured breath. “Okay. Okay. First of all… ew.”

You couldn’t help but let out a small, tense laugh. “Yeah. Ew. Totally fair.”

“And second…” He looked at you, expression softening slightly. “Why were you so scared to tell me?”

You hesitated. “Because it’s Charles. He’s your best friend. And I didn’t want you to feel like you had to choose, or like I crossed some kind of line, or like he—” You paused. “Like he crossed one. Because I was in it as much as he was. And I maybe even kind of started it. So, don’t be mad at him.”

Pierre sighed, leaning back on the bench. “I’m not mad. I mean, I’m not thrilled either, but I’m not mad. Just… confused. Like you.”

You nodded slowly, fingers tracing patterns on your jeans. “I don’t even know what I want. Sometimes I think I just want him back as my friend, then I feel like I just wanna murder him, but other times…” You trailed off.

Pierre gave you a sidelong glance. “You realize that you’re still in love with him..”

You didn’t answer at first. Just sat there in the quiet. Then, with a soft voice, “Yeah. pretty much.”

Pierre didn’t speak right away. He just studied you, the seriousness in his gaze almost disarming.

“I guess I’m scared to come to terms with that,” you admitted. “That this will ruin everything, again. That I’ll keep waiting for something that won’t happen. That it’ll hurt worse than it already did. Pretty sure it's just boredom and lust from his side, anyway.”

“You think that?” he asked quietly.

“I would say so yes,” you replied honestly. “And it might be as well from my side, or well, that's what I've been trying to tell myself. I want to believe that. That it’s just hormones and unresolved tension and proximity. But when I look at him…” You shook your head. “To me, it’s more than that. And it terrifies me.”

Pierre nodded slowly, voice low and steady. “I can’t speak for him. But I know Charles. And I highly doubt he’d risk our friendship just to screw around with my sister out of boredom. That’s not him. He knows better. Because I’d kill him.”

You gave him a half-smile. “Yeah, I figured.”

There was a pause as the two of you sat in the silence again, birds chirping somewhere in the trees. The weight of the last few days seemed to finally settle between you, not quite suffocating, but heavy nonetheless.

Pierre let out a long sigh. “So… what now?”

“I don’t know,” you murmured. “I think I just needed to say it out loud. To stop pretending it didn’t happen. That I don’t feel anything. Because I do. I just… don’t know what to do with it.”

Pierre placed a hand on your shoulder, grounding and warm. “Well, for what it’s worth… I’m not mad. I’m here. And whatever happens with Charles—whether you work it out or burn the whole thing to the ground—I’ve got your back.”

You looked at him, emotions swelling in your chest like a tide.

“Thanks, Pierre.”

He gave you a small, crooked smile. “Now please… no more details. Ever.”

You laughed through the lump in your throat. “Deal.”

He stood up, stretching. “Now come on. I think you owe me a drink after that emotional damage.”

You smiled and followed him back toward the house, your heart a little lighter—even if your head was still a mess.

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A few hours had passed and you were all gathered around the couches in the living room. Once again bribed into a 'harmless game of truth or dare' as Arthur claimed. Or in other words, a ploy to get some of the people in the house together, because there had been a lot of tension simmering here and there. Although you were convinced that you and Charles weren't included in 'some of the people'.

Not everyone was there, because some had decided to go out tonight. So it was just Arthur, Dennis, Charles, Joris & Gigi.

You had to admit that the atmosphere was rather nice, even with Charles and you still being in the same room. You had been rather non hostile to each other again, and even laughed at some of the other ones jokes.

It was Arthur that pulled you out of your thoughts, when he said your name "Y/n, truth or dare?"

"Well, let's go with dare, why not?" you said confidently.

Arthur had a smirk on his face that you knew all too well, mischief.

"I dare you to call Pierre, on speaker phone...." he started, trying to sound innocent "...and tell him that you need his advice, because just made a stupid mistake and you just made out with Charles"

Everyone in the room, except for Charles and you, burst out in laughter. Joris patting Charles on the back, whispering something you couldn't quite catch in his ear.

"For fucks sake Arthur" you said with a roll of your eyes "I'm supposed to be your best friend, remember? Why are you making it so hard on me"

Arthur wiggled his eyebrows "You'll thank me eventually"

"Oh shut up, will you"

Well, a dare is a dare, so you grabbed your phone, pressed Pierre's contact and waited for him to pick up, hoping he just wouldn't pick up.

“Hellooo,” Pierre’s voice came through the speaker, warm and casual, like he was leaning back in his chair with a coffee in hand.

"Hi..." You started, unsure what to exactly come up with "You remember what we talked about earlier?"

"Yeah, vividly" he replied simply.

You swallowed, forcing the words out as if they were heavy stones. “Uh… so… I might’ve just… made out with Charles.”

The room went silent for exactly one beat—just enough for your pulse to spike—before Pierre snorted so loudly it nearly made you drop your phone.

“Well,” he said, sounding far too entertained, “that happened quicker than I expected.”

Your stomach dropped. “Excuse me?!”

“I mean,” Pierre continued like he was reciting weather updates, “I thought after our talk, you’d still dance around it for a few more weeks at least. Guess I underestimated you both.” His tone shifted slightly, warmer now. “So… did you tell him how you feel? Or are you still pretending it's nothing?”

You froze.

The reaction was instant around the room.

Arthur’s head whipped toward Charles, his grin morphing into something almost predatory, like a cat spotting a twitch in the grass. Dennis had already doubled over in silent laughter, clutching his side. Joris looked somewhere between secondhand embarrassment and utter fascination, while Gigi had her hand over her mouth like she was trying very hard not to burst out laughing.

And Charles— Oh, Charles was the picture of someone trying to hold his composure with both hands and losing the battle fast. His jaw had gone tight, eyes locked on the carpet, ears turning the exact shade of ripe strawberries. The muscle in his cheek ticked as he clenched his teeth, not in anger but in that oh God they’re talking about me and I can’t stop it way.

Arthur noticed. Of course he noticed. You saw his gaze flick from you to Charles and back again, eyebrows raising slightly as if filing away every micro-expression for later teasing ammunition.

“Pierre!” you hissed into the phone, every nerve in your body lighting up with panic. “Oh my God, shut up— What are you talking about? You know I don't feel that way about him” you lied, very unconvincing.

“I can hear you lie through the phone,” he said, all innocent sincerity now. “I mean, it’s better to—”

“Pierre! God, shut up! This was a dare!” you cut him off sharply, leaning forward like the force of your urgency might somehow travel through the line and physically stop him from speaking. “Arthur dared me to call you and say that! None of this is real! Do you hear me? Fake. Completely hypothetical. Fictional! Like a Netflix script that no one asked for.”

Across the couch, Arthur was trying so hard not to laugh he was shaking.

“Mhm,” Pierre said, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Right. Totally hypothetical. That’s why you sound like you’re about to die of embarrassment. And I bet Charles is right there, isn’t he?”

Your gaze darted to Charles—who, despite the flush still creeping down his neck, managed to meet your eyes for just half a second. Something flickered there. Something you didn’t have time to unpack because everyone else was watching like it was the best live television they’d ever seen.

You let out a strangled noise. “Pierre, I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait—”

Click.

The call ended, and you dropped your phone on the coffee table like it had personally betrayed you.

The room immediately erupted into chaos. Dennis actually fell back against the couch cushions, wheezing with laughter. Gigi was doubled over, tears streaming down her face. Joris gave you a slow clap, the sarcasm radiating off him in waves.

Arthur? Oh, Arthur looked like the cat who had just eaten the cream, smugness practically radiating from his pores. But his eyes—his eyes kept flicking toward Charles, and you knew without a doubt he had clocked every single shade of red that had crossed his face during the call.

“Well,” Dennis managed between breaths, “I think that’s the single best truth or dare in history.”

“Agreed,” Joris said, still smirking. “Ten out of ten execution.”

Charles, however, wasn’t laughing. He hadn’t moved from his spot, one arm slung over the back of the couch like he was pretending to be relaxed, his other hand drumming quietly against his knee. His eyes were fixed on some indeterminate point in front of him, but you caught the subtle way his jaw tightened again when Arthur said, “You know, I think Pierre might be onto something.”

Your glare snapped toward him. “Don’t.”

Arthur held up both hands innocently, but the smirk didn’t fade. “I’m just saying… your brother’s a perceptive guy.”

You wanted to disappear into the floor. Charles finally shifted, leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees. His voice was low but clear when he spoke, and it made your stomach do a very inconvenient flip.

“Can we just move on?” he muttered.

Arthur’s grin widened—because of course that was blood in the water for him—but for once, he didn’t push it. He simply spun the empty bottle in the center of the group to find his next victim, all while side-eyeing Charles like a man already plotting round two.

You, on the other hand, sat back and tried to pretend your pulse wasn’t still in your ears. But the weight of what Pierre had said hung in the air, and judging by the faint, restless shift of Charles’ posture beside you, you weren’t the only one still thinking about it.

You pushed yourself off the couch before anyone could comment on the way your pulse was still thundering in your ears.

“I’m going to get something to drink,” you said, forcing a shrug that fooled no one. Your voice sounded almost normal. Almost.

You didn’t wait for an answer. Your feet carried you straight to the kitchen, away from the laughter, away from Arthur’s smug grin, away from the way Charles’ eyes kept flicking toward you with something you didn’t have the strength to decode.

The kitchen was dimmer, quieter. You leaned against the counter, grabbed a glass of water, and then… slowly slid down until you were sitting on the floor, your back against the cabinet doors. The water sat untouched beside you. Your hands shook too much to bother picking it up.

You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing in, breathing out. Trying to settle the storm Pierre had whipped through the room—and through you.

Back in the living room, Charles watched the space you’d left behind like he was waiting for you to reappear in it. He swallowed, jaw flexing. Then he stood.

“I could come up with some lame excuse about getting a drink too,” he muttered, setting his half-finished glass on the table. “But you’re all not idiots. I’m not even gonna bother lying.”

Arthur raised both brows, impressed at the rare moment of honesty.

“I’m going to check on her,” Charles added, quieter now. “I know she probably doesn’t want to see me, but… I need to talk to her.”

He moved to leave, but Arthur’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist.

“Just promise me you’ll be honest this time,” Arthur said, voice low, eyes uncharacteristically serious. “Don’t screw it up again. You broke her once. I’m wasn't planning on needing to do a round two of picking up the pieces.”

Charles’ throat bobbed as he nodded. No jokes. No defense. Just a quiet, haunted agreement.

He walked toward the kitchen.

He spotted you instantly—curled on the floor like you were trying to fold yourself into a smaller problem than you were feeling. His chest tightened. Hard.

He approached slowly, crouching in front of you, the floor cold beneath his palms.

“Can we talk?” he asked softly.

Your eyes stayed down, your spine pressed into the cabinet as if it could hold you upright. Charles placed one gentle hand on your knee, thumb brushing once, warm and grounding.

“And I mean really talk,” he added. “No fighting. No arguments. Just… talk.”

You nodded, barely, the motion stiff. “Fine.”

Charles stood and offered his hand. When you didn’t take it right away, he simply waited—silent, patient, eyes warm but nervous. Finally, you let your hand slip into his. His fingers wrapped around yours gently, as if you might pull away if he held too tight.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Somewhere private. Because we both know they’re waiting for round two of the drama show in there.”

Charles guided you to his bedroom, opening the door, motioning to you to get in.

You sat on the edge of his bed. He joined you, close enough that his knee brushed yours lightly. The room was dim, hushed, the air thick with everything unspoken between you.

Charles inhaled like he was preparing for a press conference that might ruin his career.

But before he could speak, you let the words fall out in one exhausted rush.

“I’m sorry about what happened with Pierre,” you said, staring at your hands. “I know I can try to lie, but you’re not an idiot.”

He blinked, thrown off his script.

You kept going, voice trembling in places. “I know it’s stupid, but yes, I still have feelings for you. I never really got over it, I guess. I tried, God, I really tried. But those weeks here just made everything worse.”

Charles’ breath caught.

“And I know you don’t feel the same,” you pushed on quickly. “You made that clear last time. So don’t worry—I’m not expecting anything. I just… I regret everything. The way we handled it. The way we fought. We were best friends, and then I fell for you and ruined everything. And when you started acting cold to me, I just found a reason to start 'hating' you. it just felt easier, but I never actually hated you. I couldn’t.”

Your voice cracked.

“I know this is stupid.”

Charles stared at you like you’d just set the ground on fire beneath him.

You kept rambling, trying to fill the silence he hadn’t broken.

“This isn't meant to guilt-trip you, or make you feel sorry for me. I’ll get over it eventually. I just hate that we wasted so much time. We were—”

“Stop,” Charles breathed, voice soft but firm.

You looked up, startled.

He swallowed hard, then whispered, “You never knew why I started being cold to you, did you?”

You shook your head, looking at the floor again.

Charles’ hand lifted hesitantly, then settled on your thigh—light, careful, like he was touching something fragile.

“Please look at me,” he pleaded.

You met his eyes. And he looked wrecked.

Completely, beautifully wrecked.

“I started acting like a complete idiot,” he whispered, “because I fell in love with you.”

Your breath punched out of you. His words hit your chest so hard you swore you heard your heartbeat stumble.

“You got together with that asshole,” he murmured, voice trembling with memory, “and I was so jealous I didn’t know what to do with myself. That’s when I realized what I felt for you.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself.

“I was in love with my best friend’s sister. The girl who also happened to be my best friend. My best friend who used to be in love with me. And I’d turned you down, so it was my own fault, because back then I didn't really realize things yet. But when I did, you were already happy with someone else. I was too late. You moved on. And I—”

His voice cracked, just slightly. “I didn’t know how to handle it. So I just started acting like a dick”

Silence pulsed between you—thick, electric, suffocating.

Then Charles moved. Slowly. Tentatively.

As if giving you every chance to stop him.

His hand lifted to your face, fingertips tracing your cheekbone. His thumb brushed a stray strand of hair back behind your ear, lingering there. His breath hitched when you leaned into his palm without meaning to.

“Cherie,” he whispered—soft, vulnerable, terrified. "I never got over it either" he admitted.

And then he kissed you.

Not like the stolen, chaotic, impulsive kisses you’d shared before.

This kiss was careful. Gentle. Almost reverent.

He pressed his lips to yours as if asking permission, not taking anything you didn’t give. His fingertips slid into your hair. Your hand rose instinctively to his chest, feeling the rapid thrum beneath your palm.

When he pulled back, it was only by a breath.

Your forehead rested against his. Both of you breathing hard. Both of you shaking.

You didn’t know what to say—not yet. So you stayed quiet. Charles forced himself to keep talking, his voice rough.

“I tried everything to get over you,” he said. “Everything.”

Your brows knitted, confused and aching.

“I got myself a girlfriend,” he admitted. “Thought maybe if I forced myself into something new, you’d fade out of my head.” He gave a humorless laugh. “Didn’t work.”

Your heart twisted.

“I tried hooking up with other people. Thought that maybe no strings attached would help. Didn’t work either. It just made me feel worse. I couldn’t stop comparing everything to you. No one felt right. Every time I kissed someone, slept with someone, went on a date, I couldn't help but imagining it was you.” he confessed "God, I even accidentally said your name while I was sleeping with another girl, multiple times"

He shifted closer, his knee bumping yours, his fingers brushing your jaw.

“This holiday has been torture,” he whispered. “Seeing you laugh, seeing you close to me again, the mere moments of us not fighting, god how I wanted to just admit everything then and there... And that kiss you gave me in the game… I can’t get it out of my head. Honestly your payback mission was very succesfull" He said, his fingers caressing the skin of your neck slowly "Or both times on the balcony, that one time in the bathroom. I can't get it out of my head, Cherie. And I'm not just talking about the sexual stuff, I'm talking about the way you looked at me, or the way you looked at me today.”

He shook his head, defeated and honest.

“I’m sorry for how I acted. I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m an idiot. But I never stopped wanting you. And I never stopped—”

He didn’t finish.

He didn’t need to.

You moved before he could speak another word.

Slowly, carefully, you shifted toward him, then climbed into his lap, knees bracketing his thighs. His breath left him in a quiet, stunned noise as your hands slid up to cradle his face.

Then you kissed him.

This time it wasn’t gentle.

This time years of tension, longing, heartbreak, and wanting crashed together all at once. It was different than the previous times during this holiday. It was like you shared a kiss for the first time.

Charles’ hands flew to your hips, gripping them—one tight, grounding; the other stroking up your side slowly, as if learning you by touch. The kiss deepened. You felt his heartbeat hammering through his chest, felt the way his fingers trembled against you.

Your lips moved with his in a rhythm you didn’t have to think about—like your bodies had known it long before your minds did. Heat curled low in your stomach, spreading warm and wild.

He kissed you like he was finally letting himself feel everything he’d buried.

You pushed him back instinctively, guiding him until he lay against the pillows, your body still straddling him. His eyes were dark, blown wide, his chest rising fast beneath you.

You reached for the hair tie around your wrist, pulling your hair back into a quick ponytail, your breaths fast and uneven.

Charles’ lips parted, his eyes dragging over your face like he couldn’t believe you were real. Goosebumps raced across his arms, his hands sliding up your thighs, slow and reverent.

“Mon Dieu…” he whispered, voice breaking slightly. “I’ve imagined this. But not like this.”

You bent over him, lips finding the warm skin of his neck, trailing slow, lingering kisses upward. Charles groaned softly—raw, surprised, like he’d forgotten how to make the sound. His fingers curled against your hips; his breath stuttered.

Everything felt different now. Not angry. Not tense. Not fueled by denial.

This was warmth. This was relief. This was everything finally spilling free after years of being held back.

Every touch meant something. Every breath meant something. Every quiet sound from his lips made your whole body shiver.

Charles tilted his head, giving you more space to kiss down the line of his throat, his pulse racing beneath your mouth. His nails pressed lightly into your waist, desperate and gentle all at once.

“Cherie…” he murmured, voice thick, “I don’t want this to stop.”

Your lips brushed his jaw, your breath warm against his skin.

Charles tilted his head back instinctively, baring more of his throat to you as your mouth traced slow, lingering kisses over his skin. His pulse fluttered wildly beneath your lips, each beat thudding against your mouth like it wanted to speak for him.

“Chérie…” he breathed, voice strained and roughened by want. “I don’t want this to stop.”

He sounded like he was fighting himself. Fighting restraint. Fighting the years he’d buried everything he felt.

Your lips grazed his jawline in answer, warm and deliberate. You didn’t need words. Not when your body spoke so clearly.

You shifted your hips over his lap—slow, exploratory pressure that made both of you inhale sharply at the same time. The friction sent a faint, helpless sound spilling from your throat before you could stop it. Charles’ hands tightened reflexively on your waist, the muscles in his forearms going taut beneath your touch.

He was unmistakably reacting to you, even through the fabric of his jeans. You felt him. Felt his body responding. Felt how badly he wanted you.

Your movements became a rhythm—slow, steady, answering something electric that had been simmering for far too long. Every glide of your hips pulled another low sound from Charles, each one more helpless than the last. His thumb stroked circles into your thigh, trying to ground himself, but his breathing only grew heavier.

He squeezed your leg gently, voice barely holding together.

“You know you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, right?” he murmured. “I’m… I’m also okay with just kissing. I swear.”

You lifted your head from his throat and met his eyes—dark, glassy, almost pleading. Then you took his hand, slow and confident, and guided it up your thigh, under the soft hem of your dress, and against the damp fabric of your panties. His breath hitched. His fingers hesitated for a split second—out of respect, not reluctance—before resting against warm skin.

You leaned close, lips brushing his ear as you whispered “Does this feel like I don’t want to?”

Your confidence had returned full force, blooming through you like heat rising under your skin. Charles’ eyes fluttered half-shut as his hand explored the new territory you had given him. It felt different than last time, when you were in your shared bathroom. That time it was like you both just snapped and needed to release tension. This felt different, like it was the first time he was touching you.

He wasn’t touching you explicitly yet, not really—but the nearness, the intention, the way his fingertips traced barely-there patterns… your breath stuttered anyway.

He let out a raw, quiet groan—soft, disbelieving. “Mon Dieu…”

You just giggled softly "You're acting like this is the first time you're touching me"

Charles chuckled as well, still heavily breathing "It feels like it" he replies "Last time was different"

His mind flashed back to the bathroom again—the rushed, chaotic way you’d collided there. But this wasn’t that. This wasn’t anger. This wasn’t denial.

This was years of longing unraveling all at once.

“Everything feels different now,” he whispered, almost to himself. “I… I can’t believe this is real.”

He kissed you again—messy, hungry, nothing like the careful kiss from earlier. His hands slid up your waist again, pulling you flush against him. You gasped into his mouth, fingers digging into his shoulders.

Then, with a sudden, breathless shift of movement, Charles gripped your hips, lifted you a few inches, and flipped you gently onto your back against the mattress.

You let out a surprised sound—half gasp, half laugh—as you landed, your dress fanned around you on the sheets. Charles hovered above you, breath unsteady, one knee between your thighs, one hand braced beside your head.

The other hand slid to your hip.

His body lowered just enough for you to feel the new pressure between you—slow, deliberate, full of intent. Your breath tangled in your throat as he moved over you, grinding once, hardly more than a subtle shift of his hips. But it sent a wave of heat sweeping through your whole body.

He swallowed hard, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide.

“Do you have any idea,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth softly, “how many times I’ve imagined this?”

His lips trailed down to your jaw, slow and reverent.

“How many nights I couldn’t sleep because I kept thinking about you?”

His mouth brushed your throat, his breath warm against your skin.

“You drive me crazy, chèrie”

Your fingers threaded into his hair, pulling him closer. He groaned softly against your neck, kissing a line down to your collarbone. Every brush of his lips seemed to undo another knot inside him.

His hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your waist before catching the hem of your sundress. He paused there, holding the fabric lightly between his fingers. He lifted his head, meeting your eyes.

Charles was breathing hard, chest rising and falling against yours.

“Can I?” he asked.

Not a tease, not a formality, but a genuine question—gentle, sincere, full of reverence for you.

He wanted you. But more than that, he wanted you to want him back.

You nodded slowly, breath trembling. His shoulders relaxed in relief, and something raw and tender passed through his expression—like he was seeing you for the first time and all over again.

He leaned down, kissing you deeply as his hands began to lift the fabric, slow enough for you to stop him if you wanted. His touch was warm, careful, almost worshipful. Your breath caught as the dress rose inch by inch, his fingers grazing skin that made heat bloom everywhere he touched.

He pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips “I’ve dreamed of touching you like this.”

Your hand slid up the back of his neck, your body arching instinctively into his. His voice dropped even lower, almost a confession “I never thought I’d get the chance.”

Your heart thudded and breath hitched, your fingers curling in his hair.

Charles’ hands continued their slow, reverent path upward, taking the soft fabric of your sundress with him. The cotton whispering up your skin sent a shiver running through you. You lifted your hips slightly to help him, and Charles breathed out a quiet, shaky sound at the unspoken permission.

In one smooth motion, he pulled the dress over your head.

His breath stopped. Completely.

Your body, bathed in the warm dimness of his bedroom, was wrapped in scarlet lace — delicate, intricate, hugging every curve in a way that made heat bloom up Charles’ neck and settle deep in his stomach.

“Mon Dieu…” he whispered, voice more breath than sound. “You’re… magnifique.”

His eyes trailed over you slowly, almost disbelieving, as if he needed time to let his mind catch up to the reality in front of him. His gaze softened — not with lust alone, but with something deeper. Something tender. Something he’d buried for far too long.

He reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and traced a slow line from your collarbone, down the center of your chest, stopping at the lace edge. His touch was feather-light, but your breath hitched anyway.

“God, you have no idea,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss the hollow beneath your throat, “how many times I’ve thought about having you like this?”

His lips brushed lower, each kiss careful, savoring, full of restraint he was rapidly losing.

“How many times I had to force myself to walk away,” he whispered against your skin, “when all I wanted was this.”

You curled your fingers into his hair, tugging gently. The sound he made in response was soft, broken, desperate. He moved over you again, lowering his body until his chest pressed against yours. The warmth, the weight, the way he fit against you — it made something low in your stomach tighten with need.

His mouth found yours again, kissing you with a hunger that had been simmering for years.

Your hands slid down his back, feeling the flex of every muscle beneath your fingertips as he deepened the kiss. His hips pressed gently against yours, slow, tentative at first — as if asking again without words if this was truly happening.

You arched into him, breath shuddering against his lips. It was answer enough.

Charles groaned quietly, a sound that vibrated through you. His hands framed your waist, thumbs sweeping over your ribs with a reverence that made your heart pound. He kissed down your neck again, slower this time, savoring every inch of skin like he’d memorize it if he could.

The heat between you grew — warm, overwhelming, impossible to ignore.

Your legs shifted instinctively, brushing against his hips, drawing him closer. His breath stuttered against your shoulder, the faintest hint of restraint trembling through him.

He lifted his head, forehead resting against yours, his nose brushing yours softly.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, voice rough with need. “Please. If you want me to.”

You cupped his jaw, your thumb brushing the faint stubble there.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

The relief that washed over his face was immediate, visible, overwhelming. He kissed you again — deeper, slower, filled with meaning and want and all the years you lost.

His hands drifted lower, exploring your waist, your hips, the small of your back, his touch warm and steady, every movement deliberate. You felt him breathe you in, felt the tension in his body unravel with every inch of skin he discovered.

When his lips trailed back to yours, the kiss changed — deeper, more intent, more certain.

Your hands slid beneath his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your palms. He inhaled sharply at the contact, his body pressing into yours with a need he no longer tried to hide.

Clothing became something forgotten, irrelevant, discarded gently between kisses and soft touches. Not rushed — explored. Felt. Revealed piece by piece, slow enough to savor, slow enough to stop if either of you changed your mind. But neither of you did.

Not for a second.

Charles moved with a tenderness that made your chest ache — like he was rediscovering you, like he wanted to commit every moment to memory.

When he finally settled above you again, both of you breathless, skin against skin, heat curling through every inch of space between you—

He paused.

Just for a moment.

His hand cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed your lower lip. His eyes searched yours — warm, dark, open, overflowing with everything he’d never said.

“I'm so in love with you...”

Your breath caught.

He kissed you again, and this time there was no space left between your bodies, no hesitation, no last thread of distance to cross as he entered you, a groand leaving his lips.

You moaned at the feeling. He was big, something you already figured out on the balcony, but this was different. Better, way better.

The world narrowed to warmth, to pressure, to the slow, heart-pounding closeness as your bodies aligned perfectly beneath the soft glow of the room. Charles held you tightly, one hand tangled in your hair, the other guiding, steady, sure — every movement gentle, slow, deliberate.

As the heat rose, the room was filled with sounds, soft gasps, broken exhales, whispered names.

"God, Charles, you feel so good" you moaned out, causing Charles to groan in return, thrusting a bit harder.

And then—

The moment shifted. Deepened. Changed.

Your back arched. His head dropped to your neck. Your fingers dug into his shoulder blades. His breath trembled against your skin.

Everything that followed unfolded in warmth and softness and trembling, breathless closeness — a rhythm that built slowly, then all at once, guided by whispered words, tangled limbs, shared heat, and years worth of feelings finally, finally unbound.

The room faded into shadows and quiet sounds — his lips at your shoulder, your hands in his hair, his name falling from your mouth like confession, your breath his breath, your heartbeat his heartbeat.

Until all that remained was closeness.

And the world went soft around you, as everything else blurred beautifully into a slow, heated fade to black.

Previous | Next

It was the next day when you were all gathered in the living room, waiting for Kika to delegate the tasks for the shared lunch.

“So, Pierre and I will go to the store for fresh meat and spreads for the bread. Dennis and Joris can set up the tables,” she said, scrolling through her notes before looking back up. “That leaves Charles, Arthur, and Y/N in the kitchen. You three can handle the rest—salads, drinks, fruit platter. Easy enough.”

You opened your mouth to protest but shut it again quickly. For the sake of everyone’s mood, you plastered on a polite smile and nodded. “Fine.”

Arthur grinned at your reluctant tone. “Don’t sound too excited.”

“Trust me, Arthur, this is the highlight of my day,” you deadpanned, earning a chuckle from him.

You half-expected Charles to add some snide comment, something along the lines of ‘Try not to ruin the food’—but instead, he stayed quiet, expression unreadable as he followed you both to the kitchen. Strange.

Once inside, the three of you started rummaging for ingredients and splitting tasks. Arthur busied himself washing the vegetables, humming some tune under his breath, while you gathered fruits for the platter. Charles, however, seemed to be struggling with a very basic job—slicing baguette into neat pieces.

You watched him for a moment from across the counter, amused. His grip on the knife looked… awkward at best. How has this man driven a Formula 1 car at 300 km/h and yet looks this confused by bread?

Setting down the bowl of strawberries, you made your way over to him. “Move over, Leclerc,” you muttered, standing just behind him. You reached out and rested your hand lightly on his, adjusting his grip on the knife. The moment your skin brushed his, you felt him tense slightly—only for him to mask it by leaning an elbow on the counter, pretending nonchalance.

“If you hold it like this—” you guided his fingers, your voice calm, “—then angle the knife like that. See? Smooth cuts, no massacre.”

Charles’ jaw flexed, but instead of snapping, he gave you a small, amused glance. “You’re very confident in the kitchen,” he said, voice low. “For someone who burned toast yesterday.”

You froze for a beat, then rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your brain. “That was one time,” you hissed, pulling your hand back. “And the toaster was faulty.”

Arthur, still rinsing lettuce, looked over his shoulder with a grin. “Faulty toaster? That’s a new excuse.”

“Shut up, Arthur,” you shot back, chucking a strawberry at him. He caught it easily, biting into it with a grin.

Charles’ lips twitched like he was fighting a smile, but he looked back down at the bread instead of rubbing it in. “Thanks,” he said after a moment, voice softer now.

You blinked at him. No sarcasm. No smugness. Just… thanks. “Don’t mention it,” you muttered, grabbing another cutting board and trying not to think about how his hand had felt under yours.

Arthur broke the brief silence, his grin mischievous. “Wow. No arguing? No insults? Should I be worried?”

You ignored him, slicing strawberries like your life depended on it. “I’m just trying to get this done before Kika returns and yells at us.”

Arthur smirked. “Sure, sure. Totally not because you two had some secret reconciliation.”

Your knife paused mid-slice. “Arthur—”

Charles cut in smoothly, voice teasing now. “Arthur, maybe focus on the salad before you cut your fingers off.”

Arthur raised a brow but turned back to his task, humming louder this time like he knew something. Which, of course, he didn’t. But the smirk on Charles’ face when your eyes met across the counter told you he’d picked up on your fluster.

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When you’d finally finished arranging the last platter, footsteps padded into the kitchen.

“Bonjour, baby sis,” Pierre’s voice sang out as he appeared in the doorway, his sunglasses perched on his head like some beach model. He walked over and dropped a warm hand onto your shoulder.

You glanced up, smiling despite yourself. “Hi.”

“Still alive?” he teased, eyes flicking briefly toward Charles, who was quietly stacking glasses onto a tray.

“Barely,” you deadpanned, handing Pierre the colorful bowl of fruit you’d just finished arranging. “But look—still got both arms and legs attached.”

Pierre chuckled, taking the bowl from your hands with exaggerated care. “And you even managed to make this Instagram-worthy. Impressive.”

Before you could retort, Kika slipped in behind him, carrying two bottles of sparkling water. Her eyes darted between you and the counter full of food, then to the spotless cutting boards. “Okay, wow. You three didn’t burn the kitchen down. Proud of you.”

Arthur grinned over his shoulder, drying his hands. “We thrive under pressure.”

You snorted. “Speak for yourself.”

Kika’s lips curled into a knowing smirk as she set the bottles down. “So… everyone still friends in here?”

“Define friends,” you muttered under your breath, too low for everyone but not for Kika and Charles, who fought a laugh as he carried a tray toward the door.

“Play nice,” Kika warned lightly before heading out with Pierre.

You exhaled and grabbed the remaining bowl, following them to the terrace where the others had set up two long tables under the shade. Sunlight dappled through the trees, glinting off wine glasses and pitchers of lemonade. The spread looked like something out of a summer magazine—fresh bread, dips, charcuterie, and the fruit platter that had nearly cost you your sanity.

As everyone settled, the conversation flowed easily—Arthur and Paul arguing about whether or not pineapple belonged on pizza, Pierre dramatically defending French baguette as “the superior bread of all time,” and Kika laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink.

You joined in here and there, trying to relax, even though every time Charles spoke, your awareness of him sharpened like a blade. His voice was smooth, casual, weaving into the laughter like nothing had happened yesterday. But you caught it—the fleeting glances when no one was looking, the small curve of his lips when you teased Arthur. Like a secret tether humming between you two.

Pierre nudged you at one point, pulling you back from your spiraling thoughts. “You okay? You’ve been quiet.”

You smiled faintly, spearing a grape with your fork. “Just tired.”

“From cooking?” He snorted. “We both know Arthur probably did most of the work.”

You shot him a glare “Excuse you, I made the salad. And I didn’t lose a finger.”

That got a laugh from everyone, easing the tension coiling in your stomach.

Arthur then piped up with a finger in the air "And don't forget about the part where she VOLUNTARILY helped Charles cutting bread"

Pierre's eyes widened, a small smile sporting his face as his girlfriend across from him raised an eyebrow at you "Well, well" Kika spoke in a teasing voice.

You rolled your eyes, launching a piece bread in Arthur's direction "Don't act like I'm a moron all the time" you laughed.

For the rest of lunch, you let yourself drift in and out of conversations—chatting with Kika about her new favorite skincare brand, helping Joris fetch extra napkins, rolling your eyes when Dennis tried to make a toast “to surviving this chaotic friend group.”

By the time everyone finished, the sun had shifted higher, warming the terrace with a golden glow. Plates were empty, laughter still hanging in the air like bubbles.

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When the last scraps were gone and people started slouching back in their chairs, you stood and gathered plates. “We should clean up before this turns into a disaster zone,” you offered.

“I’ll help,” Dennis chimed in, springing up with that easy grin of his. He shot a wink toward the others. “The rest of you, enjoy your food coma.”

Back in the kitchen, the two of you fell into a rhythm—stacking dishes, running water, clinking glasses into the sink. For a while, it was just the sound of cutlery and soft chatter from the garden drifting through the open door.

Then Dennis spoke, voice casual but laced with curiosity. “So… you talk to Charles yet?”

You froze mid-rinse, heart lurching. “What?”

He smirked, leaning a hip against the counter. “Yesterday you two barely spoke, and now… I don’t know. You seem… different.”

You forced a laugh, focusing very hard on scrubbing a plate. “Different how?”

Dennis tilted his head, studying you with that annoying, all-seeing expression. “Just… less ‘I-wanna-murder-you,’ more… something else.”

Heat crept up your neck. Shit. “Maybe,” you admitted finally, too soft, eyes fixed on the bubbles in the sink.

Dennis’s grin spread like wildfire. “Maybe? Oh, come on. Spill. What happened?”

You shot him a warning look. “You can’t tell anyone. I wasn’t planning on Pierre or Arthur finding out. Ever.”

He mimed zipping his lips and tossing away the key. “Scout’s honor.”

You hesitated for a beat, then exhaled, setting the plate down. “Well... Something… happened. Last night. In the bathroom”

His brows shot up, intrigue lighting his face like Christmas morning. “Define ‘something.’ Like… talking? Or… something-something?”

You buried your face in your hands with a groan. “Dennis.”

“What?!” He laughed, grabbing a towel and flicking water at you. “I’m one of your best friends, I have the right to know if you’re out here making out with Ferrari boy.”

“First of all, ew. I didn't make out with him” You peeked at him through your fingers, cheeks burning. “Second… we weren't exactly talking either.”

That sent him into full-on smug mode. “Unbelievable. You two have hated each other for years, and now you’re—” He stopped, eyes widening with mock scandal. “Oh my God. Are you sleeping with him?”

You nearly dropped the glass in your hand. “Dennis! No! Well—” You bit your lip. “Not exactly.”

His jaw dropped, then split into a grin so wide you wanted to slap it off his face. “Not exactly?! Holy shit, this is better than I thought.”

"You're making it so much bigger than it is" you said, your red cheeks betraying your fake nonchalance.

"I'm only filling in the blanks, because you're being vague" he laughed, wiggling his eyebrows at him "If you don't want me making up things, then tell me"

You let out a big sigh, admitting what happened in the bathroom yesterday. Obviously not giving him all the details, but just enough for him to know what happened.

"WHILE YOU WERE ON THE PHONE?" he chuckled, surprise audible in his tone.

"SHUSH!" you whisper yelled, covering your mouth with your hands "Not so loud, you idiot"

He rolled his eyes, laughing "Well, do you regret it? Or do you 'regret' it the same way you did last time?"

You groaned again, leaning against the counter. “I don’t even know how to feel about it. It’s… complicated.”

Dennis softened then, his tone gentler. “Hey. You don’t have to know right now. Just… figure out what you want. Not what he wants. You.”

Your chest tightened a little at that, but you nodded, grateful. “Thanks.”

He grinned again, breaking the moment. “Still hilarious, though. Every time we talk, it’s about your… activities with Charles.”

You shoved his shoulder with a laugh. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying.” He held his hands up, smirking. “Your life’s basically a telenovela now.”

You rolled your eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at your lips. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re in trouble,” he sang, wagging his brows.

You threw a dish towel at his face.

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You sat curled up on the balcony, a half-empty glass of wine dangling lazily from your fingers. The evening air was warm, thick with the faint scent of lavender from the garden below. From your perch, you could see Paul and Arthur in the yard, shoving each other around like overgrown kids, laughter echoing up through the quiet hum of cicadas.

For a blissful few minutes, it was peaceful—until the sliding door creaked open behind you.

You didn’t even have to turn to know who it was. The sound of slow, measured footsteps and that faint cologne—spice with something sweet—gave him away instantly.

Charles Leclerc.

Of course.

He walked straight past you without a word, propping himself against the stone railing like he owned the damn balcony. His forearms rested casually over the edge, head tipping back as he breathed in the night air. The picture of ease. Like this wasn’t your sanctuary.

“Why are you here?” you asked flatly, not bothering to hide the bite in your tone.

He shrugged, gaze still fixed on the dusky sky. “Fresh air,” he said simply, voice calm, smooth—infuriatingly so.

“Mm.” You took a slow sip of your wine, eyes narrowing over the rim. “Plenty of fresh air downstairs, you know.”

A small smirk tugged at his lips. “Yeah, but down there I have to listen to Joris and Gigi flirting like they’re in a bad rom-com.” He glanced at you then, eyes glinting with mischief. “Figured I’d save my ears.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “That doesn’t mean I want you in my aura.” you said as you moved out of your seat and onto the floor, leaning your back against the stone railing.

He chuckled low under his breath, then delivered the line that made your pulse spike. “Didn’t look like you felt that way yesterday.”

Your stomach twisted. Of course he’d bring that up. You met his gaze, glaring hard. “Just because I was stupid enough to fall for your little trap doesn’t mean you get to crash my me-time now.”

Charles arched a brow, completely unbothered by your venom. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it,” he murmured before tipping his beer to his lips.

You huffed, setting your empty glass down with a little more force than necessary. “Never said I didn’t,” you replied, nonchalant—except your voice trembled ever so slightly.

That single confession stopped him cold. He froze mid-sip, eyes flicking to you, something dangerous flickering behind them. Then why are you complaining? he almost asked, but instead, the words came out steady, low. “Then stop complaining”

You tilted your chin defiantly. “Just because you’re good at pleasuring women doesn’t mean I constantly want you around me.” The words were sharp, but the quiver in your tone gave you away.

Charles stepped closer, his presence wrapping around you like a second skin. His voice dropped, soft and teasing, but laced with something heavier. “Is it that you really don’t want me here… or that you’re afraid you’ll fall for my trap again?”

Your throat tightened. Don’t take the bait. Don’t— “Charlie, please. You’ve never shown me any interest before. Why now? You don’t want me. You’re just bored. And so was I.” You forced the words out like armor. “We hate each other, remember?”

His lips curved into a slow, infuriating smirk, and that single word rolled off his tongue like velvet. “Keep telling yourself that, chérie.”

Before you could bite back, a voice cut through the tension from below.

“HEY, CHARLES!”

You both jolted, glancing down to see Arthur and Paul waving from the garden. Charles exhaled sharply, leaning forward on the railing as if the stone could anchor him. “I’m not deaf, Arthur,” he called back dryly. “What do you want?”

Charles leaned further over the stone railing, forearms resting casually as his eyes scanned the garden below. Arthur was waving his arms like a madman, trying to get his attention, Paul standing next to him with a grin.

“Finally,” Arthur called up, “you’re impossible to reach, you know that?”

Charles exhaled through his nose, feigning irritation. “You ever heard of a phone, Arthur? Works wonders.” His tone was teasing, calm—exactly the mask he needed right now.

Arthur rolled his eyes dramatically. “We were gonna see if you wanted to join us later for drinks at the pool. Paul’s been bragging about his unbeatable beer-pong skills again.”

Paul chimed in with a laugh, “Unbeatable because it’s true!”

Charles smirked faintly. “You’ve beaten Arthur twice and suddenly you’re world champion?”

Their conversation flowed easily, but apparently the two other boys didn’t notice you—slumped low against the balcony’s edge, half-hidden by the stone railing. Knees bent, glass empty beside you, a wicked plan curling through your mind like smoke.

"But are you joining or not?" Paul questioned.

“Maybe,” Charles answered smoothly, though his posture was all controlled tension. You noticed it immediately—the way his grip on the railing whitened at the knuckles, forearms taut, veins pronounced. He looked calm. He sounded calm. But under the surface? He was a live wire.

"Maybe yes, or maybe no?" Arthur asked casually.

And that’s when the wicked idea bloomed in your mind. Smoke curling in your thoughts, daring you.

Payback. That was all you could think of. After what he pulled with Kika on that call, Charles deserved this. Deserved to feel as powerless as you had when he played his smug little games.

He was relaxed, oblivious, leaning forward just enough that the hem of his T-shirt lifted slightly—an opening too tempting to ignore. Slowly, silently, you shifted closer until your back was pressed against the railing, the cool stone grounding you as you reached up, fingers brushing against the back of his thigh. Light. Almost accidental.

Charles froze for half a second, his voice never breaking, though it sounded just a fraction tighter. “Yeah, sounds good,” he said, steady as ever. But you saw it—his knuckles whitening as they curled over the railing.

You smirked.

Bolder now, you let your hand wander higher, grazing over the fabric of his shorts. Heat radiated off him in waves, and you felt the tremor that rolled through his body.

“What are you doing?” His voice was razor-sharp this time, whispered through clenched teeth. He didn’t dare glance back. Not with two sets of eyes below him. His jaw worked hard, trying—failing—to mask the strain in his voice.

You didn’t answer. Just pressed your palm against him, feeling him harden beneath the thin fabric. Slowly. Torturously.

He swallowed hard, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “About nine?” Arthur asked, oblivious.

“Yeah,” Charles rasped, then cleared his throat, disguising it with a cough. “Nine’s good.” His accent was thicker now, dripping like honey, every syllable frayed at the edges.

By the time your fingers slid under the waistband, he was shaking—not visibly, but you felt it. A current running beneath his skin. He gripped the railing of the stone fence so tight it might snap, veins raised like cords as you freed him, heavy and hard in your hand.

And God, the way his breath stuttered nearly undid you.

You stroked him slowly, deliberately, nails dragging light scratches over sensitive skin. He muffled a groan with a sharp inhale, forcing a grin down at Arthur and Paul like nothing was wrong—while his world tilted violently under your touch.

Paul’s voice cut through, casual, cruelly timed. “Oh, Charles—ask Y/N if she wants to come too? She’s probably still in her room, right?”

Charles nearly choked. “Yeah,” he ground out, the word strangled as you tightened your grip. “I’ll… ask her.”

You smirked, only picking up the speed, causing the older boy to let out a sound, he hoped the other boys wouldn't hear. He glanced down for one second, big mistake, because the sight of you in front of him made it not one bit easier. He gripped onto the railing tighter, whispering through his teeth in a hissing tone "I hate you"

That's exactly when you decided to take it even further, moving your head towards his thighs, slowly but surely taking him out of his boxers, before without warning you put your lips around him, causing the boy to have even more struggles holding himself together.

“Why are you up there alone anyway?” Paul asked with a small smirk on his lips.

Charles let out a strained laugh. “Needed… some air.” His voice cracked on the last word, and you almost laughed.

Arthur grinned. “Or maybe you just wanted an excuse to lurk near your crush.”

If he wasn’t already on fire, that line set him ablaze. His jaw clenched so hard it might splinter. They don’t know. They can’t know. Fuck— “I don’t have a crush on her,” he lied smoothly, while your mouth wrapped around him again in one slow, devastating motion.

“Bro, you good?” Arthur called with a laugh. “You sound… weird.”

Every muscle in his body seized. His hands slammed against the stone, breath ripping from his lungs as heat shot through his veins. He bit down hard on a groan, forcing out words that sounded barely human. “Fine—just… hot out here,” he croaked.

Arthur laughed. “Okay then. Nine sharp!” the both of them finally starting to walk away.

"Don't forget to ask y/n" Paul added before they finally made there way out of the garden.

You heard Charles exhale shakily, his jaw ticking as he answered, “Sure… yeah.” Charles managed to say, barely audible, waiting until their voices faded into the distance before he finally—finally—looked down at you.

The second they were gone, Charles’ composure shattered. His head snapped down. His eyes were dark, wild, chest rising and falling unevenly. “You’re the worst,” he hissed, voice ragged, low enough to vibrate in your bones.

And you? You just looked up at him, lips curving into a slow, wicked smile as you murmured, “Payback, bitch.” before you returned back to what you were doing.

Charles didn’t move at first. Couldn’t. His entire body was rigid with restraint, knuckles bloodless against the railing as he sucked in a shaky breath.

“Y/N…” Your name tore from his throat, low and guttural, like a warning he didn’t even believe himself. You felt the sound vibrate through him, through you, and it only made you take him deeper, slow and languid, dragging your tongue along the length of him before hollowing your cheeks.

He cursed under his breath, a soft, desperate merde that made heat pool between your thighs. His hips twitched forward instinctively, fighting to keep still, but the leash on his control was snapping strand by strand.

“Stop,” he rasped, voice tight, breaking on the edges. His hand shot out, fisting in the balcony rail as if that could ground him. “Stop or—” His words choked off in a strangled groan when you swirled your tongue around the tip, squeezing the base with a grip that made him see stars.

“—fuck,” he breathed, and that was it. That was the last thread.

One second, you were in control, teasing him to the brink. The next, he had his fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to make you gasp. His eyes—holy hell—his eyes were molten, wide and dark, every ounce of composure burned to ash.

“You think you’re clever, hm?” he growled, accent thick, voice wrecked and vibrating with something feral. He dragged your hair into his fist, angling your face up to him. Your lips were slick, your breath coming out in hot little pants, and the sight nearly broke him all over again.

You only smiled, breathless, defiant. “Looks like it’s working.”

That earned you a low, dangerous laugh. The kind that promised you were in trouble. Serious trouble.

“You want payback, chérie?” His voice was a silken snarl, dark eyes raking over your flushed face. “Careful what you start.”

Before you could fire back, he hauled you up—fast, rough, spinning you so your back hit the cold glass of the balcony door. Your gasp caught in his mouth as he kissed you—if you could call it that. It wasn’t gentle. It was teeth, tongue, heat, like he needed to erase the last ten minutes of smug triumph from your lips.

You barely had time to process before his hands were everywhere—fisting the hem of your dress, dragging it up until cool air hit your thighs. His fingers gripped your hips hard enough to bruise as he ground against you, still heavy and hard, and fuck—you felt dizzy from the contrast of stone at your back and fire at your front.

“Think you can drive me insane and get away with it?” His words were a hot whisper against your ear, breath ragged as he pinned you tighter. “Not happening.”

You shivered when his teeth grazed your jaw, down to your throat, biting just hard enough to make your knees buckle. He caught you effortlessly, one arm banded around your waist as the other shoved your panties aside in one swift, ruthless motion.

“Charles—” His name spilled from your lips like a plea you didn’t mean to give him.

“Shhh.” His mouth was on yours again, swallowing the sound as his fingers slid over your heat—slow at first, teasing, like he wanted to punish you for every second of control you stole from him. His touch was maddening, featherlight, skimming over you until you were trembling, nails clawing at his shoulders.

Then, without warning, he pushed two fingers inside, curling them just right, and you bit down on a moan that still escaped anyway—soft, broken, perfect.

“Loud now, aren’t you?” he taunted, voice husky as his thumb brushed over your clit in agonizing circles. His forehead pressed to yours, sweat slick at his temples, his lips brushing your mouth as he added, “Bet the whole garden could hear you if I really tried.”

Your hips jerked forward, desperate, but he held you in place, pace mercilessly slow. It was torture—the kind that made your vision blur. You wanted to scream at him, beg him, anything to make him stop dragging it out, but then his lips were at your ear again, whispering something that shattered you completely.

“Tell me how much you hate me now.”

You could barely speak, breath coming in ragged gasps. “Charles, I—” Your words dissolved into a whimper when he curled his fingers deeper, faster, sending white-hot pleasure ripping through you.

“That’s what I thought.” His smirk was pure sin, teeth flashing as he dragged his fingers out of you—and before you could protest, he turned you sharply, bending you over the railing.

The stone was icy against your stomach. His hands gripped your hips like a vice as he kicked your legs wider, and then—God—you felt him, hot and heavy, sliding against you.

“This what you wanted, hmm?” he muttered darkly, lining himself up. “To push me until I snapped?”

For a split second, you considered letting him. Letting him have his way, like he so clearly wanted. But then your lips curled into a smile—slow, wicked. Oh no, Leclerc. Not that easy.

You braced your palms on his chest and shoved, hard enough to make him stumble back a step. The flash of surprise in his eyes almost made you laugh. Before he could react, you closed the space again—fast—pressing him against the cool glass of the balcony door to his room with your body caging his in.

His brows shot up. “What the hell are you—”

“That’s for me to know,” you purred, voice dripping with smugness, fingers already sliding his shorts down further, “and for you to find out.”

His breath hitched, chest heaving as you sank slowly—deliberately—to your knees in front of him. The sharp gasp that left his throat was pure music. He tipped his head back against the glass with a muted thud, knuckles white as he gripped the doorframe behind him.

“Y/N…” His voice was low, ragged, a warning and a plea tangled into one.

You only smiled up at him through your lashes as you freed him again, hot and heavy in your hand. You wrapped your fingers around his length and stroked once—slow, firm—before leaning forward to run your tongue along the underside, savoring the way his thighs tensed.

He swore in French, voice breaking as you took him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks until his knees nearly buckled.

“Fuck—” He groaned, trying to catch his breath, hips jerking despite his effort to stay still. “You're—” His words cut off when you slid him deeper, nose brushing his stomach. A strangled moan ripped from his chest.

Charles cursed so loudly it was almost a growl, his accent thick and messy as his hand shot to your hair. “Mon dieu, Y/N—” His voice was fractured now, completely undone, and the way his hips stuttered told you he was close. Too close.

“Stop—fuck, if you don’t stop now—” His grip tightened, like he was trying to drag you off him, but you didn’t budge. You only hummed around him, sending vibrations that made him choke out a broken sound.

You pulled back just enough to speak, lips curling into a wicked smirk. “Yeah… that’s kinda the point, Leclerc.” Then you swallowed him down again, harder, faster.

You glanced up at him then—eyes dark, lashes fluttering—and that was it. That single look detonated whatever control he had left.

“Fucking hell—” His head slammed back against the glass, jaw slack as his body tensed, pleasure ripping through him with violent force. His breath came out in a harsh, shattered groan as he spilled down your throat, every muscle trembling while you took everything he gave you.

You didn’t stop until he sagged against the glass, chest heaving, a string of curses falling from his lips like prayer. Only then did you slide off him slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before standing—calm, collected, victorious.

Charles was still reeling, rebuttoning his shorts with shaky fingers, when the sliding door behind him clicked open.

“Well,” Dennis’s voice cut through the thick air like a blade, dripping with amusement. “That’s… certainly an interesting thing to walk into.”

You froze. Charles froze harder, eyes wide, a flush creeping high on his cheeks, looking at the floor trying his hardest to ignore Dennis' existence.

Dennis grinned like the devil himself, hands shoved in his pockets. “Guess I don’t need to ask if you’re both having fun.”

Previous | Next

You were woken up by the bright daylight piercing through your eyelids. Harsh, blinding light stabbing through your closed eyelids, forcing you to stir. A dull, throbbing pain bloomed in your temples, growing worse as you slowly became aware of your surroundings. Your mouth was dry, your limbs heavy, and there was an unmistakable wave of nausea creeping up as you shifted slightly on the couch—wait, the couch?

Blinking your eyes open, you winced at the brightness filtering through the curtains. The living room was spinning slightly, or maybe that was just your brain struggling to catch up. This wasn’t your bed. Why weren’t you in your bed?

A groan escaped your lips as you turned your head, barely able to process anything beyond the splitting headache hammering against your skull. The sound of soft footsteps caught your attention, and moments later, Dennis reappeared from the kitchen, carrying a glass of water in one hand. He looked far too awake for your liking, his face holding an expression that was equal parts amusement and mild concern.

Finally managing to move your stiff limbs, you shifted slightly on the couch, rubbing a hand over your aching forehead. Your voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Good morning.”

Dennis huffed a quiet laugh, setting the glass of water down on the coffee table before dropping onto the edge of it, facing you. “Morning? It’s almost noon, Gasly.”

You groaned again, forcing yourself to sit up despite your body's protests. “Don’t. Too loud.”

That only made Dennis chuckle more, which in turn made you reach up and press the heel of your palm against your forehead. “Way too loud,” you grumbled, reaching for the water he had placed in front of you.

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you go as hard as you did last night.”

You paused, the glass of water halfway to your lips, frowning. “Honestly I don't remember half of the evening” Taking a tentative sip, you swallowed against the rawness in your throat, waiting for his answer.

Dennis raised a brow. “You seriously don’t remember?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to drag up the events of the previous evening. There were flashes—drinks being passed around, laughter, a game—but beyond that, things were murky at best. “I... kind of remember,” you admitted hesitantly. “But not everything. Like... I remember the kiss.”

Dennis leaned back slightly, tilting his head in interest. “The kiss?” he said. He knew damn well what kiss you were talking about, but he got a little fun out of messing with you.

“With Charles,” you clarified, opening your eyes to look at him. The memory made your stomach churn—not necessarily because of the kiss itself, but because of what had followed. “The truth or dare thing. I remember that much. But after that…” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “I eavesdropped on him and Pierre. After that, I don’t remember a damn thing.”

Dennis let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Yikes.”

You rubbed at your temples again, frustration creeping in. “How the hell did I end up on this couch?”

“Beats me,” Dennis said with a shrug. “You were still up and moving when I went to bed. But you were definitely out of it. I tried to get you to bed, but it was literally impossible, so I kinda gave up, sorry”

“Great,” you muttered, slumping back against the couch. “So I could’ve had entire conversations with people, and I wouldn’t even know.”

Dennis smirked. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You shot him a glare, which only made his smirk widen.

“Relax,” he said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It might come back in a few hours. Just take it easy, drink some water. You’ll be fine.”

You sighed, taking another sip from the glass, trying to focus on the coolness of the liquid against your dry throat. “I feel like shit.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Dennis deadpanned, leaning back again. “But, hey, maybe that’s karma. You and Charles were at each other’s throats all night.”

That made you frown. “We were?”

Dennis let out a breathy laugh. “Oh yeah. But that’s nothing new. Though, to be honest, I don’t get it. He was staring at you all night, you know.”

Your head snapped up at that, instantly regretting the movement as another wave of pain crashed through your skull. “What?”

Dennis nodded, watching you with amusement. “Seriously. I don’t know how you didn’t notice. Every time you weren’t looking, he was. I swear, that guy has it bad for you, but you two can’t seem to go five minutes without arguing.”

You exhaled slowly, letting the words sink in. Your memories were too foggy to confirm or deny anything, but the idea of Charles watching you when you weren’t looking sent a strange sensation through your chest.

Dennis stood up, stretching his arms over his head before glancing down at you again. “Have you talked to Pierre or Arthur yet?”

You snorted. “Dennis, I just told you—I don’t even remember how I got on this couch. Do you really think I'd remember if I talked to them?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Fair enough. Well, maybe they can fill in some of the blanks.”

You hummed noncommittally, still trying to piece together the fragments of last night. Something told you that whatever you had forgotten… it wasn’t insignificant.

The moment Arthur stumbled into the room, nearly tripping over the threshold, you couldn’t help but chuckle. A mistake. The instant vibration of your own laughter sent a stabbing pain through your skull, like someone was driving an ice pick straight between your temples. You winced, squeezing your eyes shut, but not enough to stop yourself from throwing a teasing remark his way.

"You know, you could consider lifting your foot when entering a room," you muttered, pressing your fingers against your forehead.

Arthur groaned dramatically and rolled his eyes. "You could consider shutting up when you're hungover." Then, as if to punish you for your insolence, he reached out and smacked the back of your head—not hard, but just enough to make you yelp.

"Be nice," he warned with a smirk, flopping down beside you on the couch, "or else I'll shove you in a closet with Charles and lock you both in."

"Are you trying to kill me?" you groaned, rubbing your head. "Christ, Arthur, careful—hangover."

Arthur stretched his arms, completely unbothered by your pain, and gave you a once-over. "Yeah, well, you look awful," he observed with a chuckle. "Although I didn’t expect anything less after seeing the state you were in when you went up to your room last night."

You frowned. "I went up to my room?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow at your confusion, then let out a soft laugh. "Yeah, I had a feeling you wouldn’t remember that part."

Your stomach turned uneasily. If you had gone to your room… then how the hell had you ended up on this couch?

"Wait." You sat up straighter, bracing a hand against your head as the motion sent another wave of pain through your skull. "How the fuck did I even end up down here, then?"

Arthur shrugged, but there was something unreadable in his expression. "Might have something to do with Charles. I checked on you, but when I went upstairs, you were on the balcony talking to him."

The word balcony sent a cold shiver down your spine.

Your hands flew to your face, rubbing at your temples as fragmented memories teased the edges of your mind. "God," you muttered, trying to piece it together. "I don’t even know what happened there."

Arthur draped an arm around your shoulder and squeezed gently. "I don’t know either," he admitted, "but I’m pretty sure you and Charles have something to talk about." His voice was casual, but you could hear the curiosity behind it. "Couldn’t have been that bad, right? Maybe Charles remembers?"

And just as if the universe had a cruel sense of timing, a familiar voice cut through the air.

"Maybe I remember what exactly?"

Your body tensed. Your eyes shot up toward the doorway, locking onto the figure standing there: Charles.

His gaze met yours instantly, and in that moment, something inside you clicked. The floodgates burst open, and the memories rushed back in all at once. Your breath caught "Oh fuck" you croaked out.

*30 minutes earlier*

The first thing Charles became aware of was the dull pounding in his skull. The second was the unfamiliar weight in his lower abdomen, the tight discomfort that made his breathing uneven.

He groaned, cracking his eyes open, instantly regretting it as the bright morning light stabbed through his vision.

He clenched his jaw, willing his body to calm down, but the moment he tried to shift, the memories from last night surfaced with brutal clarity.

Her. The balcony. Her hand on his thigh.

His own helpless, pathetic reaction to it.

Charles exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face, as if that would wipe away the images replaying in his mind—the way she had touched him, the way she had looked at him, knowing exactly what she was doing. The way she had whispered his name like a damn tease, breath warm against his ear.

And the worst part? He had let her. No, he had wanted her to.

His body shuddered slightly at the memory of how close he had been to completely unraveling beneath her touch. He swallowed, willing himself to ignore the ache between his legs, but it was useless. The ghost of her fingers still lingered on his skin.

Charles forced himself up, running a hand through his already-messy hair, his stomach twisting with something he refused to name.

The hangover was manageable, but the nerves? The confusion? Not so much.

He remembered everything. Every breath, every touch, every sound. And what made it worse was that he had no idea how she felt about it now.

Would she regret it? Laugh it off? Pretend it never happened?

He wanted to believe it had just been the alcohol, that neither of them had meant to blur that line between them—but deep down, he knew better.

Because it wasn’t just last night. It had always been there. The tension. The fighting. The push and pull between them, like they couldn’t decide whether they wanted to strangle each other or—

He couldn’t do this right now.

With a deep breath, he forced himself out of bed, ignoring the tightness in his chest—and lower—and grabbed a hoodie to throw over his head. His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled it on. He wasn’t sure if it was from the hangover or from the thought of facing her after last night.

Maybe she doesn’t remember.

The thought should’ve relieved him, but instead, it twisted something deep inside him.

He needed to go downstairs. Needed to see her, to figure out where they stood. But every step felt heavier, the nerves tangling in his stomach.

When he finally made his way to the living room, he could hear voices—hers and Arthur’s.

And then, as he stepped into the doorway, he caught her gaze.

Wide eyes, parted lips, and then—

The sharp realization in her expression, the way her pupils dilated as the memories clearly came rushing back to her. Her reaction hit him like a fist to the gut.

And then she muttered, barely above a whisper "Oh fuck."

Charles' heart pounded in his chest.

Yeah. Oh fuck, indeed.

The two of you had been staring at each other in tense silence for what felt like an eternity, the weight of the unspoken pressing down like a storm waiting to break. Charles' gaze was unreadable, his jaw tight, his hands balled into fists at his sides. You, on the other hand, felt like the room was closing in on you, like you were teetering on the edge of something you weren’t ready to confront.

Then, suddenly, it became too much.

You shot up from the couch, the abrupt motion making your vision blur for a second. The remnants of your hangover still clung to you, but the fresh surge of adrenaline forced it into the background.

"I'm not doing this now," you muttered, your voice hoarse as you turned on your heel and rushed past Charles, brushing against his shoulder as you escaped the suffocating air of the living room.

The hallway felt impossibly long, stretching out before you like some cruel labyrinth, but you weren’t given the chance to make it far before you collided into someone solid.

Dennis.

His hands instinctively steadied you, fingers gripping your arms as he took in your flushed face, your wide eyes, and the way your chest rose and fell with uneven breaths.

"Whoa, where's the fire?" he asked, amusement tinged with concern. "You look like you've just seen a ghost. And I don't mean because of the hangover"

You swallowed thickly, trying to form words, but the panic was creeping in, wrapping itself around your lungs like a vice. "I remember what happened," you managed, your voice barely above a whisper, a strange mixture of disbelief and self-directed frustration lacing your tone. You took a shaky breath. "God, I remember what happened."

Dennis' brows furrowed. "Oh shit. What did you do?"

He gently but firmly took hold of your wrist and started leading you toward his bedroom, away from the prying eyes and ears of the house. Neither of you noticed Charles shift slightly in his place, his expression darkening when he saw Dennis guiding you away, his grip on your wrist firm. He took a step forward, instinct screaming at him to follow, but then he stopped, jaw clenching as he watched you disappear into Dennis' room. His fingers twitched at his sides before he exhaled sharply, turning away.

Inside Dennis’ room, he closed the door behind you and guided you toward his bed, sitting down beside you while keeping his hands on your wrists, a silent anchor. "Breathe," he instructed, voice softer now. "Slow it down."

You squeezed your eyes shut and forced yourself to inhale through your nose, exhaling in a shaky breath. It took a few more attempts before the erratic pace of your breathing evened out. When you finally opened your eyes again, Dennis was watching you closely.

"Okay," he said, his tone careful. "Wanna tell me what you remember? Or do you not wanna talk about it?"

You groaned, tilting your head back until you were staring at the ceiling. "Dennis, I'm an absolute idiot. Merde," you cursed under your breath.

Dennis smirked slightly, but he stayed quiet, waiting.

You sighed heavily before speaking again. "I bumped into him on the balcony... I don’t know what the hell came over me, but I put my hand on his thigh and started teasing him about the kiss." You hesitated, feeling a fresh wave of embarrassment creep up your neck. "I was... pretty much seducing him."

Dennis lifted a brow, barely restraining a chuckle. "No way."

You shot him a glare, but it lacked real venom. "Shut up."

"I mean, I always knew you had a flair for the dramatic, but damn—"

You groaned again, burying your face in your hands. "It gets worse."

Dennis leaned in slightly, eyes twinkling with barely-contained amusement. "Oh, please continue."

You peeked at him between your fingers before dropping your hands into your lap, fingers twisting together. "And then I kinda... you know—" You trailed off, making a vague gesture with your hand.

Dennis stared at you, waiting. "No, I don’t know. Spell it out for me."

You exhaled sharply, cheeks burning. "I started... you know, as if my hands were moving on their own, I started doing things to him."

There was a beat of silence before Dennis let out a loud, incredulous laugh. "Holy shit. Are you telling me you gave your brother's best friend a handjob on a balcony while drunk?"

"No! God no!" You snapped, but your mortified expression wasn’t helping your case. "It wasn’t— It was just through his jeans! That doesn’t count as a—"

Dennis gave you a deadpan look. "The only thing preventing it from being an actual handjob was a layer of denim, Gasly. It was basically the same thing."

You groaned, flopping backward onto his bed, covering your face with your hands. "God, don’t remind me. I feel bad enough already."

Dennis hummed in thought before his expression turned more serious. "Do you regret it?"

Your breath hitched in your throat.

He noticed immediately, eyes narrowing slightly. "Yeah. That’s what I thought."

You sat up slightly, staring at him. "It shouldn’t have happened."

Dennis studied you for a moment. "Maybe not. But it did. And maybe... maybe that means something."

You shook your head, not ready to unpack that. "I don’t know, Dennis. I don’t know if that’s the right choice."

Dennis leaned back against his palms. "Well, you can either pretend it didn’t happen and keep acting like you hate each other, or you can be honest with yourself for once."

You sighed heavily. "Yeah, well, being honest is terrifying."

Dennis smirked. "So is falling for someone when you least expect it."

Your stomach twisted at the implication, but you didn’t argue.

Because deep down, you knew he wasn’t wrong.

⁺⋆⁺₊⁺⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⁺⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⁺ ⋆⁺

The rest of the day passed in a blur of forced normalcy, both of you pretending as if nothing had happened. Meals were eaten, conversations were had, and yet the weight of the previous night hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Charles barely looked at you, and you returned the favor, even though you were hyperaware of his every movement.

As the evening settled in, you both eventually retreated to your respective rooms to freshen up before rejoining the group again. The walls between your rooms were thin, and Charles could hear you moving around, the faint rustle of clothing, the clatter of items being shifted on the dresser. He exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the sink. It shouldn’t have affected him the way it did, but it did. He was reminded of the way you had touched him the night before—bold, teasing, completely in control.

The memory sent a sharp pulse of heat straight through him, tightening in his lower abdomen. He groaned under his breath, stepping into the shower, hoping the cold water would help clear his mind. It didn’t. He tried to ignore the way his body reacted, tried to focus on anything else, but the persistent ache refused to subside. He turned up the water pressure, letting it hit his back, forcing himself to take deep breaths. It was working, barely, until he realized he had forgotten his towels. And his shampoo.

"Merde," he muttered, running a hand through his wet hair. With no other option, he called out, "Hey—can you hear me?"

There was a pause before your voice responded from the other side of the door. "What the hell do you want?"

He rolled his eyes, even as amusement curled at the edge of his lips. "I forgot my towels. And my shampoo."

Silence.

Then, a scoff. "Not my problem."

Charles huffed, leaning his forehead against the cool tile. "Come on, just grab them for me. The door’s open."

"Hell no, I’m not coming in while you’re naked in the shower."

He smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Oh, don’t be a pussy. I’m behind the curtain. It’s not like you’re going to see anything."

You groaned, muttering curses under your breath before relenting. "Fine. Where are they?"

"Towel’s in my closet. Shampoo’s in my bag."

You muttered something under your breath that he didn’t catch before disappearing down the hall. As soon as he heard your footsteps fade, he let out a shaky breath, his hand trailing lower, just for a second. It didn’t help. If anything, it only made it worse.

By the time you returned, he had forced himself to remain still, gripping the showerhead in frustration. You walked in, placing the towel and shampoo on the counter.

"Here. Happy now?"

"Almost." He hesitated before adding, "Can you grab my shower gel too?"

You rolled your eyes but turned to grab it from the counter, bending over slightly. Charles exhaled harshly through his nose, his grip tightening as he caught the silhouette of your body through the curtain. The curve of your waist, the length of your legs—he clenched his jaw, fighting the groan that threatened to slip out.

When you straightened and turned back toward him, your eyes flickered to his silhouette. He was toned, defined, years of training evident in the way his body moved. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to look away.

You handed him the shower gel, your fingers brushing for just a moment. A jolt of something sharp shot through you, making you tense. He felt it too.

You quickly turned away, intending to leave, but your gaze caught your reflection in the mirror. You frowned. "Since you’re not ready yet, are you okay if I take off my makeup here? I look like shit, and it feels gross."

Charles exhaled slowly. "Sure. Whatever."

You nodded, grabbing a cotton pad and micellar water, starting to wipe away the remnants of the day. He finished his shower, grabbing the towel and wrapping it around his waist.

When you closed your eyes to rinse your face, you didn’t hear him step closer. Didn’t register the way he hesitated behind you until you felt the warmth of his hand on your shoulder, sliding down to your arm, gently pulling it away from your face.

Your breath hitched as he leaned in, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "Stop pretending you don’t remember yesterday."

You swallowed hard, heart hammering. "I don’t know what you’re talking about. I really don't remember what happened on that balcony"

He chuckled, the sound low, knowing. "Really? Then why do you assume I was talking about the balcony?"

Your body tensed, goosebumps rising along your arms. He noticed.

Tension coiled thick between you, and when his hands roamed lower, his palm pressing against your lower stomach, your grip tightened on the counter. You sucked in a sharp breath as his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, teasing, exploring.

He was hard against you, the towel doing little to hide it, and your own arousal was building rapidly.

You met his gaze in the mirror, the reflection of your bodies entwined sending a shiver through you. He smirked slightly, fingers dipping lower.

A sharp inhale escaped your lips as his fingers teased along the sensitive skin just below your navel before slipping lower, pressing against the heat between your thighs. Your grip on the counter tightened, knuckles turning white as a slow, burning pleasure coiled in your stomach.

Charles watched your reflection intently, his own breathing shallow, his pupils blown wide with desire. His free hand skimmed up your arm, fingers brushing over your pulse point, feeling how erratic it was. His lips hovered close to your ear again, his voice nothing but a husky murmur.

"You’re shaking," he observed, voice laced with amusement but also something softer, something darker.

You tried to steady your breath, but it was impossible when his fingers pressed firmer, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that made your knees feel weak.

"Charles," you exhaled, half warning, half plea.

He hummed against your skin, lips barely grazing the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder. "You like this." It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, one he knew you wouldn’t deny.

Your reflection betrayed you—half-lidded eyes, parted lips, flushed skin. You hated that he could read you so well.

He continued his torturous pace, dragging his fingers over the damp heat of your core, making your stomach twist in pleasure. Your hips twitched involuntarily, chasing the sensation, and he smirked against your skin.

"So responsive," he murmured, his own restraint hanging by a thread.

Your hands clenched around the counter, your head tipping back against his shoulder, and for a fleeting second, you forgot everything but the way he made you feel.

The tension crackled like a live wire between you, and neither of you were willing to break it.

Not yet.

⁺⋆⁺₊⁺⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⁺⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⁺ ⋆⁺

But it seemed like fate had another plan.

Just as your body was tipping into that dangerous edge between want and need, your phone suddenly blared its ringtone—loud, sharp, and completely out of place in the thick heat between you.

You jolted, muscles tensing, the noise yanking you from the haze. Your eyes shot to the bathroom counter, where the phone vibrated insistently against the marble surface.

Kika.

Charles stilled for a fraction of a second, a smirk curling slowly on his lips when he saw the name on the screen. “Answer it,” he whispered against your neck, voice dark and low, fingers still resting between your thighs, unmoving—but not for long.

You turned your head slightly, trying to glare at him, breath shaky. “You’re insane.”

“Mm,” he hummed, mouth grazing your jaw. “And you love it.”

Before you could say anything else, he reached around you and grabbed the phone with one hand, his other hand never leaving your body. With a single, casual swipe, he answered the call and tapped speaker.

He didn’t say a word.

"Hey, are you almost ready? We were thinking of grabbing a drink in the garden," Kika’s voice rang out, light and cheerful, oblivious.

Your pulse slammed against your throat.

Charles moved again.

Slowly, deliberately, his fingers resumed their wicked rhythm, sliding against your slick heat with practiced ease. Your breath caught in your throat, eyes wide as you struggled to stay upright, gripping the counter for dear life. He was relentless—circling, pressing, teasing. And yet, entirely silent, like he wasn’t doing anything at all.

“I—” you swallowed hard, fighting the tremble in your voice. “I’m almost ready. I-I’ll be down soon.”

Charles dipped his head, kissing just beneath your ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. The smug bastard was enjoying every second of this.

There was a brief pause on the line.

“You okay?” Kika asked. “You sound… weird.”

You forced a shaky laugh, one that probably gave away more than it concealed. “Yeah. Peachy.”

Charles chuckled silently against your shoulder, his breath hot as it danced along your skin. His fingers sped up, the pressure just right, sending waves of heat spiraling up your spine.

Kika sounded unconvinced. “Are you sure?Did you have another fight with Charles or something?”

"No, just not in the mood for his presence, that's all" you managed to say quite steadily.

Your eyes locked on Charles in the mirror. He looked positively unbothered—amused, even. His hand flexed against your lower stomach, holding you in place as his movements grew more deliberate, more intense. Your hips shifted involuntarily, grinding back against the towel around his waist. You felt him, hard and pulsing beneath the thin fabric, the friction making him groan softly into your neck before biting it lightly, trying to muffle the sound.

It only made everything worse.

Or better.

"Is he there or something?" Kika joked.

“No,” you choked out. “He’s not here.”

He bit down harder on your shoulder this time, just enough to make you squirm.

Kika sighed. “Alright, well, hurry up. I’ll see you down there?”

“Yeah. I’ll—” your voice broke off into a strangled gasp as Charles curved his fingers inside you just right, his thumb finding that perfect rhythm on your clit. You bit your lip so hard it hurt. “I’ll be down in five.”

“Okay! See you.” And just like that, the call ended.

The moment the line went dead, Charles dropped the phone back onto the counter and lifted his head, catching your dazed expression in the mirror.

He looked like he wanted to devour you.

“You lied to your friend,” he murmured, pressing his body tighter against yours. The wet towel barely separated you, and you could feel the heat of him, the tension in every line of his frame.

“I didn't really have a choice, did I?” you shot back breathlessly. "You were the one that couldn't hold back his moan."

“You were writhing,” he countered, leaning in to kiss the side of your neck. “You made me moan.” he said casually.

You shivered when his lips found that sensitive spot beneath your jaw again, his free hand now trailing up your torso, finding your breast through your thin top and palming it gently, teasing your nipple through the fabric. You arched into him, overwhelmed, pleasure crackling through your nerves like electricity.

"Charles," you breathed, but this time there was no warning in your voice—only desperation.

“Let go,” he whispered, voice almost reverent. “I’ve got you.”

His fingers moved faster, more insistent now, relentless in the way he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. You couldn't stop the sounds that fell from your lips—soft, gasping, needy.

The coil in your stomach tightened until it snapped, pleasure cascading through your entire body in a blinding rush. Your hips bucked against his hand, your grip bruising on the counter, your body shuddering against his.

He didn’t stop until every last wave had ebbed, until your breath came in shallow, broken gasps and your legs barely held you upright.

Only then did he pull back, pressing one final kiss to your neck before stepping away, leaving a trail of wet footprints across the bathroom floor.

He turned toward the door, glancing over his shoulder with that same infuriating, devastating smirk.

“Well,” he said, grabbing a new towel from the hook, “I'm off getting ready, you could have been ready ages ago.”

You shot him a look, still trying to catch your breath.

He winked, cocky as ever. “Get dressed, chérie. Wouldn’t want them to think we were doing something scandalous.”

And with that, he disappeared into his room—completely unaffected.

You, however, were still trembling. And your makeup was only half off.

previous | next

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The midnight air was crisp, laden with the salty tang of the nearby ocean, but Charles barely noticed. He sat on the edge of a weathered wooden bench in the garden of the holiday house, his hands clasped tightly, knuckles white from the pressure. His gaze was distant, fixed on the rolling waves beyond the house, though his mind was trapped in the storm of merely 30 minutes ago.

The memory was relentless—the sting of his own words, sharp and cutting, and then the way your lips crushed against his in defiance. His heart twisted painfully at the thought. He’d meant to hurt you, but not like that. He had only wanted... what? To remind you of what you once had? To shield himself from how much he still wanted it?

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. He needed to apologize, needed to find the right words—but how did you say sorry for something like that?

The sound of footsteps on gravel pulled him from his thoughts. He looked up just as Pierre lowered himself onto the bench next to him, his beer bottle cradled in his hands. Pierre’s expression was unreadable, but his quiet presence was enough to make Charles sit a little straighter, nerves prickling beneath his skin.

“You know…” Pierre started, his voice steady but tinged with something stern. He took a slow sip of his beer, savoring the moment, or maybe gathering his thoughts. “You’re damn lucky you’re my best friend.”

Charles swallowed hard, his mouth dry. “Pierre, I—”

“No.” Pierre’s voice was calm but unyielding. “Let me talk.” He set his mug down with a quiet clink, turning fully toward Charles. “You crossed a line there. You know it.”

Charles nodded stiffly, guilt clawing at his chest. “I know. I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.” Pierre’s eyes hardened. “Maybe not like that, but you knew what you were doing. You’ve always known how she felt about you.”

Charles flinched, the weight of Pierre’s words hitting harder than expected. He’d always known, even when he tried to pretend otherwise. But hearing it laid out so plainly stung.

“She finally got over you, Charles.” Pierre’s voice softened, though the edge remained. “Don’t break her down again.”

Charles clenched his jaw, his heart pounding. “But what if I don’t want her to be over me?”

Pierre blinked, clearly caught off guard. His protective demeanor returned quickly. “You can’t just decide that now, when it’s convenient for you.” His voice sharpened, his words deliberate. “She waited for you. For years. You don’t get to show up now and expect her to—”

“I know,” Charles interrupted, desperation seeping into his tone. “I know I messed up. But it’s not like that... it’s never been like that.” His voice cracked. “I never stopped caring.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken memories and regrets. Charles stared at his hands, fingers trembling.

Pierre studied him carefully, searching for sincerity. Finally, he sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “If you care about her so much, why do you keep being so hostile to her?”

Charles exhaled slowly, guilt flashing across his face. “I know I’m an ass… but she’s not exactly being nice to me either.”

Pierre nodded thoughtfully. “I know she isn't, but to be honest, it takes two to tango. If neither of you stops being a shithead, then it will just go on like this"

Charles stayed silent, the weight of Pierre’s words settling heavily on his shoulders. He had an idea why, but admitting it felt too dangerous to ask, so he kept it broad "I just wish I knew why"

Pierre watched him closely, noticing his questioning eyes, then sighed again. "I don't know either what her exact issue is either, you know. She doesn't really want to talk to me about it. I know she had a crush on you and I know she declared to 'hate' you now, but besides that she mostly refuses to talk about it. Most of what I know if from Kika" he explains, a sigh leaving his lips. He understood you didn't feel particularly thrilled to talk about his own best friend with you brother, but still, he just wished he could have helped you "Besides, even if I knew, it's not up to me to tell you why"

"I know" Charles mumbled.

Both of the boys stayed silent for a while, before Pierre spoke up again. He exhaled sharply. "I do want to know tho, why did you say what you did?"

Charles rubbed the back of his neck, frustration etched into his features. "I don’t know... I was angry. At myself. At her. She acts like what we had meant nothing, like it’s easy to forget. And I... I wanted her to feel something—anything."

Pierre narrowed his eyes. "What you had?" he repeated, voice low. "You never had anything, Charles. You rejected her. You made it clear you didn’t see her that way—multiple times."

Charles opened his mouth but no words came. Pierre pressed on, his tone steady but laced with old frustration. "I get it. She was young. Even when she was old enough, I sort of understood. But you can’t blame her for moving on—you made it pretty clear you didn’t want her."

Charles dropped his gaze, at a loss. His chest tightened painfully, regret clawing at him. "I know I didn’t have her—not the way I... want her now." His voice was rough, tinged with something raw. "At first, I didn’t even realize I had feelings for her. She was just... always there. We were always together, laughing, talking... It felt empty when she wasn’t around. And I don't know what happened, but... everything changed."

Pierre’s expression softened just a fraction. "She moved on, Charles. That’s what happened."

Charles let out a hollow scoff, shaking his head. "I didn’t realize how much she meant to me until she wasn’t there all the time anymore. It felt... empty without her. And then she started dating... that idiot. Seeing her with him, seeing how she smiled at him—it hit me like a truck. I wanted to be the one making her smile. I wanted to be the one she looked at like that."

His voice grew rougher, laced with regret. "But she seemed... happy. I knew I was too late. I didn’t know what to do with... all of it. The jealousy, the frustration. I felt so... lost."

Pierre studied him for a long moment, conflicted between empathy and frustration. Finally, he tilted his head, the edge returning faintly. "Care to elaborate on ‘that idiot’?"

Charles sighed, defeated. "Raphaël."

Pierre blinked, stunned. "That was four years ago." his brows furrowed slightly, a hint of understanding softening his otherwise protective stance. "You’ve been holding onto this for that long? You've never told me anything" His voice carried an unexpected note of compassion.

Charles nodded, shame tugging at his features. "I know. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it back then. I was 23, she was only 18... and she’s your little sister. It didn’t seem... right."

Pierre huffed a bitter laugh. "You’re an idiot."

Charles managed a faint, humorless smile. "I’ve been trying to get over her for years. That comment... it was just another reminder of how badly I messed up. It got to my head. I was frustrated... angry. I think, deep down, I just wanted her to feel something—anything. Even if it was hate."

Pierre stayed quiet, processing, his gaze lingering with something unreadable. He didn’t let Charles off the hook, but there was a trace of reluctant understanding in his eyes "You think hurting her would really be the solution?"

"No," Charles admitted, his voice breaking. "I just... I don’t know how to be around her anymore. Everything’s so twisted."

Pierre sighed deeply. "Then maybe stop twisting it more. Figure out what you actually want, Charles. But don’t drag her down while you’re doing it."

Charles nodded, his voice laced with regret and defeat "God, I really screwed things up, man"

Pierre studied him for a long moment, something thoughtful flickering in his gaze. He sighed, his tone unexpectedly gentle. "You really care about her, don’t you?"

Charles’s breath hitched, the vulnerability he’d been holding back threatening to spill over. "More than I’ve ever let myself admit."

Pierre’s expression softened briefly before his protective instinct returned. "Then don’t screw this up more than you already have."

Charles swallowed hard, nodding again "I just don't know how act around her. It's as if the minute she gets close, my brain just haywires and I just start saying mean stuff, as if it's some kind of messed up coping mechanism"

Pierre's words hit him, deep. Pierre was the third person to tell him the same message, yet this one hit harder than the ones from Joris or Arthur. 

Charles looked at the floor, his voice softer now. "I have to apologize to her. I need to see if she's downstairs, i gotta talk to her"

Before he could rise, a quiet voice sliced through the nights stillness.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Both men turned sharply to see you standing by the open garden gate, arms crossed, face carefully blank.

“I heard… enough,” you admitted, stepping closer but keeping your distance. Your gaze flicked from Pierre to Charles, unreadable.

Truth is, you'd been standing there for a while. You'd gone outside, intending to find Pierre, but paused when you heard familiar voices drifting from the garden. The low murmur of conversation tugged at your curiosity.

You knew you should’ve turned back, given them privacy—but you couldn’t help yourself. Silently, you edged closer, heart pounding, hidden just around the corner of the open garden gate.

At first, it seemed harmless, the first words you were able to understand was when your brother asked Charles if he really thought hurting you was the solution, but the next thing Charles said, caused you to freeze into place. He didn't know how to be around you anymore?

Their words had washed over you in waves—raw, vulnerable, and far more honest than you’d expected. Each sentence struck deeper than the last, unraveling truths you hadn’t been prepared to face.

You took a deep breath, forcing a nonchalant tone that didn’t quite match the fire burning in your chest.

"There isn’t really anything to talk about," you said, crossing your arms, your tone teetering between forced indifference and something sharper. "Yes, it was a low blow, but it’s not like he was talking nonsense. He was just stating facts."

Your voice hardened slightly as you continued, "Yes, I said that—what he brought up. But things change, people change. I was young and naive back then." You paused, the faintest flicker of something more vulnerable crossing your face before you smothered it. "Yes, I was in love with you back then, but I got over it. I stopped feeling that way a long time ago" you lied.

The words came out smoothly, but only Charles seemed to believe them. Pierre’s gaze flickered with suspicion, his brows furrowing slightly. He didn’t interrupt, but the tension between the three of you was palpable.

Charles felt the words like a blow to his chest, the pang of hurt sharp and immediate. He tried to steel himself against it, but the tiniest flicker of hope he’d been holding onto crumbled away. His throat tightened as he struggled to keep his composure, the sting of unshed tears burning at the corners of his eyes. He clenched his fists on his lap, willing himself to stay still, to not let the pain show. Yet, your words echoed in his head, each syllable carving deeper into the regret already rooted there.

"But that doesn’t mean it was necessary for him to bring it up," you added, your gaze briefly flicking to Charles. "You had no right to just throw that out in the open like it was nothing. What I said back then was between us, and it should have stayed that way." 

You took a deep breath, before you spoke up again "You were well aware of how I felt about you back then, Charlie" you mumbled.

Charles winced, hearing you call him by his nickname for the first time in years, guilt flashing in his eyes. He blinked rapidly, but it did little to stop the tears welling up in his eyes. One escaped, trailing down his cheek before he could wipe it away with the back of his hand, his movements quick and self-conscious. He turned his head slightly, as if trying to shield himself from your gaze, but his throat was tight, the weight of regret almost suffocating.

You forced your vulnerability to chang to a stoic expression "But then again, I was the one who started it with my comment to you, wasn't I? We were both being rude. Shit happens."

You exhaled sharply, crossing your arms tighter, your voice laced with a faint bitterness as if daring them to challenge you "So really, there’s no point dragging it out any further."

But even as you said the words, your voice faltered ever so slightly—just enough for Charles to catch. His chest tightened, determination sparking anew.

Charles coughed awkwardly, the sound breaking the heavy silence as he rose stiffly from the bench. His movements were slow, reluctant, like he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. Before he turned to leave, he glanced at you one more time. His eyes, red-rimmed and glossy, locked with yours, and for the first time in a long while, he let you see the vulnerability he’d been trying so hard to hide.

“I-I really am s-sorry,” he stuttered, his voice barely more than a whisper. The slight tremor in his tone made your chest tighten. You watched him sigh, his shoulders sinking further as he turned and walked toward the house, leaving you alone with Pierre.

You let out a shaky breath, steeling yourself before plopping down next to your brother on the bench.

“You reek of alcohol,” Pierre said matter-of-factly, his nose wrinkling slightly in distaste.

You rolled your eyes in response, ignoring the observation. Without missing a beat, you reached for the bottle of beer in his hand, plucked it away, and downed the last of it in one swift go. The bitterness bit at your throat, but you barely flinched.

“Cheers,” you huffed, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before setting the empty bottle aside.

Pierre leaned back, stretching out his legs and resting his arm casually across the backrest. He studied you for a long moment, his gaze soft but observant.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, though the seriousness in his tone made it clear he wasn’t expecting the usual brush-off.

You sighed, resting your elbows on your knees as you stared at the gravel beneath your feet. “Just peachy,” you muttered, sarcasm dripping from your voice.

Pierre chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re a horrible liar, you know that, right?”

“Yup,” you replied with a forced chuckle of your own, the sound hollow. You rubbed your temples briefly before leaning back next to him, your shoulder brushing his.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sounds came from the faint crash of waves in the distance and the occasional chirp of insects.

Finally, Pierre broke the silence. “You know, you never really talk to me about Charles.”

You tensed slightly but tried to mask it, eyes still focused on the ground. “What’s there to talk about?”

Pierre gave you a skeptical look. “A lot, actually. I know something’s up, and I know more than you think I do.”

You frowned, turning to face him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Kika.” Pierre shrugged, watching your expression closely. “She’s mentioned a few things. Nothing specific, obviously—she’s loyal, don’t worry—but enough for me to know there’s more to this than you let on.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as frustration and exhaustion swirled inside you. “Kika needs to learn how to keep her mouth shut,” you muttered under your breath, though you couldn’t bring yourself to feel mad at her.

“Come on,” Pierre urged gently, nudging your shoulder. “Just tell me. What’s the deal with you and Charles? I’m not here to judge—I just want to understand.”

Hesitation gripped you, but something in Pierre’s tone softened the walls you’d spent so long building. You bit your lip before speaking, your voice quieter this time.

“I don’t know what happened,” you admitted, your words slow and deliberate. “I was in love with him—stupidly, blindly in love. And he... didn’t feel the same. So, I moved on. Or at least, I tried. But then he turned cold, like he flipped a switch, and suddenly everything changed. That’s where we are now.”

Pierre stayed quiet, letting your words settle before responding. “Why didn’t you come to me when all of this was happening?”

You looked at him, an almost apologetic smile tugging at your lips. “Because it’s Charles. He’s your best friend. I didn’t want to put you in the middle of it, and… I didn’t want you to look at me like I was pathetic. Like some lovesick teenager.”

Pierre shook his head. “You’re not pathetic. And you’re not alone, either.”

“Yeah, well,” you mumbled, crossing your arms, “it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

Pierre was quiet for a moment before he spoke again, his voice unusually serious. “Just be honest with me.”

You glanced at him warily. “About what?”

“Are you really over him?”

You sighed heavily, your gaze flicking back to the horizon as you tried to compose yourself. “It’s complicated, Pierre.”

Pierre wasn’t satisfied with that. He placed a hand gently on your shoulder, forcing you to look at him. “That’s not an answer. Yes, or no?”

The weight of his question sat heavily on your chest, and after a beat, your resolve crumbled. “I don't think so” you uttered quietly, your voice barely audible. “I’m not over him. I never really stopped being in love with him. But it doesn’t matter, Pierre. He doesn’t feel the same.”

Pierre blinked, surprised. He frowned, thinking back to his earlier conversation. “What exactly did you hear from my talk with Charles?”

You frowned, confusion crossing your features. “Everything after you asked him if hurting me would really solve anything. Why?”

Pierre’s expression shifted as the pieces clicked together. “You didn’t hear everything,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your brow furrowing.

Pierre hesitated, trying to find the right words. Finally, he looked at you seriously. “If he did feel the same… if he realized now how he feels about you… would you give him a chance?”

You blinked at him, stunned, before shaking your head with a bitter laugh. “If he did, he’d be too late. I waited long enough for him” Your voice softened as you added, “Or well, I guess that's what I'm trying to tell myself. But truth is, Charles is and will always be my weak spot. I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving him.”

You sighed, the admission heavier than you expected. “But it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t feel the same anyway.”

Pierre studied you quietly for a moment before speaking. “I think you should talk to him.”

You huffed, leaning back against the bench as you closed your eyes. “I think I need more alcohol.”

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Later that night, when the noise had finally died down, you climbed the stairs to your room, your head buzzing but your mind a little clearer than before. The cool night air called to you, beckoning you toward the balcony. You stepped out, inhaling deeply, letting the crispness of the evening settle in your chest.

And there he was.

Charles sat slumped on the outdoor sofa, his head resting against the iron railing, strands of his tousled hair falling over his forehead. Even in the dim light, you could see the redness around his eyes, the glisten of moisture tracing the sharp contours of his cheekbones. He was crying.

You hesitated. A part of you felt a pang of guilt at seeing him like this, but another part—the one that recalled the words exchanged earlier, the sting of his accusations—felt justified. He had brought this upon himself.

Still, you approached, leaning against the railing beside him. "We keep meeting here, don’t we?" you said, feigning casualness, pretending the air between you wasn’t thick with unresolved tension.

Charles stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. He turned his head slightly, his glassy eyes meeting yours before he quickly looked away. "Apparently," he muttered, his voice hoarse, heavy.

You sighed and sat beside him, your thigh nearly brushing against his. You hesitated for just a second before reaching out, placing a hand on his upper thigh. He tensed under your touch, but he didn’t pull away.

"No need to pity me," he murmured. "We both know it’s my fault."

Your thumb moved in slow, soothing circles over the fabric of his jeans. "We were both at fault, Charles," you admitted. "You probably shouldn’t have said what you did, but let’s be honest, my response wasn’t exactly warm either."

He swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing, but he remained silent. A single tear slipped down his cheek, and something inside you twisted at the sight.

"So let’s just forget it happened," you continued. "Forgive and forget, yeah?"

He barely had time to process your words before you added, "Besides, I think I got my revenge, didn’t I?" A smirk played on your lips as you referenced the truth or dare kiss.

Charles let out a soft huff of laughter, the sound laced with lingering sadness. "You got me good, Gasly."

You giggled, the tension cracking just slightly. "Oh, I definitely did."

The two of you sat there in silence for a while, until the atmosphere around the two of you seemed to shift. Charles' thoughts slowly betraying him. You could see it—the flicker of something darker in his gaze. His lips parted slightly, his breath uneven. He was remembering it, just as you were. The kiss. The way you had taken control, the way he had melted into it despite himself.

Then something else flashed across his face, something new. You watched his throat tighten, his body shifting uncomfortably under your hand. It took you a second to register it—the tension in his muscles, the way his fingers curled into fists on his lap, the warmth radiating from where your hand rested.

You tilted your head, pretending to be oblivious. "Something wrong?"

He exhaled sharply, the sound almost a whimper. "Your hand," he said, voice low, strained. "It’s not helping."

You bit back a grin, feigning innocence. "Oh? This?" Your thumb pressed down ever so slightly, your touch slow, teasing. "I didn’t realize."

His breath hitched. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, as if trying to will away the situation. But he was too drunk for that. The alcohol dulled his inhibitions, made him more vulnerable to the way you toyed with him.

"You’re too drunk for this," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper "You're probably gonna regret this"

You leaned in slightly, your lips close to his ear. "So are you."

He sucked in a sharp breath. And yet, neither of you moved away.

Your fingers drifted higher, just slightly, enough to make him twitch beneath your touch. His reaction sent a thrill through you, a heady rush of power. You could feel the heat seeping through his jeans, the evidence of his arousal pressing against the inside of your palm.

"You really struggled with that kiss earlier, didn’t you?" you mused, dragging your nails lightly along the denim. "Poor thing."

He groaned softly, his hips shifting despite himself. "Don’t."

"Don’t what?" you teased, your fingers grazing the outline of his hard length through his jeans.

His breath stuttered, his jaw clenched. He was trying so hard to stay composed, but the alcohol, the heat of your touch, the memory of your lips on his—it was too much.

And then he did it. He let out the softest, most desperate little moan.

"Merde," he hissed under his breath as you pressed down a little firmer, the friction making him jolt. His hips lifted ever so slightly into your touch, desperate for more despite himself.

You grinned, victorious. "See? Told you."

His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist—not to push you away, but to keep you there, as if he couldn’t bear to lose the contact. His fingers trembled against your skin.

"You’re playing a dangerous game," he murmured, his voice wrecked.

You hummed in response, pretending to consider his words. Your hand drifted higher, fingertips ghosting over his waistband before moving back down again, teasing.

"Am I?" you whispered, dragging your thumb along the length of him through the fabric, slow, torturous.

Charles sucked in a sharp breath, his head tipping back against the backrest of the sofa, exposing the curve of his throat. His chest rose and fell rapidly, every muscle in his body tight with restraint. "You’re—" His voice cracked as you applied the slightest pressure. "—fucking impossible."

"And yet," you mused, leaning in so your lips nearly brushed the shell of his ear, "you’re still letting me."

He let out a broken sound, something between a moan and a plea, his hand twitching around your wrist like he was trying to decide whether to push your closer or push you away. But you could tell—he didn’t really want you to stop.

His body trembled under your touch, his hips shifting in a barely restrained need for more. You were drunk, yes, but that only made you bolder, more willing to test the limits, to push him to the edge just to see how far he would let you go.

"You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?" you whispered referring to the kiss, voice thick with amusement, but your own pulse was racing.

His throat bobbed. "You’re making it very hard not to."

"Good," you murmured, and your hand drifted higher, skimming along the inside of his thigh, your fingers just barely grazing where he was already achingly hard beneath the denim.

Charles let out a low, strangled sound, his entire body shuddering. His breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling unevenly, but he still held himself back, barely hanging on by a thread.

You let your hand wander just a little higher. Just barely. A tease. A test.

"Fuck," Charles exhaled, voice wrecked. His fingers tightened into the cushioning of the sofa, as if trying to snap himself out of it. "You're—" His breath hitched as you pressed your palm more firmly against him, your fingers applying just enough pressure to make his thighs tremble. "You're playing dirty," he said, but the words came out weak, like he didn’t believe them himself.

"Seems like you're not opposed to it, Charlie" you whispered, dragging your nails lightly along the seam of his jeans.

Charles let out a breathy chuckle, though it quickly dissolved into a shudder when your hand moved again, feeling him twitch beneath your hand. His eyes fluttered shut. His breathing stuttered.

You let your fingers work him through the fabric of his jeans, pressing along his length with slow, torturous movements.

Charles whimpered. Actually whimpered.

His hands curled into fists, knuckles white, trying to keep control, trying not to completely unravel beneath you.

"You sound so pretty like this," you teased, pressing another slow, deliberate stroke against him.

His response was another ragged moan, his body trembling beneath your touch. His head dipped forward slightly, forehead almost brushing yours, his lips ghosting so close—so frustratingly close—but never quite meeting yours.

"Why are we doing this?" he rasped, voice barely above a whisper, but he made no effort to stop you.

"Because it’s fun." you hummed, fingers pressing along his length again, firmer this time.

Charles let out a wrecked, shaky laugh, but it cut off into another choked moan when you gripped him more firmly, your palm working him through the fabric with slow, deliberate pressure.

It was intoxicating, the way he fell apart under your touch. The way he clung to the last threads of his restraint while you toyed with him mercilessly.

"You're—" He exhaled sharply as you pressed your palm more firmly against him. "We’re drunk," he said, but the words held no conviction.

"Good observation" you countered, leaning in just enough that your lips almost brushed his.

His head fell forward slightly leaning on your shoulder, his jaw going slack, his lips dangerously close to yours but never quite meeting. His entire body was shaking now, legs tensed beneath your touch.

"Merde—" he choked out, his hand tightening his grip on your hip, fingers flexing, body trembling beneath your touch.

"If you don’t stop now, I—" His breath caught, his chest heaving. "I won’t—" His words broke off into a stifled groan as you palmed him harder, pressing your forehead against his, your lips so unbearably close.

"Won’t what, Charles?" you murmured, voice dripping with amusement, his confession only spurring you on to palm him faster, harder, stimulate him even more.

He exhaled sharply, his fingers twitching against your hips, as if he wanted to grab you, pull you flush against him—but he didn’t.

Charles felt all the sensations build up in his body, more and more and more, until...

"Oh, there you are!"

The sound of your name rang out, shattering the moment like glass.

Both of you jerked apart, your heart slamming into your ribs as you turned your head toward the doorway. Arthur stood there, peeking his head out onto the balcony, oblivious to what he had just interrupted.

"I just wanted to check up on you, see how you were doing" Arthur said, stepping forward slightly before his eyes landed on Charles. His brows furrowed, confused by his presence but not suspecting anything more. "Oh. Didn’t know you were out here too."

Charles cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. You quickly retracted your hand, smoothing out your dress as if that would erase what had just transpired.

"Yeah, just talking through some things," you said casually, forcing a smile.

Arthur gave you a skeptical look but shrugged. "Alright, well, just checking in. Night, Charles."

Charles nodded stiffly. "Night."

Arthur gave you one last glance before disappearing back inside. The moment the door shut, silence fell between you and Charles again, but the tension remained, thick and suffocating—charged with something neither of you could define nor dare to acknowledge.

Charles was still struggling to breathe properly, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. You could feel the heat rolling off his body, see the way his hands curled into the fabric of his jeans as if grounding himself.

You turned back to him, letting out a sigh "I should go" you said softly as you got up.

Charles nodded "Yeah, I guess so" he replied, not really knowing how to feel about the whole situation.

previous | next

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*a few days later*

As you stood in the bathroom, tying your hair into a ponytail, the familiar scent of the devil himself filled the small space. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Charles had a way of entering a room without saying a word but still commanding all the air in it. He closed the distance between you two, silently taking his place by the sink next to you, reaching into the cupboard for his hair products.

You bit back a groan, focusing on your reflection. There was nothing inherently wrong with him being there—but him standing this close stirred feelings you desperately wanted to push aside. His presence was overwhelming, in that maddening, familiar way.

Your usual coping mechanism kicked in: sarcasm, sharp enough to keep him at arm’s length.

"Fixing your hair won’t fix your attitude, you know that, right?" you sassed, not entirely sure why you felt the need to say anything.

Charles scoffed, his eyes catching yours in the mirror. His gaze was intense, steady—always knowing too much. "There’s no attitude that needs fixing," he huffed, washing his hands and drying them on the towel with deliberate slowness. "Besides, some people actually put effort into how they present themselves..."

Your head snapped toward him. "Is this your not-so-subtle way of saying I look like shit?"

He rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. "Are you honestly this delusional?"

You threw your hands in the air. "Well, apparently, I am! Because that insult was completely unnecessary." You crossed your arms, leaning back against the sink with a challenging glare.

Charles shrugged, unfazed. "First of all, you started it. I didn’t do anything until you found it necessary to attack me." His voice lowered slightly, holding that aggravating calmness. "And besides… you and I both know that wasn’t an insult."

You narrowed your eyes. "How was it not an insult? You basically said I don’t put effort into how I look."

He inched closer, his movements slow and deliberate. Before you could register what was happening, his hands were on either side of you, gripping the edge of the sink. His chest hovered just inches from yours, effectively trapping you in place. His cologne wrapped around you, sending shivers down your spine.

Your breath hitched as his gaze flicked from your eyes to your lips before snapping back, locking onto yours like he was daring you to look away.

"Chérie, don’t act like you’re unaware that I think you’re hot," he whispered, voice low and rough. "You don’t need the effort."

Your heart thudded violently in your chest. For a split second, your gaze dropped to his lips—damn it. Realizing your mistake, you forced your eyes away, breathing through the sudden rush of heat.

You steeled yourself and met his gaze again. "Charles, quit playing games and get out of my face," you said through clenched teeth, though your voice wavered ever so slightly.

His eyes swept over you one last time, lingering on how you were still pressed against the sink, tension radiating between you like a live wire. His jaw clenched.

What the hell is he thinking?

Charles shifted back slightly, but something held him there, still too close for comfort. He exhaled sharply, as if wrestling with himself.

"What changed?" he asked quietly, voice strained.

Your brows furrowed. "What the hell are you talking about?"

He sighed, shoulders tense. "What did I do that made you hate me so much?" His voice softened, tinged with something dangerously close to regret. "What changed?"

Before you could answer—or even begin to process what to say—someone cleared their throat at the doorway.

Charles jumped back like he’d been burned, stumbling a step before retreating to sit on the edge of the bathtub, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. You turned your head sharply, locking eyes with Arthur, who stood leaning against the doorframe with a massive, knowing grin.

"I came to ask if you’re ready for game night," Arthur said casually, though his smirk betrayed every innocent intention.

You let out a slow, steadying breath, forcing yourself to relax. "Yeah, coming," you muttered, pushing off the sink and brushing past him.

But before you crossed the threshold, something tugged at you. You rested your hand on the doorframe, glancing back at Charles. His head lifted, eyes locking onto yours with a silent intensity.

"As for what changed?" you said quietly, voice sharper than you intended. "The fact that you have no idea says enough, Charles."

With that, you walked out, catching up to Arthur as he fell into step beside you, still grinning like an idiot.

He glanced sideways at you, suppressing a laugh. "You two really have a thing for getting caught in bathrooms together, huh?"

You rolled your eyes. "Don’t start."

Arthur chuckled. "Well, let’s just say... I did put my money on you two hooking up this holiday, but I didn’t expect you to get that intimate that fast."

"First of all, nothing happened," you snapped, face heating. "And second, it wasn’t what it looked like."

"That’s what they all say," Arthur teased. "But to me, it looked like my brother had you pinned against the sink pretty damn convincingly."

You groaned. "He did not have me pinned—"

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Oh? Because you being pressed against the sink while he boxed you in with his hands definitely looked like pinning from where I was standing."

"Fine," you admitted, throwing your hands up. "It looked exactly like that, but it was not for the reason you so desperately hope it was. So shut your mouth before I call your mom and tell her what happened to her couch." you said, referring to the time you caught Arthur and his former girlfriend having sex on his mom's new couch.

Arthur’s grin dropped instantly, his hands shooting up in mock surrender. "Alright, relax, no need for threats!" he laughed, shaking his head as the two of you headed downstairs.

As you and Arthur walked into the living room, you couldn’t help but laugh at his teasing, shaking your head in mock exasperation.

"I’m still putting my money on it, though," Arthur added with a mischievous grin, his voice light but teasing.

Before you could respond, Dennis looked up from where he was lounging on the couch, eyebrows raised in curiosity. "Putting your money on what?"

Arthur didn’t miss a beat. "That she’ll hook up with Charles before the end of this trip," he declared confidently, shooting you a knowing smirk.

Dennis let out a deep chuckle, sitting up straighter. "Oh, definitely. There’s no doubt in that," he agreed, his tone playfully conspiratorial.

You groaned dramatically, throwing your hands in the air. "Seriously? You’re both delusional."

Arthur shrugged. "Just calling it like we see it. The tension could be cut with a knife."

Dennis nodded sagely, as if offering expert commentary. "It’s practically inevitable."

Rolling your eyes, you grabbed a pillow from the nearest couch and tossed it at Dennis, who dodged it with practiced ease, laughing.

"You two are ridiculous," you muttered, fighting back a smile as they continued to exchange amused glances like co-conspirators.

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Tonight, the sky outside was pitch black, the faint sound of waves crashing in the distance as the group gathered in the living room. Sprawled across the plush couches, each of you with a drink in hand, the night carried an air of relaxed intimacy. The warm light of the room and the subtle buzz of alcohol created the perfect atmosphere for a game that was bound to stir up some chaos.

It was Inès who first suggested it, her eyes sparkling mischievously as she leaned forward, waving her drink for emphasis. “Okay,” she announced, her grin widening. “Let’s play ‘Never Have I Ever.’”

There was a mix of groans and laughs, but no one protested. As the alcohol worked its magic, the group quickly fell into the rhythm of the game, starting with tame questions.

“Alright,” Inès began, her tone playful. “Never have I ever made out at work.”

A beat of silence followed before all the boys raised their glasses almost simultaneously, their movements earning a round of laughter.

“I should’ve guessed,” you said, shaking your head as they took their sips.

The game continued, the questions growing more personal but still lighthearted. Dennis asked if anyone had ever called in sick to work when they weren’t actually sick, which prompted a unanimous drink from nearly everyone. Joris, with his usual antics, asked if anyone had ever gotten so drunk they couldn’t remember anything, earning another flurry of laughter as most of the group took a sip.

Then Kika piped up, her eyes sparkling as she leaned back against Pierre with a devilish grin. “Okay, my turn,” she announced, her voice dripping with amusement. “Never have I ever made out with my brother’s or sister’s best friend.”

The room broke into a chorus of gasps and giggles as everyone’s eyes darted around, scanning for raised glasses other than the obvious ones. Pierre groaned, shaking his head with a laugh as he lifted his drink and took a sip.

“You just want to get your boyfriend drunk, don't you?” Dennis teased Kika, his grin widening as he, too, raised his glass and took a sip.

Kika laughed, and looked at Pierre, who shot Dennis a playful smirk. “You did too, I see?”

Dennis chuckled, not bothering to deny it. “Yeah, can't deny that.”

Kika raised an eyebrow, her gaze flitting around the room. “Alright, anyone else want to confess?”

You stayed silent, hiding your smirk behind the rim of your glass as you watched the game unfold. The question might not have been directed at you specifically, but the implications swirling around the room were impossible to ignore, clearly an indirect question to see if you actually ever made out with Charles, which bummer to them, you didn't.

The game was already proving to be far more chaotic than you’d anticipated. The group sat sprawled out on the plush couches in the villa’s living room, drinks in hand and laughter filling the air. You’d already survived a few rounds of lighthearted questions—some borderline embarrassing—but when Dennis sat forward, his mischievous grin spelled trouble.

“Okay,” Dennis announced, his voice cutting through the chatter. “Y’all ask boring questions. Let’s spice this up.” He took a dramatic pause, letting the tension build before smirking. “Never have I ever gotten off to the thought of someone in this room… since we arrived here.”

A ripple of laughter broke out immediately. Kika, sitting snugly next to Pierre, was the first to respond, raising her glass with a playful roll of her eyes. “Well, I think I better drink, because let’s be honest—no one would believe me if I said no, considering my boyfriend is literally right here.”

Pierre nudged her with a grin, clearly unbothered by her admission as he sipped from his own glass. “As if the feeling isn’t mutual,” he teased, earning another round of laughter.

Across the room, Gigi tried to be subtle, lifting her glass for a quick sip, but Dennis’ sharp eyes caught her immediately. “Oh, I saw that, Gi!” he exclaimed, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

Gigi flushed crimson, glaring at him. “Shut up, Dennis,” she shot back, though the laughter in her voice betrayed her. “Don’t turn all the attention on me. I’m not the only one who drank!” She gestured toward a few others who had lifted their glasses.

“Oh, I’m not pretending I didn’t,” Dennis said casually, raising his glass again for emphasis. “Because I have zero shame” His eyes flicked toward you for the briefest moment, a sly grin tugging at his lips.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, silently hoping to stay under the radar. But your attempt at blending into the background only seemed to make you more conspicuous.

“Don’t act all shy now, Gasly,” Dennis teased, his tone smug. His eyes locked on you as he leaned forward. “I saw you take a sip. Don’t think I didn’t notice that. Care to enlighten us who the lucky one is?”

Your cheeks burned as every pair of eyes turned toward you. You scrambled to think of a response, your heart pounding in your chest. Finally, you forced a laugh, raising an eyebrow at Dennis. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” you quipped, your voice surprisingly steady despite the heat in your face.

The group erupted into a mix of laughter and teasing comments, but before the attention could shift completely, Arthur piped up from where he was seated beside Charles.

“Alright, alright,” Arthur said, his grin widening as he leaned forward. “We’ve all been so focused on you three, but is no one going to mention the fact that two other people drank as well?” His eyes darted pointedly toward Charles and Joris, his tone dripping with mock innocence. “Hmm, I wonder who those drinks were about.”

Charles stiffened slightly beside him, his jaw tightening as he tried to play it cool. “Don’t drag me into this,” he muttered, taking another sip of his drink as if to distract himself.

“Too late, mate,” Arthur shot back with a grin, nudging his brother’s shoulder. “You drank. That means you’ve got to own up to it.”

Joris, ever the instigator, leaned back with a smug grin of his own. “Yeah, Charles, don’t be shy. Who’s the lucky one, huh?”

Charles rolled his eyes, leaning back against the couch and trying to appear nonchalant. “Not a chance,” he said simply, though the tips of his ears betrayed a faint redness.

You couldn’t help but glance at him briefly, your curiosity piqued. Did he…? No, there was no way. You quickly shoved the thought aside, but the idea lingered annoyingly in the back of your mind.

Meanwhile, Charles’ thoughts were anything but composed. When you’d taken a sip earlier, his stomach had twisted uncomfortably. At first, he’d assumed it was Dennis—the way Dennis was always teasing you, always so close—but then another thought crept in, one that made his pulse quicken. What if it wasn’t Dennis?

The idea of it being about him sent a conflicting mix of emotions surging through him—hope, doubt, and an overwhelming sense of confusion. He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice Joris’ subtle kick to his shin until it made contact.

“Stop staring,” Joris whispered, smirking at his friend. “You’re making it obvious.”

Charles snapped out of his reverie, glaring at Joris. “Shut up,” he muttered under his breath, shifting in his seat.

Arthur, ever the opportunist, caught the exchange and raised an eyebrow. “What’s this now?” he asked, clearly amused. “Charles getting a little distracted?”

“Leave him alone,” Joris said with a grin, though his tone was far from serious. “Poor guy’s got enough on his plate already.”

“Oh, definitely not, he's pestered me long enough about things, payback time” Arthur said, his laugh echoing over the group’s chatter as Charles groaned, clearly regretting his choice to participate

The laughter hadn’t fully settled when Paul leaned forward with a mischievous grin, his drink loosely dangling in one hand. He glanced between you and Charles, his tone teasing as he spoke.

“So, Y/n, didn’t you mention something about the walls here being thin?” Paul asked, clearly enjoying the tension he was stirring. “Hope Charles has been a quiet neighbor. Otherwise, you probably heard everything. Poor Y/n.”

The room erupted into laughter, Dennis and Arthur practically doubling over. Kika smirked, nudging Pierre, who groaned, already sensing where the conversation was heading.

Charles narrowed his eyes at Paul, his jaw tightening slightly before he forced a smirk onto his face. “I’m not a complete idiot, you know,” he shot back. “If I had to… handle things, I’d make sure no one heard a damn thing. Either that or I’d do it somewhere more private.”

The laughter grew louder, Dennis nearly choking on his drink. “Good to know you’ve got a strategy, mate,” he teased, wiping his mouth.

You couldn’t help but feel heat creeping up your neck at the implication. The idea of Charles trying to stay quiet, and worse, the thought of actually overhearing him, made your stomach twist in ways you didn’t want to unpack. Not that you’d ever admit it.

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t hear anything,” you retorted, forcing a grin to hide your flustered state. “Because if I did, I’d probably have hearing damage.”

Charles turned to you, his smirk sharpening as he shot back, “As if I’d want to get off with you right outside my room.”

The room went silent for half a beat before Dennis, never one to miss an opportunity, leaned forward with a wicked grin. “No,” he said, drawing out the word for effect. “Because you’d prefer her in the room, wouldn’t you?”

The laughter that followed was deafening. Dennis clinked his glass with Paul’s, who was shaking his head but laughing just as hard. Charles, on the other hand, turned beet red, his face almost matching the color of his drink.

You weren’t any better, your face burning as you buried it in your hands. “Dennis, I swear to God,” you muttered, though your voice was muffled by the roar of the group.

Pierre groaned, his expression one of pure disgust as he rubbed his temples. “Okay, are you done? Because we are so not dragging my baby sister into Charles’ dirty fantasies.”

Arthur, always ready to escalate things, grinned and leaned back in his chair. “We don’t have to drag her into anything, Pierre,” he joked. “Charles probably already does that himself.”

The laughter doubled, filling the room with chaos as you and Charles sat frozen in mortification. Kika had tears streaming down her face from laughing, while Joris clapped a hand on Charles’ shoulder, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

Pierre glared at the group, clearly over it. “I don’t even want to know,” he muttered, waving a hand dismissively. “Can we just move on before I lose my mind?”

The group slowly settled, though the smirks and giggles lingered as someone suggested the next round of the game. But despite the conversation moving on, you couldn’t help but feel Charles’ gaze flick toward you now and then, and you hated how much your heart raced when it did.

Meanwhile, Charles couldn’t stop replaying Dennis’ comment in his head. The idea of you in his room—or worse, of you thinking about him in that way—had lodged itself in his mind, refusing to budge. He shook his head, trying to focus on the game, but it was no use.

Neither of you wanted to admit it, but the seed of thought had been planted, and it was impossible to ignore.

The game moved on, the attention shifting away from Charles and you for the moment, but the tension hung in the air like a spark waiting to ignite. Charles stole another glance at you, his thoughts still tangled in the what-ifs. And as for you? You couldn’t help but wonder if you were indeed the one that had made him drink in the first place.

It was Joris who leaned forward next, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Alright, never have I ever kissed my best friend.”

The room buzzed with anticipation as everyone exchanged curious glances. Inès was the first to raise her glass and take a drink, earning a few cheers and teasing remarks. But it was the way both you and Arthur looked at each other, simultaneously bursting into laughter, that drew all the attention. Without hesitation, the two of you clinked your glasses together dramatically and downed your drinks in one go.

Charles raised an eyebrow, his perplexed expression giving him away. “Wait—you and Y/n kissed?” he asked, his gaze flicking between the two of you, his tone tinged with disbelief.

Arthur let out a laugh, leaning back casually. “Jealous much?” he shot back, his grin widening when he saw the flicker of annoyance cross Charles’ face.

Charles opened his mouth to protest, but Arthur cut him off with a chuckle. “Relax, I’m just kidding.”

Despite his brother’s reassurance, Charles still looked a little dumbfounded, his confusion—and something else he wouldn’t name—lingering. Kika, always one to stir the pot, leaned forward with a smirk. “Okay, I’m curious now. What’s the story?”

You laughed, shaking your head as you waved a hand dismissively. “There’s not much of a story, honestly. Happened a few times. We were both hopeless and single, and we figured, why not? It was just for fun. Turns out we were terrible at it.”

Arthur nodded in agreement, still grinning. “Massive failure. Zero chemistry. The kiss sucked, and we both agreed never to try again.”

“And the other times?” Kika pressed, her curiosity clearly piqued.

“Oh, just Truth or Dare,” you replied with a shrug. “Happened once or twice when we were younger. Nothing serious. More like a punishment than a kiss, honestly.”

The room erupted into laughter, with Inès nearly choking on her drink as she laughed the hardest. “I can so picture your disgusted faces,” she managed between giggles.

As the laughter died down, Inès perked up, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Speaking of Truth or Dare,” she said, her grin widening, “we should switch to that. Way more interesting than this.”

The group exchanged glances, a ripple of excitement building at the prospect of what chaos Truth or Dare might bring. You couldn’t help but glance at Charles, whose expression was still unreadable, though his gaze lingered on you for just a second too long before he looked away. Whatever this next game would bring, you had a feeling it wasn’t going to get any less intense.

The questions escalated slowly, moving from tame confessions to more suggestive dares. Someone dared Dennis to prank call his ex, which he executed flawlessly, much to everyone’s amusement. Gigi had to show the last text she sent to Joris, blushing furiously as everyone gathered around to read it. Pierre, naturally, had been dared to whisper something filthy to Kika, who doubled over laughing and refused to tell anyone what he’d said.

Then it was Paul’s turn, and his eyes gleamed as he scanned the room, finally landing on you. “Y/n,” he called out with a grin. “Truth or dare?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Dare.”

Paul’s grin widened, and the others leaned in, already sensing mischief. “I dare you to kiss Charles.”

The room went dead silent, every eye darting toward you.

You froze for a beat before scoffing loudly. “God, no”

“Oh, come on,” Dennis teased, smirking at you. “A dare is a dare”

“No, ew!” you shot back, shaking your head emphatically. “Anyone else in the world rather than him. I’d rather stick my tongue inside a trash can than kiss him.”

The tension seemed to settle, the group already laughing at your dramatic protests, until Charles’ voice cut through. Low, clipped, and tinged with something that sounded like a challenge.

“That’s not what you told me when you were sixteen.”

The room froze. Even the laughter died instantly.

You stared at him, wide-eyed and stunned, your pulse roaring in your ears. His words hit like a slap, and you could see the regret flicker in his eyes almost immediately.

“That was a low blow, Charles,” Arthur muttered, shaking his head in disapproval.

Pierre leaned back with a grimace, gesturing to the group. “Guess it’s better to call this game quits, non?”

But you weren’t about to let it go. Swallowing the knot of hurt lodged in your throat, you stood, fixing your gaze on your brother. “No need to,” you said firmly. “Dennis is right, a dare is a dare.”

The group exchanged glances, unsure of what was about to happen, but you didn’t stop. The anger bubbling inside you had morphed into something else—something that demanded revenge.

You marched over to where Charles sat, his eyes widening as you closed the distance. Without a word, you reached down, lifting his chin with your thumb, forcing him to look at you.

His breath hitched, his lips parting slightly, but before he could speak, you crushed your mouth against his.

The kiss wasn’t gentle—it was heated, full of anger and defiance. His lips were warm and soft against yours, but the sharp inhale he took before his hands moved to your waist betrayed how caught off guard he was.

Charles froze for a split second, his mind scrambling to process what was happening. But when your tongue brushed against his lips, seeking entrance, he couldn’t hold back any longer.

A low, guttural sound escaped his throat as he kissed you back with equal fervor, his hand sliding behind your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss. His pulse was racing, heat surging through his veins, and he struggled to keep himself in check.

Your hands slid down his chest, slow and deliberate, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt. You knew exactly what you were doing as your palm settled over the bulge in his jeans, giving it a playful squeeze.

He let out a strangled sound, his body reacting instinctively, and you pulled back just enough to whisper, “I might’ve had a crush on you back when I was too delusional to see you for who you really are, but at least I’m not the one sitting here, a 27-year-old guy, getting hard because he had to kiss his best friend’s baby sister during a game.”

The room erupted. Dennis and Joris were practically howling with laughter, clapping each other on the back. Gigi and Kika exchanged wide-eyed glances before bursting into giggles. Even Arthur had his head in his hands, laughing despite himself.

Charles, on the other hand, looked utterly mortified. His face was beet red, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for words that wouldn’t come.

“Poor Charles,” Dennis teased, grinning wickedly. “Bet that wasn’t the reaction you were expecting.”

Another wave of laughter erupted, leaving Charles sitting in stunned silence. Finally, Charles downed the rest of his drink in one go, standing abruptly. “I need air,” he muttered before making his way out of the room and into the garden.

He pushed open the glass doors that led to the terrace, the cool night air hitting his flushed face like a balm. The stars glittered overhead, but he barely noticed them as he sank into one of the patio chairs, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

His heart was still pounding in his chest, his mind replaying the kiss over and over. He could still feel the ghost of your lips on his, the way your hand had trailed down his chest, resting on him with enough boldness to completely disarm him. And your words—sharp, cutting, and delivered with such venom—they were like a slap in the face.

He groaned softly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. What the hell had he been thinking, making that comment about you at sixteen? He’d known it was cruel the second the words left his mouth, but he couldn’t stop himself. His insecurities, his regret, his jealousy—it all spilled out in the worst way possible.

The sound of the sliding door opening made him glance up. Arthur stepped out, holding two fresh beers in his hands. Without a word, he handed one to Charles and took the seat next to him.

They sat in silence for a few moments, the only sounds the distant crash of waves and the faint hum of cicadas. Finally, Arthur broke the quiet.

“You’re a dickhead,” he said matter-of-factly, taking a sip of his beer.

Charles let out a humorless laugh, nodding slightly. “I know.”

Arthur turned to him, his expression softening slightly. “That comment, mate—it was out of line. You really hurt her with that one.”

Charles sighed, staring at the bottle in his hand. “I know,” he said again, his voice quieter this time. “I wasn’t thinking. Or maybe I was, and that’s the problem.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

“It’s just…” Charles paused, struggling to find the right words. “She makes me feel things I don’t know how to handle. And then when she said all that stuff about how she’d rather kiss a trash can or anyone else but me…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I just—reacted. Like an idiot.”

Arthur studied his brother for a moment before leaning back in his chair. “You know, it’s okay to feel things. But lashing out like that? That’s not how you handle it. You deserved what she did to you after that comment. Hell, if it were me, I’d have punched you.”

Charles chuckled softly, though there was no humor in it. “Yeah, well, she went for humiliation instead. And it worked.”

Arthur grinned. “Oh, it definitely worked. She got you good. But seriously, Charles, what’s your deal with her? One minute you’re at each other’s throats, and the next, you’re looking at her like…” He gestured vaguely, trying to find the right words.

Charles sighed, leaning back in his chair and looking up at the sky. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “She gets under my skin. Always has. And for the longest time, I told myself it was just because she’s Pierre’s sister, and I shouldn’t feel anything for her.” He paused, his voice softening. “But I do. I have for a few years now.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You’re in love with her.”

Charles didn’t answer, but the silence spoke volumes.

Arthur let out a long breath, tapping the neck of his beer bottle thoughtfully. “You’ve got to stop letting that eat you alive, mate. Either you tell her how you feel, or you let it go. This whole act of yours, pretending you’re indifferent while secretly wanting her? It’s not working. It’s just making things worse—for both of you.”

“I know,” Charles said quietly. “But it’s not that simple. She hates me now. And maybe she has a reason to.”

Arthur gave him a pointed look. “She doesn’t hate you, Charles. She’s angry, sure. And maybe a bit hurt. But hate? No. If she really hated you, she wouldn’t have kissed you like that.”

Charles frowned, replaying the kiss in his mind. The anger, the passion—it had been overwhelming, intoxicating. But there had been something else beneath it, something he couldn’t quite name.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted finally.

Arthur clapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Start by apologizing. And I don’t mean a half-assed apology. Really apologize, Charles. Own up to your shit. Then maybe, just maybe, you can start fixing things.”

Charles nodded slowly, the weight of his brother’s words sinking in. He didn’t know if it was too late to fix things with you, but for the first time, he felt a glimmer of hope that it might not be.

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previous | next

You could carefully say that you'd managed to handle the first three days with Charles on the same floor as you. Survived was probably the best way to put it. You’d thought that your somewhat civil exchange on the balcony might pave the way for more neutral ground between you, but that illusion had quickly shattered. In fact, the tension seemed even worse now, and, if you were being honest, you weren’t entirely blameless for it.

Every interaction had become a test of wills, a clash between your determination not to fall into the Charming Prince Charles trap again and his maddening ability to push your buttons. You told yourself it was for the best—that if you didn’t keep your guard up, you might let old feelings resurface, feelings you were certain you’d buried long ago.

At least, that’s what you tried to convince yourself.

This morning, you were trying to distract yourself from all of it, rifling through your suitcase for something to wear to the beach. You pulled out a black bikini bottom and a pair of shorts, slipping them on quickly. You paired it with a matching top, but as you tied the straps around your neck, you realized you couldn’t reach the ones at the back properly.

You sighed, glancing around the room for a solution before deciding to use the mirror in the shared bathroom. It was supposed to take all of ten seconds, and you didn’t bother locking the doors—your side or Charles’. After all, what were the odds of him walking in at just the wrong moment?

The mirror wasn’t much help. The angle was awkward, and no matter how you contorted your arms, you couldn’t get the strings to tie properly. Frustration bubbled up, and you huffed loudly, letting the straps fall to your sides. The fabric of the bikini top hung loosely, barely covering your chest as you pressed your elbows in to keep it in place.

You leaned against the counter, grabbing your phone from your shorts pocket to text Kika for help. Just as you hit send, you felt it—a shift in the air, a presence behind you.

The scent hit you first. That maddening mix of his cologne and something undeniably him. Your body tensed as you froze, and your phone slipped from your grasp, clattering onto the floor. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“What are you doing here?” you snapped, whipping your head over your shoulder. Your suspicion was confirmed: Charles stood leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed and a smirk firmly in place.

“You left the door open,” he said, his voice infuriatingly calm. “And it sounded like you needed help.”

Your breath hitched as his eyes darted down, openly taking in the view of your exposed back. His gaze lingered on the curve of your shoulders, the bare expanse of your spine, before traveling lower. Heat rushed to your face as you straightened instinctively, clutching the fabric tighter against your chest.

“Charles, leave,” you said, your voice wavering despite your best efforts. “I don’t need your help.”

“Right,” he said, stepping into the bathroom anyway, his smirk deepening. “Because you were doing sooo well on your own..”

Your pulse quickened as he closed the distance between you, his movements slow, deliberate. You could see him in the mirror now, his expression equal parts amusement and something else—something that made your stomach flip.

“Charles, I mean it,” you tried again, but your voice came out softer than intended.

“Relax,” he murmured, his eyes meeting yours briefly in the reflection. “I’m just tying a knot. Unless you’d prefer to flash everyone at the beach?”

You opened your mouth to retort, but no words came out. His hands brushed your hair aside, the gentle touch sending a shiver down your spine. He draped it over one shoulder, exposing more of your back to his view.

Charles hesitated for a moment, his hands hovering near your skin as if giving you a chance to protest. When you didn’t, he reached for the loose strings, his fingers grazing your sides lightly as he pulled them together.

Your breath caught at the contact, and you watched his every move in the mirror, unable to tear your eyes away. His touch was careful, almost reverent, as he tied the straps securely.

“There,” he said softly, his voice low and steady. “All done.”

But he didn’t move away. His hands lingered, smoothing the straps into place, his fingertips brushing against your skin in a way that felt far more intimate than it should have.

You couldn’t stop your eyes from flicking up to his in the mirror. For a moment, the air between you felt charged, thick with something unspoken. His gaze was heavy, his usual confidence tempered by something quieter, more vulnerable.

“You’re staring,” you muttered, your voice barely audible.

“So are you,” he countered, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Before either of you could say another word, a loud cough broke the tension.

“Am I interrupting something?”

You turned sharply to find Kika standing in the doorway, arms crossed and a knowing grin on her face "N-No, Charles was just leaving" you stuttered.

Charles carefully smiled, the smirk every so small, but yet still noticeable, clearly enjoyed by your flustered reaction.

Kika held up her phone in your direction, obviously referring to your text "Got your text, but looks like someone beat me to it,” she teased, glancing pointedly at Charles’ hands still hovering near your waist. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

“Kika, wait!” you called, but she was already walking away, her laughter echoing down the hall.

You started to follow her, but Charles caught your wrist, his touch firm but not forceful. You glanced up at him, confused, only to follow his gaze to the floor where your phone still lay forgotten.

“You forgot your phone,” he said, releasing you.

You bent to grab it, muttering a quick “Thanks” before rushing out of the bathroom, your heart pounding as if you’d just run a marathon.

The moment you caught up to Kika, you opened your mouth to speak, but the Portuguese girl was quicker, holding up a hand to stop you as a smirk spread across her lips.

“Y/n, don’t even try to convince me that was nothing,” she said, her tone dripping with amusement.

You groaned, rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”

Kika laughed lightly, tilting her head as if studying you. “Hmmm…” she hummed, her grin growing.

Her teasing was relentless, and as you tried to suppress the heat creeping into your cheeks, you gave her a playful shove. “Oh, stop it, will you?”

Kika stumbled slightly, laughing even harder. “I’m just saying, it’s interesting timing. Very interesting…”

You opened your mouth to respond but were interrupted by Arthur, who had just stepped out of his room. He raised an eyebrow as he took in the two of you, his curiosity clearly piqued.

“You seem awfully cheery,” he remarked, his gaze flicking between you and Kika.

Kika’s smirk deepened as she turned to Arthur, her voice laced with mischief. “Did you know that your brother just had his hands—”

“Oh my god, no,” you interjected quickly, cutting her off mid-sentence. You reached out, clapping a hand over her mouth to stop the words from spilling out. “Don’t even go there.”

Kika mumbled something against your hand, laughing, and you gave her a mock glare before letting go. She grinned wickedly, clearly enjoying your discomfort.

Arthur, on the other hand, raised an eyebrow, his interest now fully piqued. “His hands were?”

You groaned, exasperated, throwing your hands in the air. “She’s acting as if I voluntarily let that happen. Ew. Absolutely not.”

Arthur’s confusion turned to amusement as he folded his arms across his chest. “Okay, so what did happen?”

You sighed dramatically. “Nothing major. I couldn’t tie my bikini top, and Charles just—”

“Had his hands on your back,” Kika interjected, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Tied my top!” you corrected quickly, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “That’s it. That’s all he did. Don’t get your hopes up, okay? I still hate him.”

Arthur chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “Sure you do. Sounds like a riveting story, though. Keep going.”

“Arthur,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face "You two are acting like this is something massive.."

Kika wasn’t letting up, either. “You two being in the same room and not trying to kill each other? That is massive.”

“Oh, please.” You gave her another playful shove, but her laughter only grew.

Arthur tilted his head, his grin widening. “To be fair, it does sound like progress.”

“It’s not progress!” you snapped, though the laughter bubbling in your chest betrayed your indignation. “It’s called tolerating someone for a split second.”

Kika leaned closer to Arthur, mock-whispering, “She’s in denial.”

You groaned again, throwing your hands up as they both burst into laughter. “You two are impossible.”

Arthur straightened, a teasing smirk still plastered on his face. “Hey, at least now we know Charles can be useful for something.”

Kika snorted, leaning against the wall for support as she laughed. “You mean tying knots and causing chaos?”

You shook your head, exasperated but unable to stop the small smile tugging at your lips. “Okay, we’re done here. Both of you—out of my business.”

Arthur raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. But for the record, I still think this is hilarious.”

Kika grinned, looping her arm through yours as you both started down the stairs. “I’m just saying, if you guys don’t kill each other by the end of this trip, I’m calling it a win.”

“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, Thur” you muttered, though the laughter in your voice betrayed you "Still got a month to go"

As the three of you made your way downstairs, the teasing faded into lighter banter, but the lingering heat in your cheeks and the memory of Charles’ hands on your back stayed with you. You hated how your mind kept returning to that moment, to the way his touch had felt far more intimate than it should have been.

But for now, you shook it off, determined not to let them—or Charles—get to you. Not again.

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The sun hung high over the sparkling blue ocean, casting a golden glow over the beach. Waves crashed rhythmically, blending with the sound of laughter from your friends. The sand felt warm under your feet as you adjusted your stance, eyes locked on the volleyball soaring through the air.

With a leap, you smacked the ball cleanly over the net, landing the perfect shot. Arthur groaned dramatically, while Inès burst into giggles as they missed the return. Arthur wiped sweat from his brow and looked at Inès with mock defeat. "Honestly, I didn’t expect us to be this horrible at this game," he admitted with a chuckle.

You laughed, adjusting your ponytail. "You’re good at other things, Thur. Let me win at least one thing!" you teased.

Before you could serve again, Dennis appeared by your side, grinning wide. His sun-bleached hair was damp from the ocean, and his smile carried an air of mischief. "You’re better at this than I expected," he admitted, his voice teasing. "But… I think you could use a little pro-level trick."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. "Is this your not-so-subtle way of telling me I suck at beach volleyball?"

Dennis laughed, his shoulders shaking. "No, no! You’re honestly good at it," he promised, placing a hand lightly on your arm. His touch was casual but lingering just enough to seem… something else. "I just know a trick that’ll make it even funnier when we destroy those two."

"Hey!" Inès protested from across the net, pointing at you both. "That’s not fair! This feels like cheating!” she accused, her hands on her hips, a laugh leaving her lips.

Dennis raised a brow, unfazed. “How is teaching cheating?”

“You’re practically glued to her!” Inès shot back with mock indignation, though she was clearly fighting back laughter.

Arthur crossed his arms, smirking. "Getting cozy there, Hauger?" he called out, emphasizing Dennis’s last name with playful sarcasm.

Dennis turned his head slowly, fixing Arthur with a mock-threatening glare. “Jealous, Arthur? Want me to teach you too?”

Arthur rolled his eyes, laughing. “We’re playing beach volleyball, not filming a rom-com!”

Your laugh burst out, light and easy. You nudged Dennis with your elbow. “Alright, coach, show me this magical trick before Arthur starts drafting a movie script.”

Dennis smirked but quickly turned serious. "Okay, watch carefully.” he positioned himself behind you, gently placing his hands on your waist. "It’s all about balance and angle," he explained, sliding his hands down to adjust your stance, his fingers brushing your hips. "You’ve got great posture... perfect for this."

You smirked, shooting him a knowing look. "Smooth way of complimenting me, Dennis."

He grinned unapologetically. "What can I say? I'm observant, can’t blame me for stating facts. Also... you smell like coconut sunscreen—kind of unfair when I’m trying to concentrate."

Before you could respond, a flicker of movement caught your eye. Charles was stood off to the side, making his way over to one of the loungers, casually watching, though his jaw seemed a bit tighter than usual.

“Hold your arms like this when you jump," he instructed, adjusting the angle of your hands. “When you hit the ball, let your wrist snap like this…” His hand covered yours briefly, guiding the motion.

His voice dropped slightly, almost teasing. “And try not to get distracted by how good I smell while I’m being incredibly helpful.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a grin. “I thought I was the one who smelled like coconut sunscreen.”

Dennis leaned just a little closer. "Fair point—you do smell pretty good," he admitted with a smirk.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of Charles, now sprawled out on a sunbed, his gaze fixed on the two of you, obvious even through his sunglasses. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw still seemed noticeably tense.

Dennis chuckled softly, lowering his voice. “Pretty sure Charles is sending me daggers right now.”

You snorted. “Trust me, he’s probably thinking of killing me, not you.”

"You're oblivious, girl" he joked back at you.

You rolled your eyes at Dennis and sighed "Oh shut it, before I use my perfect posture to slam the ball into you" you huffed out with a laugh, playfully pushing his shoulder.

Dennis grinned but stepped back, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Focusing, you adjusted your stance, trying to copy exactly what Dennis teached you. As the ball came sailing over the net, you bent your knees, jumped, and snapped your wrist just like he’d shown you.

The ball hit the far corner with precision, landing just inside the line.

Cheers erupted from your side of the net. Dennis whooped, grabbing your hands and spinning you around. “Yes! You nailed it!”

Arthur groaned, falling backward into the sand with theatrical defeat. “We’re doomed. This just got so much worse.”

While you were having fun, playing beach volleyball with the others, Charles had spend the entire time mocking, unable to enjoy the sun. He had been sprawled out on one of the loungers, had his sunglasses perched low on his nose. The sun beating down on him as if mocking his sour mood. The waves crashed gently on the shore nearby, a rhythmic backdrop to the laughter and chatter coming from the makeshift beach volleyball game a few feet away. He tried his best to appear disinterested, but his eyes betrayed him, constantly flicking back to the game where you were laughing and joking with Dennis, Inès, and Arthur.

The sound of your giggles carried over the beach, clear and light, grating against his nerves in a way he didn’t fully understand. He used to be the one who made you laugh like that. The one who knew exactly how to tease you until your face lit up with that same carefree joy. Now, the distance between you felt insurmountable, and it frustrated him to no end.

“When are you gonna stop acting like a complete douchebag with her?” Joris asked lazily from the lounger beside him, breaking through Charles’ brooding thoughts. He sipped his drink, his tone teasing but laced with genuine curiosity.

Charles rolled his eyes, leaning his head back against the lounger. “She just gets on my nerves. Every time I see her, it’s like she’s trying to piss me off.”

Joris chuckled, swirling the ice in his glass. “Right. And you’re just an innocent victim here. Come on, Charles, she doesn’t get on your nerves—you let her get to you. There’s a difference.”

"It's not as if all those arguments are fake, she's honestly really making me angry loads of times" Charles huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “She’s not exactly being nice to me either, you know.”

Joris raised an eyebrow. “I’m not saying she is. But this whole fake arrogance thing you’re doing? It’s not fooling anyone, except for her maybe”

“What the hell are you insinuating?” Charles muttered, his voice clipped.

“Oh, I don’t know…” Joris drawled, setting his drink down and turning to face Charles fully. “Maybe that even a blind man could see you’re in love with her?”

Charles froze for a second, then scoffed, the sound bitter. “I am not in love with her,” he said, though the lie tasted sour in his mouth. “She just knows exactly how to push my buttons, that’s all.”

“Right.” Joris snorted, leaning back on his lounger with a knowing grin. “And that’s why you’re glaring holes into Hauger right now.”

Charles’ jaw tightened instinctively, and his gaze snapped back to you. Dennis was behind you again, his arms loosely wrapped around yours as he helped you practice yet another volleyball technique. The proximity between the two of you was maddening—Dennis’ hands guiding yours, his voice close to your ear, and your laughter spilling out freely as if you didn’t have a care in the world.

Charles’ fingers clenched into the fabric of his lounger. “I don’t care who she cozies up to,” he said, his tone sharp and unconvincing.

Joris let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re a terrible liar, mate. That’s eating you alive, and we both know it.”

Charles didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the game as his thoughts churned. He watched the way you smiled at Dennis, the way you tossed your hair back in the sun, completely at ease. He hated how his chest tightened at the sight, jealousy twisting inside him like a knot.

“And even if I was…” Charles muttered finally, his voice softer, tinged with frustration. “What difference would it make? It’s not like I can do anything about it. She doesn’t feel that way about me anymore.” He hesitated before adding in a near whisper, “Not anymore.”

Joris’ teasing demeanor softened at his friend’s admission. “I’m not saying you should do anything about those feelings. But treating her the way you are now? That’s not working either. If anything, you’re just pushing her further away.”

Charles sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “It’s easier this way,” he admitted, his voice barely audible over the sound of the waves. “If she hates me, maybe I can get over her. I tried being friends with her before, and it didn’t work. I couldn’t stop feeling like this.”

Joris leaned forward, placing a hand on Charles’ shoulder. “You can’t control how you feel, Charles. But throwing away your friendship because of it? That’s not the answer. You two had something great. Don’t let it go to waste just because you can’t sort out your feelings.”

Charles didn’t respond immediately, his gaze drifting back to you. You were now doubled over with laughter as Dennis tried—and failed—to demonstrate a trick shot, tripping over the volleyball in the process. The sight should’ve been funny, but it only made Charles’ chest ache.

“I know,” he admitted, his voice thick with regret. “I just… I could’ve had my chance, and I wasted it.”

Joris sighed, squeezing his shoulder. “You’re not wrong. But sitting here wallowing about it isn’t helping anyone. And honestly? It’s stupid to waste everything you had—everything you could still have—over a crush. Treating her like this? It’s not just unfair to her—it’s unfair to you. You’re better than this, Charles.”

Charles closed his eyes, frustration and regret warring within him. “The problem is that it's not just a crush, Joris,” he muttered after a long pause. “It’s not something I can just turn off. I’m so in love with her… it hurts.”

Joris leaned back, giving him a moment of silence to collect himself. The sound of your laughter reached them again, and Charles opened his eyes, watching you as a sad smile played on his lips.

“Just don’t let your feelings destroy what you still have, my friend” Joris said softly. “Because if you keep going like this, you’ll lose her completely.”

Charles didn’t answer, but the weight of his friend’s words settled heavily on his shoulders. The truth was painful, but it was impossible to ignore.

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Arthur’s apartment was as chaotic as ever, half-packed bags and discarded jackets strewn across the floor. You threw yourself onto the couch with a dramatic groan, your face buried in a pillow.

“I regret this already,” you whined, the words muffled against the soft fabric.

Arthur’s laugh carried from the doorway. “You’ve been here two minutes, and you’re already complaining? Impressive.”

Rolling onto your back, you shot him a glare. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. A whole month of dealing with your insufferable brother? I must’ve been out of my mind.”

Arthur leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and grinning like the Cheshire cat. “You’ll survive. There are enough people going to keep you distracted. Plus, you get to spend a whole month with me. What more could you possibly want?”

“Maybe a holiday without Charles,” you shot back, only half-joking.

Arthur smirked. “Come on, he’s not that bad. Okay, maybe he’s a bit… a lot.”

"Arthur... I can't think of one thing that's not annoying about your brother" You raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to dig his own grave further.

The Monegasque chuckled and rolled his eyes "Nuh uh! I do remember very vividly how you were gushing about, and I quote 'astonishingly hot' my brother looked in that suit during christmas"

You huffed and coughed, throwing the pillow that was under your head towards Arthur "First of all that was 2 years ago" you said, rolling onto your back, staring up at the ceiling “Besides, the only thing worse than Charles, is Charles knowing he’s handsome. He’s insufferable, and he’s fully aware of it. That smirk of his? Pure evil.”

Arthur snorted. “Yeah, he definitely knows. But let’s be honest, you’re not wrong. The guy could probably charm his way out of murder if he tried.”

You groaned again, flopping back onto the couch. “Can't I just stay here, and watch the house? Doesn't your fake plant need a plant sitter, to fake water it?" you joked.

Arthur plopped down beside you, his grin softening slightly. “You’ll be fine. I’ll protect you. I’ll even create a no-Charles zone if it helps.”

You laughed despite yourself, shoving his shoulder. “You’re an idiot.”

“An idiot you’re lucky to have,” he replied with a wink.

You smiled at him, rolling your eyes once again. He was true, you were lucky to have him, but you also weren't so lucky with who his brother was.

“But you have to admit,” Arthur continued, “you kind of love how much he gets under your skin. You wouldn’t have this much energy to complain if you didn’t care.”

Your gaze softened as you looked at him, and for a moment, your mind wandered back to where it all started. You and Arthur had been inseparable since you were kids.

The first time you met Arthur, you were eight years old, tagging along with Pierre to one of his karting races. Arthur, ten at the time, had been sitting on a crate, furiously tinkering with his kart while Charles shouted something from across the paddock. He looked up as you approached, his face smeared with grease, and grinned like he’d known you forever.

“Hi! I’m Arthur!” he announced, shoving his hand out for you to shake.

From that moment on, you were glued to his side. Arthur became your partner in crime, the one you told all your secrets to, and the brother you never asked for but somehow desperately needed.

Of course, being best friends with Arthur meant spending time around Charles, too.

You were fifteen when it happened—when you realized you had a crush on the unattainable Charles Leclerc. He was nineteen then, fully immersed in his F1 career and everything that came with it. He had this effortless charm, a confidence that made it impossible to look away.

You knew it was silly, that he’d never see you as anything more than Arthur’s kid best friend. But the crush lingered, stubborn and unrelenting.

By the time you were sixteen, you and Charles had started spending more time together, moments where the age gap didn’t feel so insurmountable. He’d joke with you, tease you about your karting attempts, and you couldn’t help but think… maybe. Maybe if you were older, it could be something.

“Maybe if you were older,” he’d said once, his voice light but his words heavy. “But you’re Pierre’s little sister, and Arthur would kill me. Besides, you’re like family.”

The words stung, but deep down, you understood. And then there was that night when you were eighteen—too many drinks, a shared laugh, and the moment you almost kissed. But it was over before it began, cut short by the sound of someone calling Charles’ name.

You never talked about it, burying the memory alongside the growing ache in your chest.

When you were eighteen, you finally let it go. You and Charles were just friends, so it seemed. You started dating other guys, convinced that the feelings you had for Charles were a thing of the past, which they seemed to be. But that was when Charles started to change.

He became distant, colder. His teasing shifted into something sharper, tinged with something you couldn’t quite understand. You started arguing more, getting annoyed by the weirdest little things. The playful insults and your arguments became the foundation of your relationship—barbed words masking unresolved tension.

Now, years later, it was all just… frustrating. You didn’t understand him, and you didn’t want to. Yet you both couldn't seem to let it each other be. Even though you were now respectively 21 and 26, you both had this childish need to keep pushing each others buttons.

The sound of the doorbell snapped you out of your thoughts. Arthur jumped up, grinning. “Showtime. Come on, let’s get this circus started.”

You followed him to the door, your heart sinking as soon as it swung open. There he was—Charles Leclerc, the devil himself, smirk firmly in place. Beside him stood Pierre and Kika, both smiling warmly.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath. “Let the torture begin.”

Pierre and Kika made their way in, following Arthur to the living room, leaving you standing there alone with Charles.

Charles’s eyes flicked to you, his smirk widening. “Miss me already?”

You rolled your eyes at the Monegasque driver, scoffing "I’d miss you more if you came with a mute button."

Before Charles had the chance to reply to your comment, Dennis Hauger appeared behind Charles, greeting both of you with a smirk. Saved by the bell

"HAUG!" you exclaimed happily, making your way over to him, embracing him.

Dennis returned the hug immediately, settling his arms around your waist "Hi there, frenchie" he chuckled back at you, using of his standard nickname for you.

You tucked your head in the crook of his neck "You just saved me from the devil, thanks" you whispered jokingly to him, low enough for Charles to not hear.

What you didn't notice tho, was the way Charles clenched his jaw at the sight in front of him, or the way he immediately made his way out of the hallway, trying to get away from the interaction in front of him. It was jealousy, pure jealousy. Something he was trying to deny with all his willpower.

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The house had been buzzing with activity for the past hour as everyone settled into their rooms. Most of the group had scrambled to claim their ideal space as soon as they walked in, leaving you and Kika to handle the grocery run. You didn’t mind—there wasn’t a room you particularly wanted, and you figured Arthur would sort it out for you while you were gone.

When you returned and put everything away, you made your way to the living room, where Arthur was lounging on the couch next to Dennis. You perched on the armrest beside him, your hands on your hips.

Arthur didn’t even look at you before sighing dramatically. “I’m sorry in advance,” he muttered, sounding uncharacteristically guilty.

You raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t even said anything yet, and you’re already apologizing. That’s reassuring.”

Arthur finally glanced up, a smirk creeping onto his face. “You weren’t going to ask me about your room for the month?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, catching the teasing tone in his voice. “Okay, and if I was? I already told you I don’t care which room I get. I’m not picky.”

Dennis snorted from his seat. “Oh, you’ll care soon enough.”

Confused, you glanced between them, their smirks only growing. “What are you two on about? Just tell me where the room is, and I’ll figure it out myself.”

Arthur shrugged, clearly enjoying himself. “Upstairs. There are two bedrooms on that floor. Yours is the one on the right.”

“Thanks,” you said, pushing off the armrest. “Honestly, boys, it can’t be that bad.”

As you walked away, you heard Arthur mutter behind you, “Sweet, innocent girl.”

The comment made you roll your eyes, but you brushed it off. Surely they were just being dramatic. When you reached the room, you stepped inside and surveyed the space. It was far from bad—it was actually quite nice. The room was spacious, with large windows that let in plenty of light. You noticed a set of balcony doors and walked over to them, opening them to find a stunning view of the beach. The balcony extended to the next room, but that wasn’t anything that bothered you.

Everything about the room seemed perfect. What were they even talking about?

Feeling satisfied, you turned your attention to the rest of the space, spotting a door near the wardrobe. It must lead to the bathroom. Curious, you opened it, stepping inside—and froze in your tracks.

There, in the middle of the bathroom, stood Charles, unpacking his toiletries into the cabinet. His back was to you, but the sight of him was enough to make your stomach drop. You quickly scanned the room and spotted another door on the opposite wall, clearly leading to his bedroom.

Oh. That’s what they meant.

“No way. This is not happening,” you huffed, throwing your hands in the air.

Charles turned at the sound of your voice, his expression shifting from surprise to irritation. “What are you doing here?” he snapped.

"About to murder either you, or the idiot that came up with the clever idea to put me in a room next to most insufferable person on mother earth" you snapped back at him.

Charles felt slightly hurt at your insult, he knew he caused this himself, but he figured that trying to get over you was easier when you hated him than when you were your way too sweet self.

Charles rolled his eyes, going back to his unpacking. "Might as well consider killing Joris then, because up until you came barging in, I thought he would be staying in that room" he said, rolling his eyes, mindlessly continuing to unpack his stuff

You crossed your arms, glaring at his nonchalant attitude. “Well, congratulations on your little upgrade. This arrangement is absolutely not happening. I’m switching rooms.”

“Good luck with that,” Charles muttered. “But if you’re planning to kill Joris, I’d like to watch.”

You ignored his sarcasm, muttering curses under your breath as you stormed out of the bathroom and downstairs into the kitchen. Your frustration was boiling over as you barged in, startling the group gathered around the table. Pierre, Kika, Arthur, Dennis, and Joris all looked up at you in varying states of confusion.

“Joris,” you snapped, pointing a finger at him. “I will kill you.”

Joris blinked, holding his hands up in defense. “What did I do?”

“Apparently you figured it was a good idea to take the last decent room, and left me with the one upstairs,” you hissed. “Which, by the way, shares a bathroom with Charles.”

Arthur burst into laughter, nearly doubling over. “You just figured that out? Oh, this is gold.”

Joris’ confused expression turned sheepish. “Okay, wait. I didn’t know that if I didn’t take the upstairs room, you’d end up with it. I thought the downstairs one was just the last one left.”

“And you didn’t think about who would be upstairs with Charles?” you snapped, your tone laced with sarcasm.

Joris shrugged, an amused grin tugging at his lips. “I mean... I thought you’d appreciate the proximity to him.”

You groaned, turning to Pierre, who was clearly trying to stifle his laughter. “Pierre, switch rooms with me. Please.”

Pierre leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Yeah, no. That’s not happening. Kika and I have a nice setup downstairs, and I’m not about to share a bathroom with anyone. We need our privacy.”

“I need privacy too!” you argued, your voice rising in frustration.

“It’s different,” Pierre said, shooting you a pointed look. “Couples need privacy for... other things.”

“Ew. Stop. I don’t want to know,” you groaned, covering your ears dramatically.

You spun around to Arthur, narrowing your eyes. “You. Switch with me.”

Arthur raised his hands, laughing. “No can do. Charles would murder me. I snore too loud, and he’s all about his beauty sleep. He’d kick me out within a day.”

Your gaze shifted to Dennis, who immediately held up his hands. “Don’t even think about it. I’ve got the best room in the house—big bed, balcony, bubble bath. I’m not giving that up.”

You groaned loudly, throwing your head back. “You’re all useless.”

He leaned back smugly, grinning as if he’d just won the lottery. Then, as if to soften the blow, he added, “Well, I would’ve offered to let you stay in my room with me, but I think that would be the cause of my death.” His eyes flicked pointedly to your brother.

“Fair point,” Pierre said flatly, without missing a beat.

You rolled your eyes, exasperated. “No, that’s off-limits. But sharing a bathroom—with connecting doors—with the one guy you’ve always said was ‘off-limits’ is somehow not an issue? You’re a hypocritical ass.”

Pierre shrugged, a smug grin tugging at his lips. “First of all, sleeping in someone’s bed is completely different than sharing a bathroom,” he countered, folding his arms.

“And second,” he added with a knowing look, “the only reason I ever said that was because you had a little teenage crush on my best friend. And let’s be honest, at the time, he was way too old for you. But...” He trailed off, chuckling to himself. “I guess sticking to that would make me a bit of a hypocrite, considering I’m dating one of your friends now, and our age gap is even bigger.”

You groaned loudly, knowing you couldn’t win this side of the argument. “Whatever,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “That doesn’t change the fact that you know he’s the one person I want to avoid the most. You know I hate him,” you complained. “I can’t even stand the idea of his existence, let alone sharing a goddamn bathroom with him.”

“Relax,” Pierre said with a smirk. “It’s just a bathroom. There’s a lock on the door. You’ll survive.”

“Exactly,” came Charles’ voice from behind you. You spun around to find him leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed and an infuriatingly smug look on his face. “It’s not like sharing a bathroom means we’re obligated to shower together.”

“Oh, don’t tempt me,” you snapped. “It might be worth it just to drown you.”

The group erupted in laughter, and Charles rolled his eyes. “You’re acting like a child. Just knock before you go in. Problem solved.”

You glared at him, furious “Why are you even meddling, you weren't even part of this conversation, are you just lurking around waiting to butt in on conversations?” you snapped.

Charles smirked, clearly enjoying your frustration. “Not my fault you’re loud enough to hear from every other room,” he replied, his tone light but with an edge of sarcasm.

Your hands balled into fists at your sides as you shot him a glare. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here we are,” he quipped, unfazed by your fury.

You sighed loudly "See, this is what I mean, this is what y'all are burdening me with" you complained, glaring at him once more, your frustration bubbling over. “You’re the last person I’d ever want to share a bathroom with.”

Charles smirked, stepping further into the kitchen, inching closer to you, until he was close enough to whisper in your ear. “Good thing it’s not up to you, then.”

Your hands balled into fists at your sides as you shot him a glare, your voice sharp and dripping with annoyance. “Fuck you, Charles.”

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk growing wider as he tilted his head slightly, feigning innocence. “Tempting,” he drawled, his voice low and teasing, “but I don’t think you could handle it.”

Pierre clapped his hands together, interrupting the argument. “Alright, enough. Give it a try for a few days. If it’s really that bad, we’ll figure something out. But I doubt it’ll be the end of the world.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Fine. But if I end up committing a murder, just know it’s on all of you.”

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After the heated argument downstairs, you stormed up the stairs to your designated bedroom, Arthur trailing behind you with his ever-present smug smirk. His long strides brought him into the room before you could even process your frustration fully. He flopped unceremoniously onto your bed, bouncing slightly as he sprawled out, his arms behind his head like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Meanwhile, you busied yourself with unpacking your suitcase, each item you placed in the wardrobe an outlet for your simmering annoyance. The rhythmic sound of hangers sliding against the bar was oddly soothing—until you caught Arthur watching you with that infuriating grin plastered across his face.

"What?" you snapped, not even turning to face him.

Arthur’s eyes twinkled with mischief. "Oh, nothing. Just waiting for you to protest again"

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. Before you could even begin to voice your frustration, Arthur sat up, one hand raised in mock surrender. "Nope! Let me stop you right there. This wasn’t just on me.”

Without thinking, you grabbed a pair of joggers from your suitcase and lobbed them at him. The fabric smacked him square in the face with a satisfying thwack.

“Merde!” he exclaimed, his laughter spilling out as he dramatically tossed the joggers aside. “Violence is not the answer, you know.”

“Neither is being useless,” you shot back, crossing your arms. "Arthur, you could have at least tried something! Anything would have been better than this.”

He leaned back against the headboard, folding his arms as if settling in for a long discussion. “Trust me, I did. But there wasn’t much to work with. Your brother doesn’t want to switch because—well, come on, you know why. He’s here with his girlfriend, and honestly, he made a fair point.”

You made a disgusted face, wrinkling your nose. “Fair point or not, it still sucks for me.”

Arthur shrugged nonchalantly. “And then there’s Joris. He’s obviously got a thing for Gigi, and guess what? Gigi sleeps downstairs. Perfect excuse for him to ‘accidentally’ run into her more often.”

“Gross,” you muttered, shoving another shirt into the wardrobe.

Arthur grinned, clearly enjoying your irritation. “And let’s be real: Inès and Gigi met Charles today. Can you imagine how awkward it’d be for either of them to share a bathroom with him? What if they walk in each other accidentally. That’s like… social torture. At least you’ve known him for years.”

You spun around, throwing your hands in the air. “I’M UNCOMFORTABLE TOO, ARTHUR!”

“Yeah, but that’s just you two being… you two,” he quipped, gesturing vaguely between you. “It’s a highly unlogical—”

“Illogical,” you corrected sharply.

“Whatever.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It’s an illogical issue between the two of you. At least you know him well enough to, I don’t know, coexist?”

You exhaled sharply, knowing he wasn’t entirely wrong but unwilling to admit it. “Fine. But Dennis? He’s my friend! He could have helped me out instead of hogging the nicest room in the house.”

Arthur snorted. “You know Dennis and Paul! I’m pretty sure they're just quietly rooting for some ‘enemies to lovers’ drama between you and Charles. Probably think it’s entertaining"

You stared at him in disbelief, heat rising to your cheeks. “Oh my God. Why do you all think this is some slow-burn romance novel? I’m not in love with him anymore. That was just a stupid teenage crush!”

Arthur grinned wider, clearly delighted. “Sure, sure. But that doesn’t mean you two don’t have… something.”

“Ugh!” You grabbed a pillow and launched it at him, but he easily dodged, laughing as he slid off the bed to avoid further projectiles.

“Relax, I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking,” he teased, leaning casually against the wall. “And for the record, I would have swapped with you. But Charles would kill me. You know how I snore, and—let’s be real—we’ve already lived together long enough. He’d probably prefer sharing a bathroom with you than enduring that again.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “I just don’t get it. He hates me just as much as I hate him. Why would he rather share with me than you?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, his knowing smirk returning. “Oh, I have my theories. But I’m staying out of it.”

“That’s not helpful,” you muttered, exasperated.

Arthur chuckled, pushing off the wall. “Look, you could always sleep on the couch. But if you do…” He paused, tilting his head thoughtfully. “You’re letting him win.”

“Fair point,” you admitted begrudgingly.

Arthur patted your shoulder as he walked toward the door. “Good luck surviving the week. Don’t kill each other—well, at least not where anyone can see.”

Once he was gone, the silence of the room felt heavy. You sighed, glancing toward the adjoining bathroom door—the one that connected your room to Charles’.

As if on cue, the faint sound of running water reached your ears. You groaned inwardly, already dreading the inevitable awkward encounters. Maybe Arthur was right. Maybe this was all just some cosmic joke meant to test your patience.

But as you sank onto the edge of the bed, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something else—something unsettling that you didn’t want to name. Whatever it was, you shoved it aside, determined to prove that you could handle this without giving anyone the satisfaction of watching you squirm.

For now, you focused on unpacking the rest of your things, trying to ignore the quiet tension creeping in through the bathroom door.

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Later that day, the dinner table was alive with chatter, forks scraping plates, and glasses clinking as the group settled into an easy rhythm of conversation. The garden outside glowed under the string lights Pierre had painstakingly strung earlier, their warm light casting a soft glow over everyone seated at the table. Plates were piled high with food, the occasional burst of laughter cutting through the gentle hum of evening crickets.

You sat between Dennis and Arthur, trying your best to ignore the magnetic pull of Charles, seated directly across from you. He was deep in conversation with Joris about the best overtaking strategies, his hands gesturing animatedly as he spoke. You told yourself you weren’t paying attention, but your eyes betrayed you, flickering to him more often than you’d like.

Arthur leaned over, breaking your reverie. “You’ve barely touched your plate,” he teased, nodding toward your half-eaten dinner.

“Maybe I lost my appetite after sitting across from that,” you said pointedly, your fork gesturing vaguely in Charles’ direction.

Charles, sharp as ever, caught the jab immediately. His green eyes glinted with amusement as he leaned back in his chair, resting an arm lazily on the table. “Careful,” he drawled. “That attitude of yours might scare away any remaining appetite you have.”

Dennis snickered quietly beside you, earning a glare from you and a soft punch to his shoulder. “Don’t encourage him,” you muttered.

“Who, me?” Dennis asked innocently.

The banter escalated as the evening wore on. Drinks began to flow more freely—wine for most, a few beers for the others—and snacks were passed around as the group moved to the garden chairs scattered across the lawn. The stars above provided the perfect backdrop, but you were too caught up in the ebb and flow of conversation to appreciate them fully.

You and Charles kept up your usual sniping, each comment sharper than the last. It wasn’t long before Pierre, clearly exasperated, threw up his hands. “Enough, you two. I swear, if you keep this up, we’ll have to start taking bets on which one of you snaps first.”

“I’m not snapping,” you retorted, crossing your arms.

Charles smirked, taking a leisurely sip of his drink. “Neither am I. I’m having the time of my life.”

The group burst into laughter, easing the tension momentarily. But across the garden, Dennis leaned toward Arthur, his voice dropping low enough to stay out of earshot.

“Am I the only one seeing it?” Dennis asked, his gaze darting between you and Charles.

Arthur followed his line of sight, frowning slightly. “Seeing what?”

“Come on, Thur,” Dennis said, nudging him. “The tension. The way they bicker? That’s not just hate. That’s something else.”

Arthur hesitated, his brows furrowing. “I don’t know. With her? I can’t tell. She used to have a thing for him, sure. But now? One moment I think she’s over it, and the next…”

Dennis grinned knowingly. “She’s not over it. And Charles? He’s head over heels. Look at the way he watches her when she’s not looking. The guy’s smitten.”

Arthur laughed at him "I've had my suspicions about him for a while, but he's difficult to read"

“Just saying, the sexual tension is insane.” Dennis laughed.

Arthur groaned, leaning back in his chair. “You’re talking about my brother. Ew.”

"Hey, in all honesty. If he indeeds feels that way about her, I don't judge him.." Dennis laughed at the disgusted face that Arthur was pulling "Because, come on, you gotta admit it, she's hot"

Arthur shook his head, laughing despite himself. “Yeah, she’s hot. I'm aware of that, but I don’t see her that way. Never did, to be honest. We kissed a couple of times, but it was never like that" he said, a laugh present on his face as he thought back to the memories "I guess like once or twice during drinking games, and I remember one time when we were just young and hopeless, so we tried kissing like once, but it honestly was like… kissing my sister. Just weird.”

Dennis nodded, a sly grin spreading across his face. “I know that, Thur. But your brother? He doesn’t seem to think it’s weird.”

Dennis was watching you and Charles with barely concealed amusement, his eyes flicking between the two of you like he was watching a slow-motion car crash. He leaned a little closer to Arthur, smirking. "I mean, come on," he said under his breath. "Do they think they’re fooling anyone?"

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. "They’ve been like this for ages. It’s exhausting just being around it."

Gigi, sitting nearby and clearly picking up on their hushed tones, laughed softly and joined in. “It’s mildly funny, though. They’re trying so hard to keep up this weird act of hating each other. Like, come on—it’s obvious they don’t actually hate each other.”

Dennis grinned, nodding toward Charles. “Right? The guy looks like he’s about to break his neck just to glance at her without being obvious.”

Gigi shrugged, leaning back in her chair. “What I don’t get is what caused all this. They used to be great friends. Back when she was still in love with him” she explained “they were actually kind of inseparable. So, what changed?”

Dennis tilted his head, considering her words. “Do you think she's still in love with him?”

Gigi paused, her brow furrowing slightly. “Honestly? I don’t think so. I mean, she still thinks he’s hot—because, let’s face it, he is hot—but she doesn’t act the way she used to. Back then, she was constantly hopeful. And let's face it, he was her first ever proper crush, so he might have a special place, but I don't think she's still in love with him. Now it's just different"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

“She just seems... done. Like she gave up on him a while ago.” Gigi shrugged again, her tone thoughtful. “And honestly, I don’t blame her. If Charles does feel something now, he's probably too late. She’s waited long enough. Sure, when she was younger, the age gap made sense. She was too young. But by the time she was, like, 20, she was old enough. She still had feelings for him then, and he never even did anything about it.”

Dennis tapped his chin dramatically. “That’s rough. And if he does admit something now, what do you think? Should she go for it?”

Gigi frowned, her gaze shifting toward you briefly. “I don’t know. It would feel... weird. Like, if he didn’t see her that way before, why now? It might just feel like he’s choosing her because it’s convenient.”

Arthur sighed, rubbing his temples. “Can we not psychoanalyze my brother’s love life, please?”

Gigi shifted her gaze to Dennis, a sly grin spreading across her face. “What about you? You and her seem close. Maybe something’s blossoming there?”

Dennis raised an eyebrow, a surprised chuckle escaping him. “Me and her? Nah, come on.”

Gigi tilted her head, still smirking. “What? I’m just saying, you two seem to have this... vibe.”

Dennis laughed, shaking his head. “Look, she’s hot. I’d hook up with her in a heartbeat if she wanted to, but something serious? Nah. We both know it’s not like that.”

Gigi rolled her eyes, clearly amused. “You’re an idiot.” she laughed.

Arthur leaned back, groaning dramatically. “Why are we even having this conversation? Can we not dissect every potential romantic possibility?”

Gigi laughed. “Oh, come on, Arthur. Admit it. It’s entertaining.”

Arthur shook his head, muttering under his breath. “You all need help.”

Both Gigi and Dennis laughed out loud at Arthur's comment, finding it funny how Arthur reacted.

Before anyone could say more, their conversation was cut short when Charles, who had clearly overheard snippets of their hushed tones, called out from across the garden. “What’s so funny over there?”

Arthur, Dennis, and Gigi exchanged a quick look before Arthur spoke, his tone far too casual. “Oh, nothing much. Just debating which one of us would survive the longest if we had to endure one of your lectures on strategy.”

Charles narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced. “Sure,” he muttered, turning back to his conversation with Joris. But the faint twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement, even as he pretended not to care.

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As the night wore on, the group began to disperse, some heading to bed while others lingered to enjoy the cool night air. You made your way up to your room, feeling restless. Grabbing the cigarette Inès had reluctantly given you earlier, you stepped onto the balcony, the cool breeze brushing against your skin.

The first drag burned your throat, a harsh reminder of why you’d quit. But tonight, the weight in your chest felt heavier than usual, and this seemed like the only way to breathe again.

The quiet was short-lived. The soft creak of the balcony door opening made you stiffen, and when you turned, you found Charles stepping out.

“If you’re planning to mock me for smoking, shut up,” you said, not even trying to hide your annoyance.

Charles raised his hands defensively. “I wasn’t planning on anything.”

He leaned against the railing, his gaze fixed on the view rather than you. For a moment, the two of you stood in silence, the tension ebbing into something softer.

“Are you going to keep standing there, or are you taking a seat?” you asked, nudging a chair toward him with your foot.

He sat without a word, the quiet between you stretching but not uncomfortable.

“I thought you quit,” he said finally, his voice soft.

You took another drag, exhaling slowly. “I did.”

Charles chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “Figures.”

“But then my best friend decided it was a good idea to take me on a holiday and make me share a bathroom and connecting rooms with his brother" You smirked faintly "Don’t know if you’ve met him, but he’s got a massive ego and loves getting on his brother’s best friend’s nerves. Pathetic, really.”

Charles laughed, the sound low and warm. “Can’t say I’ve met him. But he probably has a good reason.”

The two of you shared a quiet laugh, a rare moment of peace between the insults. You held out your cigarette to him, a small gesture of truce.

Charles hesitated before taking it, his fingers brushing against yours briefly. The touch was fleeting but electric, sending a jolt through him that he didn’t entirely wanted to administer. He took a drag, exhaling slowly, his eyes on the stars.

“For someone who claims to hate me this much, this seems pretty generous,” he said, handing it back.

“Maybe I’m trying to ruin your lungs so you screw up your next race,” you replied dryly, leaning back in your chair.

Charles hummed in mock agreement. “Hmm. If you say so.”

The silence lingered between you and Charles, stretching into something neither of you was used to—quiet, companionable, and strangely comfortable. You stared out at the darkened garden, the faint glow of the string lights from below casting soft shadows across the balcony. The cigarette burned low between your fingers, the occasional ember flaring as you took a slow drag.

Charles shifted slightly in his seat, his arms resting casually on the chair's arms, his eyes flicking to you when he thought you weren’t looking. The lines of his face were softened by the night, his usual sharpness replaced by a contemplative calm.

“You’ve gotten quieter,” you muttered, breaking the silence. “What? Run out of things to argue about already?”

He smirked, glancing at you. “Just pacing myself. Don’t want to exhaust all my good comebacks in one night.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting the small smile that tugged at your lips. “Oh, please. I’ve heard them all before. You’re not that original.”

“Maybe I’m just giving you a chance to catch up,” he quipped, a faint grin playing at the corner of his mouth.

You laughed softly, shaking your head, and for a moment, it almost felt easy—like the walls you’d both carefully built were thinning, letting something more natural seep through.

The two of you lapsed back into silence, the occasional sound of the night filling the void. Charles tapped his fingers lightly against the chair, his rhythm steady, almost soothing. He tilted his head back slightly, staring up at the stars.

“What do you think they’re talking about down there?” he asked suddenly, nodding toward the garden where the others were still chatting.

You shrugged, leaning back in your chair. “Knowing Arthur and Dennis? Something dumb. Probably debating the best flavor of chips or some other nonsense.”

Charles chuckled softly. “Sounds about right.”

Minutes passed, the quiet stretching comfortably between you. Occasionally, your gazes met, and though neither of you spoke, there was an unspoken exchange—something in the way his eyes softened just slightly when he looked at you.

Finally, you stood, brushing ash from your hands. “I’m going to freshen up in the bathroom and go to bed.”

Charles didn’t respond immediately, his eyes following your movements. Just as you reached the doorway, he called out softly, his voice cutting through the quiet.

“You know,” he began, his tone uncharacteristically serious, “aside from all the arguments… you know I don’t actually hate you, right?”

You froze in the doorway, his words hanging in the air between you. Slowly, you turned, your hand resting on the doorframe. “You have a shit way of showing that,” you said, your voice quieter than usual.

Charles gave you a small, almost rueful smile. “I’ll work on it.”

You stared at him for a moment longer before nodding. “Goodnight, Charles.”

“Goodnight,” he replied, watching as you disappeared inside.

In the bathroom, the scent of him lingered—subtle but unmistakable. It was maddening how easily it unsettled you, making your chest tighten with an unspoken weight. You closed the door behind you, locking both his and your side with care, as if the physical barrier could somehow keep your thoughts at bay.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror, the faint steam from the earlier shower still clinging to the edges of the glass. “Get over it,” you whispered to yourself, your voice barely audible. “You hate him. Remember?”

But the words felt hollow, even to your own ears.

The shower’s warm spray hit your skin, washing away the tension that had settled in your shoulders, but it couldn’t quite cleanse your mind. Images of his face lingered—his small, almost shy smile when he’d said he didn’t hate you, the way his fingers had brushed against yours earlier when you passed him the cigarette.

You lingered longer than usual, hoping the heat of the water would somehow dissolve the confusion swirling inside you. When you finally stepped out and dried off, you felt no closer to clarity, only exhaustion.

Back in your room, the muffled sounds of movement from the adjoining space made you pause. You could hear him faintly—the soft creak of his bed, the shuffle of fabric as he adjusted his position. It was strangely intimate, knowing he was so close, separated only by a thin wall.

Sliding into bed, you stared at the ceiling, the room’s quiet amplifying the sounds next door. Your mind drifted despite your best efforts, and with a sigh, you reached for your phone.

You: Bathroom’s free

You'd typed it quickly, hesitating for a moment before pressing send. Before you could even process your message, the reply already came.

Charles: Thanks.

You put your phone on your nightstand, plugging it in the charger, before crawling deeper beneath the covers. You tried to fall asleep, but it felt impossible. Every movement he made, every creak of his bed, echoed faintly. It made you realize once more, in what close proximity you both were, keeping you awake longer than you’d like. Eventually though, sleep claimed you, surprisingly peaceful despite everything.

Carlos only grinned, knowing exactly how you felt about Daniel. He'd been trying to push you toward him for ages, but as always, you deflected. “I don’t think Max would be thrilled if I hooked up with his teammate,” you replied, though a part of you knew that wasn’t the real reason you’d been holding back.

Carlos shrugged with a smirk. “Did you forget how convinced Max was that we were hooking up back at Toro Rosso? He didn’t seem too bothered by that idea, did he?”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling as you swayed in rhythm with him, your fingers linking behind his neck. “Yeah, vividly. But that was different…” You let out a laugh, trying to keep your tone casual. “For one, our age gap was a lot smaller than Daniel and mine.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “You’re 20, who cares? Daniel’s 28—it’s not like he’s ancient.”

Sighing, you dropped your forehead against Carlos’s shoulder. “Besides, even if he would consider hooking up with me, he’d probably be disappointed. I’ve never… well, you know. I’ve only gone as far as giving a guy a blowie in a club bathroom, and even that was a drunken disaster. Somehow, I doubt a 28-year-old is looking for a hookup with a 20-year-old virgin.”

Carlos chuckled under his breath, rolling his eyes as he shook his head. “You're really that blind, aren't you? The guy is absolutely head over heels for you.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Carlos shifted his grip, spinning you around so your back pressed against his chest, his arms wrapping around your waist to guide your movements. To anyone watching, it looked like a slow grind, intimate and close, even though he left enough space to keep things comfortable.

He steered you both around the dance floor, inching you closer to the bar. “Look at him,” Carlos murmured in your ear, lifting a hand to tilt your chin ever so slightly. “See for yourself.”

Your gaze landed on Daniel, and your breath caught in your throat. There he was, leaning against the bar, drink in hand, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity you hadn’t seen before. His jaw was tight, his lips set in a straight line as he took in every shift of your body against Carlos’s, his gaze dark, brooding, and unmistakably heated. The way his eyes drifted, tracing the curve of your legs, lingering on your hips as they moved, made your heart race. He wasn’t just watching; he was studying, every look brimming with tension and frustration.

Carlos’s laughter hummed against your back, pulling you out of your trance. “The guy’s been staring daggers at me since the second we started dancing.”

“No way,” you murmured, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady, even though your pulse hammered in your ears. “He’s just… looking. Nothing more.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening as he leaned down to murmur against your ear, “Who are you trying to convince? Me… or yourself?”

“Fuck,” you huffed, feeling your cheeks flush under Daniel’s gaze, heat spreading through you in a way that felt as dangerous as it was thrilling. “I need more alcohol.”

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Hours and too many drinks later, you’d long since shed your usual shyness, finding a brazen confidence in the music, the crowd, and the glimmer of alcohol-fueled ease in every movement. The world felt hazy but thrilling, every pulse of the bass reverberating through you as you let yourself sink into the beat.

Carlos watched your transformation, amused at how you threw back shots and laughed a little louder than before. At one point, you looked back at him over your shoulder, eyes bright and mischievous, completely oblivious to the intensity with which a certain Australian had been watching you both.

With a chuckle and a playful push, Carlos nudged you forward, aiming you right in Daniel’s direction. “Go on, dance with him already,” he teased, his smirk saying he knew exactly what he was doing.

You stumbled into Daniel, feeling his hand steady you, his fingers lingering just a second too long as you regained your balance. “Well, fancy seeing you here, Ricciardo,” you quipped, your voice carrying an edge of flirtation that you didn’t usually dare with him.

Daniel’s lips curled into that easy, charming smile, his fingers still on your waist. “Fancy that. You’re looking a little… spirited tonight,” he replied, his eyes raking over you with a mixture of amusement and something darker, something almost hungry that you couldn’t miss, even in your haze. He was trying to play it off, keep things casual, but his gaze lingered just a bit too long, drawn to the curve of your hips, the dip of your collarbone, and the dress that had ridden up just enough to reveal more of your thigh.

“Oh yeah?” you leaned in close, fingers grazing up his arm, catching the way his eyes followed every movement. “What do you mean, ‘spirited?’” You were close enough to catch the hint of his cologne, something warm and subtly spicy, like he was, and it made you feel just a little bolder.

Daniel chuckled, but his fingers tightened slightly at your waist as if grounding himself. “Just saying,” he replied, “I don’t usually see you dancing like that.” His eyes sparkled with a mix of fondness and something a little more conflicted. He was trying so hard to keep things cool, but you could tell he was affected. “Especially with Carlos. Didn’t know he was your type.”

You laughed, moving your body a little closer to his, playfully ignoring the tension that brewed between you. “Carlos? Nah. He’s more like… a dance partner for the night. Besides,” you added, looking up at him through your lashes, “I think my type is just a little taller… curly hair.. and definitely Australian.”

A flicker of something like surprise crossed his face, his eyes briefly widening before he collected himself. He swallowed, looking away, almost as if to compose himself. “Is that so?” he murmured, his fingers curling at your waist, his voice low.

Just then, the music changed to something slower, a sensual rhythm that had you pressing a little closer against him. Daniel’s hands slipped to your waist, pulling you flush against him, his heartbeat thrumming fast under your hands as you settled into a rhythm together. You let your body sway, your hips pressing against him as his hands guided you, holding you steady and closer than he should.

“Gotta stop moving like that,” he mumbled, his voice tight, a strained note of amusement as he tried to mask how breathless he sounded.

You looked up at him with a smirk. “Why?” you asked, feigning innocence, though the mischievous gleam in your eyes told him you knew exactly what you were doing.

He swallowed, his gaze darkening as his grip on your hips tightened, pulling you flush against him. The movement brought you closer than before, and in that instant, you felt him—hard, pressing against you through his jeans, undeniable and unrestrained. A thrill shot through you as your eyes met his, your gaze drifting downward for a fleeting second, then back up to find his expression transformed, conflicted and charged. His voice was rough, edged with that undeniable tension. “You know very well why,” he murmured, his tone thick with barely restrained desire and frustration, his fingers gripping your waist as if to hold himself back.

Your lips parted in surprise, but you didn't move away. Instead, you let a slow smile spread across your face, your body swaying against him just enough to deepen his predicament. Daniel’s jaw clenched, his gaze darting down to where your bodies pressed together, his expression shifting between longing and resistance, the internal battle clear as he tried to keep himself grounded, even as you blurred every boundary between you.

You felt the heat radiating off him, the subtle hitch in his breathing, the way his fingers trembled slightly against your waist.

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Hours later, you stumbled out of the bathroom, trying to make your way back to the dance floor but feeling far less coordinated than before. The world tilted slightly as you bumped into a table, a stray chair, and even a few club-goers who offered you amused or annoyed glances.

“Alright, I think you’ve had enough to drink for one night, darling,” came a familiar voice from behind, warm and steady. Before you could turn, a hand wrapped around your upper arm, steadying you, and the familiar scent of Daniel surrounded you, grounding you.

You turned to him with an exaggerated pout, his arm still holding you up. “I… I’m definitely… not,” you managed, words slightly slurred as you tried to shake off his grip, failing miserably. He chuckled softly, clearly amused.

Daniel’s gaze softened, his eyes roaming over you with a mix of tenderness and barely concealed desire. Your dress had shifted, one strap sliding off your shoulder, the hem hitching up to reveal more skin than you intended. He took in the sight, pausing for just a moment too long before swallowing hard and composing himself.

“Let’s get you sorted out here,” he murmured, reaching to fix your dress. His fingers brushed over your shoulder, grazing your skin, and he swallowed hard, the gentle touches sending a thrill through you. His hands moved lower, trying to straighten the hem, and his fingers brushed over the curve of your thigh, a touch that made you let out a soft, involuntary whimper. His eyes darkened, and he hesitated, looking like he wanted to pull away but unable to tear himself away from the way you looked at him.

“Mm… feels nice,” you murmured, leaning into his touch, your gaze half-lidded as you looked up at him, lips parted slightly. You noticed how he tensed, his jaw clenched, clearly struggling to resist.

“Come on,” he said, clearing his throat, his voice a little rough. “Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

He led you through the club, supporting you with one arm wrapped securely around you. As you stumbled along, your hand brushed over his chest, lingering a little longer than necessary, your fingers tracing small patterns as you walked. He glanced down, swallowing, his throat bobbing as he tried to keep his focus. Along the way, you nearly collided with Max, who took one look at you and raised an eyebrow.

"I'm bringing your sister back to the hotel," Daniel explained, nodding toward you with a hint of amusement. "She’s absolutely hammered."

Max smirked, his eyes flicking between you and Daniel. "You sure? I can take her back if you’d rather stay. I know she can’t hold her liquor."

“Hey!” you interjected, stumbling slightly as you tried to regain your balance, waving off your brother with a slurred, “I-Ik ben niet eens d-dronken…” (I’m not even drunk). You gave him a half-hearted glare, rolling your eyes in exaggerated annoyance.

Daniel glanced at Max with a small, amused shake of his head. “I have no clue what she just said, but don’t worry, I’ve got it,” he reassured him. “I was planning to head home anyway, and besides,” he added with a smile, “our apartments are in the same building anyway, so it's no hassle”

Max nodded, giving you a quick pat on the shoulder before turning back to Daniel. "Alright, mate. Get her home safe."

With that, Max watched as Daniel guided you gently but firmly toward the exit, his grip steadying you as you leaned against him, too tipsy to resist.

When you reached the curb, he helped you into a cab, sliding in beside you. You leaned against him, head resting on his shoulder, your hand slipping to rest on his thigh, your fingers drifting ever so slightly higher, sending a rush of heat through him.

“You’re drunk,” he murmured, his voice low and strained, trying to keep his breathing even.

You looked up at him with a playful, tipsy grin, fingers tracing the fabric of his jeans. “So?”

He bit his lip, fighting a losing battle against his own desires, his hand covering yours to stop its teasing ascent. He’d never seen you this forward, this flirtatious, and though it thrilled him, it terrified him all the same. The line between you had always been thin, but tonight, with every touch, every brush of your skin against his, you were slowly erasing it.

When you arrived at the apartment building, you had began starting to sober up a tiny little bit. Still wasted obviously, but it seems as if you had a little bit more control over your own actions.

As you fumbled through your purse, your expression shifted from confidence to frustration as you realized your keys weren’t there.

“I… I had them,” you muttered, searching again, only for the reality to settle in. “I must’ve left them with Carlos or Max.”

You looked up at Daniel with a mischievous glint in your eyes, swaying slightly on your feet. “Guess that means I’m staying with you?”

Daniel hesitated, his resolve weakening as he searched your face, taking in the way your lips quirked in that daring, flirtatious smile. He was already in too deep, the familiar ache in his chest too hard to ignore. After a moment, he let out a resigned sigh, offering a small, reluctant smile as he nodded.

“Yeah, alright,” he said softly, his hand brushing over your back as he guided you inside. “But you’ve gotta promise me you’ll go straight to bed.”

You leaned in, closer than necessary, your breath warm against his cheek. “We’ll see about that,” you murmured playfully, sending one last spark of heat through him as he led you toward his apartment, both of you caught in a delicate balance of desire, restraint, and the thrill of the unspoken between you.

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Daniel led you to his kitchen, pulling out a stool by the bar, gesturing for you to sit. But you had other ideas. Following him over to the sink, you leaned back against the counter, lifting yourself up onto it. Your dress slid up as you settled, exposing nearly everything to anyone watching.

Daniel turned off the tap, glass in hand, and was about to pass it to you when he caught sight of you. His gaze trailed over your bare thighs, and his breath hitched, eyes widening as he muttered, “Fuck.” His eyes lingered, and he dared to glance lower, noticing the smallest glimpse of black lace between your slightly parted legs.

Swallowing hard, he gripped the counter edge, his knuckles whitening as he fought the overwhelming urge to close the distance between you, his lips already tingling with the desire to claim yours. Forcing himself to look away, he pressed the glass into your hand, his voice husky and tight. “Drink this. It'll help,” he murmured, barely able to keep his composure. “I’ll… I’ll go grab a shirt for you. So you don’t have to sleep in that dress.”

You downed the water in one swift gulp, letting your gaze drift back to him. The proximity hit you both, close enough for you to see the tension in his jaw and the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. But what captured your attention most was the unmistakable bulge in his jeans, straining against the fabric, betraying the restraint he tried so hard to maintain.

A slow smirk crept across your lips as you reached out, letting your fingers graze his arm, traveling in a slow, tantalizing path up to his shoulder, then down his chest, inching ever closer to his belt. But before you could reach it, his hand shot out, gripping your wrist firmly. “We… we shouldn’t do this,” he muttered, voice low and rough as he gently pushed your hand away, though his touch lingered just a second too long, his resolve wavering.

Undeterred, you hopped down from the counter, stepping forward until there was barely any space left between you. Confidence you hadn’t realized you possessed surged through you, and you reached out, cupping him through his jeans. He let out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a moan, his resolve crumbling under the pressure of your touch.

Bringing your lips close to his ear, you whispered, your voice a hushed, sultry tease, “That’s what you say… but your body’s telling me something else entirely.”

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Daniel forced himself to gather every shred of self-control he could muster, putting a few steps of distance between you before he turned on his heel, heading to his bedroom to grab a shirt from the closet. His mind raced as he moved. He wanted you—God, he wanted you more than anything—but he knew you were drunk, teetering on that edge where even a soft touch or glance was hazy with the thrill of it all. And as much as he ached to feel your lips on his, to let every longing he’d harbored for so long finally spill over, he didn’t want to take advantage of your current state.

Yet, you were making it damn near impossible to keep his composure. Every touch, every glance, every whisper made his restraint crumble bit by bit, leaving him clinging to the last threads of resolve.

When he made his way to the bathroom with the shirt in hand, he stopped in the doorway, noticing you struggling with the zipper of your dress, your back turned to him. The zipper was halfway down, leaving a tantalizing glimpse of your bare skin, and his heart pounded harder, fighting between propriety and desire.

“Danny, can you help me with the zipper, please?” Your voice was soft, but the note of longing was unmistakable, each word sparking something primal within him.

He hesitated, but before he could stop himself, he stepped forward, leaving the shirt on the sink, and positioned himself behind you. His fingers brushed your skin as he reached for the zipper, feeling the warmth radiating off you. You shivered at his touch, a soft, involuntary whimper escaping your lips that sent a jolt through him. He dragged the zipper down slowly, his fingers grazing your skin, unable to resist lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

Once the zipper was down, you slipped the straps off your shoulders, the dress falling effortlessly down your frame, pooling at your feet. Daniel’s breath caught in his throat as he took you in, standing before him in nothing but your black lace lingerie. He clenched his jaw, feeling a wave of heat course through him, the last of his rationality slipping as his eyes traced over every curve, every inch of you laid bare.

You turned to face him, the look in your eyes a mixture of vulnerability and desire, a silent plea that tugged at the very core of him. Reaching up, you let your fingers graze the stubble on his jaw, caressing his cheek as you held his gaze. “Kiss me, Daniel,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, a soft, desperate invitation.

It was all he needed. His restraint finally shattered, and he closed the distance between you in a heartbeat. His hand cupped your cheek, fingers threading through your hair as he captured your lips in a kiss that was fierce, urgent, filled with all the pent-up emotion and longing he’d been holding back. You melted into him, pressing closer, every brush of his lips igniting sparks that spread through your body.

His hands slid down to the small of your back, then lower, gripping your thighs as he lifted you effortlessly, setting you onto the countertop of the bathroom sink. He stepped between your legs, his body pressing firmly against yours, grounding you in the heat and solidity of him. You wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. The slight tug on his hair drew a low, guttural moan from him, his chest heaving as he leaned into you, lost in the feel of you against him.

His hands roamed over your body, sliding along your curves, his touch sending shivers down your spine. You gasped against his mouth, a sound that turned into a soft moan, each note pushing him closer to the edge of his composure. He deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips, exploring, tasting, savoring every second. You could taste the hint of whiskey on his lips, warm and heady, mingling with his natural, intoxicating flavor. Every brush of his tongue against yours sent a surge of heat pooling between your legs, each movement building the need that pulsed through you.

Daniel pulled you closer, his grip tightening as you felt his hardness pressing against you, undeniable, unmistakable. The sensation made you dizzy, your entire body responding to him, the ache between your thighs intensifying as you instinctively rocked your hips against him. His breath hitched, and he let out a soft, unrestrained groan, his head dipping to press heated, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down to the sensitive spot behind your ear. His lips left a trail of warmth, each kiss setting your skin alight, making you ache for more.

“Daniel,” you murmured, voice barely a whisper, breathless as you held him closer, “I need… I…”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and filled with a barely contained fire. “Use my thigh, love,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire, encouraging you, his words laced with both restraint and indulgence. The suggestion was almost too much, the heat in his eyes spurring you on, each word sending another pulse of arousal through you.

You didn’t hesitate, shifting your hips to grind against his thigh, a soft moan slipping from your lips as you felt the friction, your panties already damp against his jeans. Daniel’s hands gripped your waist, guiding you, his own breath coming faster as he watched, the sight of you losing yourself in the pleasure unraveling him bit by bit.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice rough as he pressed a kiss to your temple, his hands urging you to move, encouraging every motion. “Been wanting this… wanting you… for so damn long.” He buried his face in the crook of your neck, kissing and nipping at your skin as he spoke, his voice shaky, every word spilling out in a way that only fueled the fire between you.

“Seeing you with Carlos tonight,” he murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear, “it drove me crazy. Couldn’t stand it. I wanted to kill him for touching you” He paused, lifting his head to look into your eyes, his gaze raw, vulnerable, every wall he’d built around himself now shattered. “I’ve wanted you like this… needed you like this… for so long.”

Every word, every touch, every heated gaze pushed you further, his encouragement spurring you on as you moved against him, feeling the delicious friction, the warmth spreading through you as you both succumbed to the intoxicating pull of each other.

Daniel’s breathing grew ragged as he watched you move against his thigh, each roll of your hips sending a wave of heat through him. The way you looked at him, with that mixture of need and adoration, was undoing him in the best possible way.

Your breathing came in shallow, needy gasps as you looked up at him, eyes heavy with desire. “God, Daniel… you have no idea how good you look right now,” you murmured, your voice thick with arousal.

Your soft moans and whispered praises only fueled him more, each one pushing him to explore, to give you everything you were craving. His gaze darkening even more as he captured your lips in a searing kiss, pouring every ounce of pent-up desire and affection into it.

Without breaking the kiss, he slid you back a little on the counter, his hands gripping your hips firmly. You gasped as his fingers traced the edge of your panties, his touch light but electrifying, and he paused, his gaze meeting yours as if asking for permission.

You gave a small nod, your breath catching as his hand slipped beneath the lace, his fingers brushing over you, his touch igniting every nerve ending. His breath hitched when he felt just how wet you were, a low groan escaping his lips as he murmured, “God, you’re soaked.”

The words sent a thrill through you, making you arch into his touch, craving more. His fingers moved with deliberate slowness, exploring and teasing, drawing out your reactions, each moan and gasp fueling his own desire “The way you make me feel… God, it’s like you know exactly what I need.”

Your words lit a fire in him, a spark that deepened the hunger in his gaze as he pulled you closer. His lips curved into a smirk, fingers dipping lower as he murmured, “Yeah? I think I could get used to hearing that.”

He watched you intently, captivated by every expression, every sound that escaped your lips as he continued, building the tension higher with each movement.

You clung to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as his fingers moved with perfect rhythm, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. He whispered soft words of encouragement, his voice low and full of affection. “That’s it, love… you’re doing so well. Let go for me,” he murmured, his tone both comforting and enticing.

And then, as his touch pushed you over the edge, a wave of pure ecstasy washed over you, and you cried out his name, your body shuddering as he held you through it, his gaze never leaving yours.

Once you came down from your high, your hand started making their way to Daniel's jeans, intending to return the favor, yet your movements where halted once again by his fingers around your wrist "I won't be able to hold back if you continue" he mumbled, his lips pressing soft kisses against the skin of your neck.

"Maybe that's the point" you whispered seductively.

He shook his head "As much as I would love to, I'm not sleeping with you while you're drunk" he whispered as he pressed one last kiss against your cheek, before he pulled away, grabbing the shirt that was still on the sink with his free hand, assisting you to pull it over your head "We'll talk about it tomorrow, and then we'll see"

As if the post orgasm haze started to kick in, you felt yourself getting tired, giving yourself over to the Australian driver as he carefully lifted you off of the sink and carried you over to his bedroom, placing you down onto it.

He was intending to get up and sleep on the couch, just in case you wouldn't remember things tomorrow, or worse, remember it, but regretting things. But the soft plea that left your lips stopped him in his tracks "Please, stay with me?"

It was as if his legs moved on their own accord, slipping into the bed next to you, feeling you crawl into his arms, your head resting on his chest. Once he noticed you were sound asleep, he grabbed his phone from his pocket and send Max a quick text:

Daniel: Your sister is sound asleep btw, she's crashing here, since she apparently forgot her keys or something.

Max: Figured as much indeed, Carlos came over and handed me her keys, said she forgot to take them before she left. Max: Thanks for letting me know, I'll torture her tomorrow about her headache ;)

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As the soft morning light filtered through the curtains, you stirred, feeling the gentle warmth touch your skin as you blinked awake. It took a moment to piece things together, the room unfamiliar, the quiet hum of an unfamiliar space settling around you. When realization dawned, it hit all at once. This wasn’t your apartment—this was Daniel’s.

Your eyes widened, and you scanned the room, momentarily panicked. But the bed beside you was empty, the sheets cool to the touch, which brought a small wave of relief. Sitting up slowly, you took a breath, glancing down to see yourself dressed in one of Daniel’s shirts. The soft fabric brushed your skin, and you realized, with a sudden blush, that you were only in his shirt and your lingerie.

Heart pounding, you swung your legs over the side of the bed, trying to clear the fog of last night’s hazy memories. The details were elusive, flashes of warmth, laughter, and maybe… something more. You felt oddly refreshed, but the lack of clarity gnawed at you. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself to find him, needing some answers.

Moving carefully down the hallway, you made your way to the bathroom, hoping to splash some water on your face, collect yourself before facing him. You twisted the doorknob, assuming the room would be empty. Instead, steam filled the space, and you froze, the faint outline of a figure behind the frosted shower door capturing your attention.

Your gaze locked on the silhouette, recognizing Daniel immediately—the shape of his shoulders, the familiar line of his back. A rush of heat flooded through you, your mind replaying a rush of emotions from last night, and you pressed your thighs together instinctively, trying to banish the sudden surge of desire. You knew you should turn around, slip out quietly, but you were rooted to the spot, utterly transfixed.

Before you could retreat, Daniel turned off the shower, reaching for a towel and wrapping it low around his waist before stepping out. His gaze landed on you, his mouth curving into a smirk, droplets still trailing down his chest and abs. His dark hair was wet, small drops sliding from his curls, and the steam radiated off his skin, casting him in a hazy glow.

“Well, good morning to you too,” he said, his voice a rich, low rumble, his signature smirk making your pulse race. “If you wanted to see me naked this bad, all you had to do was ask. No need to sneak up on me.” His tone was teasing, though his gaze held a hint of something deeper, something almost daring you to respond.

Your cheeks flushed, and you raised your hands to cover your face. “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” you stammered, feeling a mix of embarrassment and that same lingering heat from last night.

You heard him chuckle softly, and when you dared to peek through your fingers, he’d already dried off and slipped into a shirt and a pair of boxers. He stepped closer, gently pulling your hands away from your face, his expression softened, a trace of warmth in his morning-rough voice. “No need to be so shy, darling,” he murmured, the words filled with a quiet affection that sent a shiver down your spine.

You glanced at him, unable to ignore how close he was, feeling both relieved and oddly disappointed that he was now dressed. You couldn’t deny how good he looked, fresh out of the shower, the lingering scent of soap and warmth filling the space between you.

But the question weighed on your mind, and finally, you managed to ask, “Please tell me we didn’t…?”

Daniel’s gaze softened further, his eyes flickering with an understanding smile as he placed a steadying hand on your shoulder, letting it linger for just a moment before he replied. “If we slept together? No, we didn’t.”

A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding slipped out in relief. Before you could fully process it, though, Daniel added, “But I’m also not gonna pretend that you didn’t try to… and I’m definitely not going to act like nothing else happened.”

His words hung in the air, and you felt your breath catch, a wave of both nerves and arousal coursing through you. “Oh God,” you mumbled, lifting yourself onto the countertop by the sink, feeling a little dizzy, staring at the floor as you tried to piece together what he meant. “What did I make you do?”

Daniel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his gaze steady and entirely too knowing as he took in the expression on your face. “You didn’t make me do anything, darling,” he said softly, his tone gentle yet firm. “It takes two to tango.”

The words lingered in the quiet, settling over you with a weight you couldn’t ignore. He shifted, stepping closer, his gaze never leaving yours. “Let’s just say… this isn’t the first time you’ve sat on that countertop in the last 24 hours. Although, last night it was for… different reasons.”

As soon as he said it, memories rushed back in vivid, unfiltered flashes—the feel of his hands, the press of his lips, the way he held you as if he’d waited forever to do so. Your cheeks flushed deeper, the weight of those memories flooding you, the reality of what had happened leaving you breathless.

“Oh God,” you murmured, looking down, struggling to meet his eyes. The blush deepened, and you tried to banish the embarrassment, but it was impossible to hide the way your body reacted to just being near him, recalling every detail of last night.

Daniel watched you, his gaze contemplative, and he let out a small sigh, pressing his lips together before speaking. “Look… you were drunk. I’d had a bit to drink too. I understand if you regret it” His voice was steady, but there was a subtle tension underneath, as if he was holding something back.

You took a deep breath, fiddling with your hands as you struggled to find the right words. "Yeah, about that.." you said, taking a deep breath before continuing "There might be a slight problem to that"

Daniel studied the way you were acting, unsure of what to expect “We can pretend it didn’t happen, if that’s what you want. That's no problem” he offered, though his tone held a hint of something unresolved, something unsaid.

Finally, you looked up at him, your gaze meeting his, the sincerity in your expression clear. “Well… I guess the problem is that..” you whispered, voice barely audible at first, but then you gathered your courage and continued, “I don’t regret it, Daniel… not at all.”

The words hung in the air between you, thickening the silence, every hidden feeling and unspoken desire now out in the open. His eyes widened slightly, the guarded expression slipping as something raw and vulnerable crossed his face.

Daniel's eyes softened at your words, the vulnerable confession drawing him closer, dissolving any remaining space between you. He stepped forward, situating himself between your legs once more, just like he had done last night, but this time you were both sober.

His presence warm and steady, grounding you in the intimacy of the moment. His hands reached up slowly, one gently cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing a soft line along your skin, the other tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His gaze was deep, intense, and full of affection as he looked into your eyes, his face only inches from yours.

"Good," he whispered, his voice low and tender, “because I don’t regret it either.”

Without another word, he closed the distance, his lips finding yours in a gentle, unhurried kiss. There was no urgency, only a steady, deliberate affection that conveyed every unspoken emotion he’d held back. His kiss was soft and careful, full of warmth, each touch of his lips conveying the depth of his feelings as he held you close.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, and you both shared a quiet, contented breath, wrapped up in the warmth of the moment. But the tenderness only fueled the lingering desire that had simmered between you both, and with a sudden burst of confidence, you grasped the collar of his shirt, pulling him back to you.

This time, the kiss deepened, your lips moving in sync as the restraint melted away, giving way to something more fervent, tinged with longing. His hands moved to your waist, pulling you even closer, his fingers splaying against your skin. The gentle intimacy turned heated, your mouths exploring, tongues teasing as the passion escalated with each passing second. You could feel his breath hitch as your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groaned softly against your lips, sending a shiver down your spine.

Without breaking the kiss, your lips began to wander, trailing a path from his mouth to his jaw, where you lingered, pressing soft, teasing kisses that made him shudder under your touch. You could feel the subtle stubble against your lips, the warmth radiating from his skin as you moved lower, planting slow, lingering kisses along his neck, tasting the faint hint of his cologne mixed with his natural scent. Each kiss seemed to draw a deeper, ragged breath from him, his chest rising and falling as he leaned into every touch, unable to hold back the quiet sounds of pleasure escaping his lips.

You let your hands roam freely, exploring the strong lines of his shoulders, fingers tracing down the curves of his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath his shirt. His pulse thrummed beneath your touch, quickening with each passing second. He swallowed hard, his breathing growing heavier as you continued, savoring every inch of him.

“God, Daniel,” you whispered against his neck, letting your lips brush the words over his skin. “You have no idea how good you look like this… or how good you feel.” Your voice was soft but laced with genuine admiration and a suggestive edge that had his grip on your waist tightening.

“Fuck…” he muttered, his voice thick with need as your words and touch clearly had an effect on him. He tilted his head back, giving you more access, his eyes closing for a moment as he absorbed the sensations.

Your lips brushed his ear, and you could feel him shiver as you whispered, “I’ve wanted this for so long, wanted to feel you… just like this.” Your words spilled out as you continued trailing kisses, his low groan fueling your confidence as you let your hands drift lower.

You let your fingers slide down his torso, tracing every line and curve of his body with deliberate, teasing slowness. Your hand finally ventured to the waistband of his boxers, and you pressed your palm against him, feeling the unmistakable hardness through the fabric. His breath hitched, a deep, guttural sound escaping his throat as he instinctively pushed into your touch, his fingers digging into your waist.

“God, you feel incredible,” you murmured, palming him gently, feeling his arousal grow beneath your hand, hardening with each brush of your fingers. “I’ve wanted this for so long, Daniel… wanted to know how you’d feel like this,” you admitted, voice a mix of admiration and desire.

“Shit… you’re… you’re killing me here,” he managed, his voice a strained whisper as he looked down at you, his eyes dark and filled with unrestrained want. His hands roamed your back, pulling you closer, his breathing growing heavier as he lost himself in every touch, every word you murmured against him.

You continued your slow, deliberate movements, letting your fingers trace along his length through the fabric, a satisfied smile crossing your face as he groaned in response, his hips pressing into your hand. “God, you look so good like this,” you breathed, meeting his gaze for a moment, taking in the way his face was flushed, his expression filled with raw, unfiltered desire.

“Keep talking like that, and… fuck, you’re gonna drive me insane,” he rasped, his voice low, rough with need, his hands gripping your hips with more intensity, clearly unable to resist the effect you were having on him.

Emboldened by his reaction, you slipped a hand inside the waistband of his boxers, your fingers wrapping around him, and his entire body tensed, a shuddered moan escaping his lips as he exhaled sharply. As you started running your thumb along his length, savoring the way he twitched in your hand, his face contorted with pleasure as he bit his lip.

“God… that feels so good,” he gasped, his voice barely above a whisper as he looked down at you, his expression a mixture of awe and arousal. His hands roamed up and down your back, and you could feel the effect of every touch, every word, as his breathing grew heavier.

Between breaths, you whispered softly in his ear, “I want you, Daniel. All of you.” The words tumbled out, filled with a raw honesty that made him draw back just enough to meet your gaze.

In one swift, effortless motion, he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to his bed. He laid you gently onto the soft sheets, hovering over you as his lips met yours once more, igniting the same passion that had brought you here. Each kiss was heated and lingering, hands tracing and memorizing every line, every curve, savoring every moment that had led to this.

As his lips left a trail of kisses along your collarbone, your breaths came faster, and the anticipation tightened around you. But then when Daniel started removing your panties, you felt a familiar wave of nerves rise, and your voice trembled slightly as you spoke.

“I… uh…” you began, hesitating, feeling vulnerable but needing him to know. “I’ve never done this before.” The words left you in a shy, almost apologetic murmur, your cheeks heating as you admitted it. You lowered your gaze, fidgeting slightly under his gaze, before adding, “I mean, I’ve done… other things. Just… never got to, well, this part.”

He paused, taking in your words, his expression softening instantly. Cupping your face gently, his thumb brushed along your cheek, his gaze reassuring and kind. “Hey, there’s no pressure here. We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” he whispered, his voice steady, genuine. “We can take it slow. Or… we can keep things just like this.”

You bit your lip, the vulnerability still lingering as you met his gaze. “You’re not… disgusted, or something?” you asked, feeling a wave of self-consciousness bubble up. “I mean, I probably won’t be… any good. You’re… you know…” You trailed off, your face warming as the words left you.

He let out a soft chuckle, leaning forward to kiss you gently, his lips reassuring as he lingered for a moment before pulling back to look you in the eyes. “Disgusted? Not even close,” he murmured, a faint smile on his lips. “And I promise you, that thought never even crossed my mind.” His thumb brushed along your cheek again, his gaze warm and encouraging. “Honestly, it doesn’t matter to me. Not at all.”

You took a steadying breath, feeling his words soothe the nerves that had crept in. A smile tugged at your lips as you looked up at him, heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and newfound confidence. “I don’t want to take it slow,” you admitted softly, voice barely above a whisper, but the words full of determination. “I want it to be with you, Daniel. I’ve… I’ve thought about this more times than I dare to admit,” you confessed, the warmth of your cheeks betraying the shyness that lingered, but you held his gaze.

His eyes softened at your words, a slow smile spreading across his face as he leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “Then I'm all yours,” he whispered, his voice filled with affection.

Without another word, Daniel leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was deeper, hungrier, every ounce of restraint between you both slipping away. His hands roamed up your back, pressing you firmly against him as your bodies melded together, the heat between you palpable. His lips moved over yours with an urgency that matched the rhythm of his heartbeat, each kiss filled with the passion that had built up over all this time, all the unspoken moments leading up to this.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him even closer as you felt his quiet groan against your mouth, his own hands exploring your curves, fingers tracing your waist and pulling you flush against him. His body hovered over yours as his gaze met yours, filled with both desire and a lingering tenderness that made your heart race.

His lips found yours again, and you welcomed him with a fervor that matched his own, your mouths moving in perfect sync as the kiss grew deeper, more intense. You could feel his body pressing into yours, the weight of him grounding you, making the moment feel all the more real. His hand traveled down your thigh, lifting your leg to wrap around his waist as he settled between your legs, his hips pressing against yours in a way that made your entire body ache with anticipation, before slowly but surely entering you inch by inch.

Between kisses, his hands caressed every inch of your body, learning and savoring every curve, every response he drew from you. His mouth left a trail of kisses along your jaw, down your neck, lingering on the sensitive spots that made you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he continued his slow, intoxicating descent. Each kiss, each touch seemed to stir something deeper within you, the desire building to a crescendo with every shared breath.

“Fuck…” you whispered, your voice soft and laced with longing, and he looked up at you, a question in his gaze, waiting for any hint of hesitation.

But you only pulled him closer, guiding him to you as your hands roamed his back, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch. He leaned down again, his lips finding yours as the kiss deepened, turning into something that went beyond words—a culmination of everything you’d both been holding back.

In that moment, every barrier fell away, and you lost yourselves in each other, the moment filled with soft murmurs, quiet laughter, and the tender, passionate intimacy you’d both waited far too long to share.