An Archive for Myself(✿◠‿◠)

The ballroom smelled faintly of sweat mixed with bubbly and an excess of men’s cologne. Perhaps it was due to your lack of interest, but you felt trapped in the single most boring conversation in existence—even considering that you used to attend the occasional meeting with your father regarding the naval fleets. Standing before you were two handsome nobles attempting to entertain you with a conversation about the rise in the wheat market over the past few weeks. It had even crossed your mind that discussing political decisions sounded far more amusing than anything these lords had to say.

You wished your sisters had been there to keep you entertained, but considering the eldest was already married and utterly forgotten, and your two younger sisters were not yet old enough to make their debut, it was entirely impossible.

Your own debut had been grueling. You had never worn a corset so tight for so long; you were certain the skin covering your ribs had been left bruised after the evening. But it had been completely worth it—thanks to that, you had incredible proposals and dashing gentlemen competing for your hand.

Pity none of them had been blessed with a lively, charming personality.

"If we allow foreign wheat to flood our shores, what will become of the landowners' honor?"

"An unimaginable tragedy, no doubt, Lord Danbury," you sighed, trying not to sound as flat as you felt. "I cannot imagine a cruel destiny for the nation than slightly cheaper bread for the common people."

Lord Danbury blinked, trying to decipher whether the comment was a display of refined knowledge or simply lethal sarcasm. He seemed to decide it was the former, for he offered a smug smile.

"I see the Duke has instructed you quite well in matters of true importance. I can only imagine a lady of your stature understands the weight of property."

You inhaled deeply, limiting yourself to just that, though all you wanted to do was sigh out loud from sheer boredom right in their faces.

"Believe me, my lord," you smiled, fluttering your feather fan to cool off the suffocating wave of tedium, "the weight of your properties is practically the only thing I have heard about since the evening began."

You glanced away for just a moment, indulging in the view of other prominent young lords. You wondered if any of them were even half as amusing as they were handsome, but assumed, looking back at Lord Danbury, that it was practically impossible.

Lord Harrington beside him, sadly, was no better. He was a brainless, cheap copy who spent his time nodding along and smiling every time you made even the slightest eye contact with him.

Your dance card at your wrist lay completely blank—an embarrassment considering how passionate you were about dancing, and a vile demonstration that your father had only introduced you to the most boring lords in the entire court.

You were beginning to calculate how much it would cost you to feign a swoon to escape the conversation when a shadow was cast over the three of you, forcing your attention back to the present. The sight of a third lord momentarily stole the air from your lungs—not only from surprise, but also from sheer cheekiness; a gentleman could not present himself before a lady without an intermediary to introduce them.

"My lords, I apologize for interrupting such an important and profound conversation about the price of wheat, but I fear I must kidnap the lady," he said, his tone warm and terribly amused.

"Kidnap me, sir...?" You placed a hand on your chest and instinctively accepted the glass of bubbly he was offering you with a smile.

This man was barely a head taller than you—not particularly tall, but infuriatingly attractive. He had skin that could only be sun-kissed, flawlessly styled, shiny curls, and emerald-blue eyes with enviable lashes. He took your breath away for a second time in a matter of moments.

"Wesbury. Anthony Wesbury, at your service," he grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he did, which you found to be the most wonderful thing. "May I?"

You looked down to where his finger was pointing. Your dance card, completely empty.

You puffed out your chest and extended your arm, allowing Anthony to write his name himself. You blushed furiously when you saw him hesitate and exhale a soft laugh before writing on the completely blank page. When he looked back up to meet your eyes, you had to resume fanning yourself with your feather fan, as the room was starting to feel suffocating all over again.

"It would be a true tragedy to ruin such exquisite music by choosing to remain among the stagnant crowd," his smile was directed at both lords, neither of whom had managed to offer you a single dance. "Will you grant me this dance, or would you prefer to keep hearing about the price of wheat?"

"You are dangerously impertinent, sir," you said, before placing the completely empty glass of bubbly onto a passing servant's tray and accepting Anthony's hand. "But you are quite right. The music is far too exquisite to be wasted."

You tried not to react when Anthony led you straight to the center of the dance floor, pulling you close in a swift movement with an arm around your waist. His hand was warm, large, and somewhat calloused, but it covered yours with ease, instantly giving you a sense of protection—even if you did not know this man at all.

You looked around, trying to see if anyone else was watching you dance. But both Lord Danbury and Lord Harrington were already nowhere to be seen.

"Is something troubling you, my lady?" Anthony asked to bring you back, which worked, as you looked back at him, a bit distracted. "Don't tell me you are thinking about something as banal as wheat again."

"Not at all, sir," you replied, following his steps. You were surprised by the ease with which he moved you across the floor to the rhythm of the orchestra. "I was simply looking for my aunt."

"Are you worried about being seen with me?" he inquired with a hint of mockery so subtle you almost missed it, were it not for the stupidly handsome grin on his face.

"I could expect nothing less after such insolence on your part, sir," you shot back, slightly on the defensive.

"On the contrary," he said with conviction as he spun you in place, "I highlight informality as the finest way to truly know a lady."

"Unheard of," you murmured between your teeth to hide the silly smile that threatened to make your cheeks ache.

"I fear that were it not for my lack of formality, you would not be interested," he answered carefully. "Or could you claim you wouldn't have found me to be just another boring lord from some boring estate had I approached with a chaperone?"

You allowed yourself a smile before replying, "I fear I cannot refute that."

You had to admit it: Anthony Wesbury was refreshing in an atmosphere as suffocating as a social and political ball. Your father had abandoned you to attend to other matters with the very first men who spoke to you, and your mother, seeing you occupied, had simply decided to stay out of it to let you socialize. You would have preferred your mother hovering over you, leading the conversation, over being left with two such dull men.

"Admit it," Anthony smirked, leaning in to whisper with a smile, "you were expecting another stiff-footed lord to step on your dress."

You let out a chuckle, knowing that Anthony actually moved remarkably well. There was a lightness to his steps that could only stem from confidence.

And what a thrilling thing confidence was in an attractive man.

"And instead, you are standing before the finest dancer in all of London." You raised an eyebrow at that, huffing with amusement.

"I admit your ego is as inflated as the dome of the royal house," you countered, earning a laugh from Sir Wesbury. "Though I must admit, my lord, you are quite light on your feet."

"Only that?" he asked, exaggerating his disappointment to make you smile. "Then I can only pray that merit works to earn me a proper compliment during our next dance."

"Next dance?" you inquired, feeling a blush creep up again.

"You couldn't have thought we would have such a disappointing end," Anthony spun you around once more, and you realized with horror that the waltz was drawing to a close. "When the most fun comes after the first."

"You must speak from experience," you said, narrowing your eyes with a smile.

"Do not be flustered, my lady," Anthony tilted his head to the side with grace. "I am just as much a newcomer to society as you are."

When the waltz finally ended, you stepped back from Anthony, your breathing slightly hurried. He bowed in your presence before disappearing into the crowd with the promise of your second dance.

Except Lord Wesbury did not show up for the rest of the night. And you did not accept any other dance for the remainder of the evening.

The following morning began as a total trial.

Perhaps it was the fact that it was your first social season, or perhaps you had drunk a bit too much sparkling wine—never enough to embarrass yourself publicly in a room full of people, of course—but you had woken up with a piercing headache. It didn't help that your two younger sisters attacked the moment the first rays of sunlight appeared. It was far too early, and you had returned far too late the night before, to endure a punishment of such magnitude.

"Did you meet many gentlemen?"

"Did you dance with any of them?"

"What did I tell you about bothering me so early in the morning?" you grunted, trying to press your face deeper into the pillow.

Mary, the youngest of your sisters, bounced onto the edge of your bed, making it tremble and squeak slightly under her weight.

"Did you?" she inquired, leaning over to catch a glimpse of your face.

"Did you drink?" Charlotte asked now.

You sighed before forcing yourself to sit up. Your head throbbed, and you rubbed your eye, still bearing traces of the makeup from the night before since you had collapsed straight into bed and forgotten to wash your face. When you were finally able to open your eyes without dying in the attempt, their faces were filled with eager anticipation for your answer.

"I met a few gentlemen. They were all boring, really—you aren't missing out on anything," you answered, raising your eyebrows.

Charlotte huffed.

"Was at least one of them handsome?"

You looked away, recalling Anthony's face and his gorgeous emerald-blue eyes.

"Most of them," you answered instead, looking back at them.

"How many did you dance with?" Mary leaned forward on the bed, curious. You exhaled, bracing yourself for your response.

"Only one."

They burst into loud squeals and giggles before firing off a barrage of questions. Was he handsome? How tall was he? Was he funny? Did he dance well? You allowed them to ask every single question simply because they seemed so genuinely excited and intrigued.

"Is there any chance you’ll see him again today at Hyde Park?" Charlotte smiled.

Hyde Park was the most famous Royal Park in London. When there were no tea parties or organized gatherings, the elite would spend most of their time parading in their carriages to see and be seen, allowing high society ladies to be presented to interested gentlemen. You had been there a couple of times, and you remembered perfectly that your father had been invited to a garden party that very afternoon, to which he intended to bring you.

Whether you might cross paths with Anthony was a complete mystery. Besides, even if he were to attend, what were the odds he would actually speak to you again? After all, he had been perfectly clear the night before by failing to claim his promised second dance with you. You hadn't even seen him leave—no carriage, no chaperone.

It was as if he had simply vanished into the morning breeze.

"I don't know, Charlotte," you replied simply, looking away with a sigh. "I could only hope so."

Anthony Wesbury was not someone you wished to think about at this precise moment, nor did you want to grant him the satisfaction of occupying your thoughts—even if there was no way he could know. You preferred a thousand times over to worry about far more pressing matters, such as the garden party your father was invited to that afternoon, where you, of course, were also expected.

That was precisely the exhausting part of the social season: having absolutely no time to rest from so much interaction. The situation only worsened when you considered the significant role your father played in political affairs; after all, he owned the largest merchant fleet network at present and worked hand in hand with the Crown—one of the reasons he had been formally created a Duke. Your father’s high standing demanded that you attend every social event and live up to the status.

After luncheon, you found yourself obligated to prepare for the tea party with the help of your two younger sisters. They were far more excited than you were, which offered a bit of relief.

It was well known that debuting each sister separately rarely fostered sisterly harmony, but thankfully, that had never managed to divide your family—with the exception of your eldest sister, who had been married for two years and didn’t even visit or invite them to her new home. It wasn't an obligation, of course, but you would have at least expected a little more warmth from the person who had helped raise you.

"You should wear the green one," Mary said, wrapping her arms gently around you and resting her chin on your shoulder to inspect the two dresses laid across your bed.

"It’s the color that flatters you most," Charlotte agreed with a nod.

The dress in question was an olive-green satin, plain save for the embroidered gold and white detailing. It featured puffed sleeves and an extra layer of sheer abaca fabric across the bust.

"Besides, it matches Sir Wesbury's eyes," you rolled your eyes at Mary’s teasing remark. Of course they would seize every subtle opportunity to bring up any detail you might have mentioned about him that morning.

You ended up choosing the green dress anyway. Your mother helped braid your hair while you applied a touch of makeup, and you left the house at precisely four o’clock in the afternoon.

"Hold your parasol firmly," your mother instructed, handing it to you in a hurried tone. "The wind might catch your dress, so you must be careful." She peered out the carriage window.

There was a heavy breeze under a dreadful summer sun.

"And keep your face and arms properly covered," she reminded you with a decisive tone. "Do not let the direct sun touch your skin."

You let out a silent sigh before offering a smile and a nod. The remainder of the journey passed in silence, and as the carriages pulled up after a long drive along Serpentine Road, you wanted nothing more than to step out. You were tired; the headache had subsided into a dull, annoying pressure between your brows, the sun was at its most suffocating point in the sky, and the breeze was hardly enough to offer relief—neither to you nor to any of the other ladies.

The first thing you noticed upon stepping out of the carriage were the long tables laden with refreshments. Pastries and sandwiches abounded, alongside steaming teapots, fine porcelain cups, cutlery, and sugar bowls placed at intervals. Your mother introduced you to a group of young ladies near your age who were chatting pleasantly around a small table. You caught sight of the gentlemen down by the lake, practicing archery while another group of ladies watched attentively.

You remained where you were, simply listening to the conversation without offering much input.

"One must admit the afternoon is turning out to be exceptionally pleasant. I feared this heat would melt the cream on the desserts, but the shade of these willows is truly a blessing," one of them remarked—you seemed to recall she was Miss Barrington, a young woman a few years your senior.

"A very timely blessing indeed. We were fortunate enough to secure the finest spot in the park," another lady’s mother chimed in.

The conversation soon shifted to the flavor of the pastries and the delicate care required in baking them, but you were already far too distracted by the scenery to pay close attention. Lately, everything felt so trivial that any conversation with your sisters was far more entertaining than upholding etiquette, yet you hadn't managed to make a single friend so far.

It was difficult, considering that most first impressions carried enough weight to keep everyone merely distantly polite toward one another.

"[Name], my dear, come here for a moment," you tore your gaze away from the lake to look back at your mother, who was approaching slowly alongside another gentleman.

It took you a few seconds to recognize Anthony.

His face and skin looked different in the sunlight; he appeared even more sun-kissed than you remembered. His eyes stood out strikingly against his attire, which was a pale, perfectly tailored blue. You forced yourself to press your lips together to keep your jaw from dropping as you bridged the remaining distance between you.

"The Viscount Ravenscroft was courteous enough to request an introduction. Sir Wesbury, allow me to present my daughter, Miss [Name]," you curtsied swiftly with a bend of your knees, biting the inside of your cheek.

"It is a privilege to finally meet you, Miss [LastName]," his smile made you grit your teeth slightly before offering a polite, false smile of your own.

"The honor is mine, Sir Wesbury," you bowed your head slightly, subtly twirling your parasol. You were just about to open your mouth to say something when Anthony cut in.

"Mrs. [LastName]," Anthony turned to your mother with a perfectly respectable smile, "the day is splendid. Would you grant me the honor of escorting your daughter to see the lake overlook?"

"Oh," your mother smiled, delighted, making no effort to hide her interest. "Of course. I shall follow just behind you."

Anthony offered a small bow and looked at you, gesturing with his hand to invite you to walk beside him. You moistened your lips, adjusted your parasol, and kept pace right beside him. Soon, you both reached the edge of the lake, embarking on a slow, relaxing stroll—technically alone.

"Did you not intend to mention earlier that you were the Viscount Ravenscroft?" you asked, glancing over your shoulder at your mother, who was a few paces behind, taking in the details of the park.

"Would it have offered me any sort of advantage had you known beforehand?" he asked in return, with his signature smirk, leaning slightly in your direction.

"I beg your pardon? An advantage?"

"In the pursuit of your hand," Anthony explained softly, his voice gentle. You looked away to hide your flush.

"There is no such thing, sir," you whispered.

"Then allow me to express my delight," Anthony smiled, "in knowing that I am the only one."

You swallowed hard. His interest was no longer something you could ignore. You had never been courted so directly—in truth, you had never been courted at all—and the sensation was exquisite. Knowing that someone like Anthony, with his poise and standing, was interested in you brought an indescribable joy. Your stomach fluttered pleasantly every time he smiled with such confidence.

"A clever move," you managed to say, "presenting yourself to my mother as though you hadn't bypassed proper protocol last night." Bringing up the previous evening felt strange, considering he was still walking beside you with the promise of a dance he had never delivered. To say you were still a bit offended would be an understatement.

"I hope it is enough to demonstrate my intention to do things properly," he turned to look at you as you walked side by side, his hands clasped behind his back, your own hands clutching the parasol to shield your shoulders from the sun.

"You are halfway there, Sir," you said, matching his action and turning to meet his gaze for a brief moment. "But you still owe me a dance for last night."

"Regarding last night," Anthony stopped abruptly, forcing you to do the same and turn to face him. His hand hovered, uncertain whether he ought to touch you, while his face betrayed how deeply he wished to do so. "I must offer my most sincere apologies. Urgent matters of utmost importance compelled me to leave early. But I want you to know that I have not forgotten, and I still hope to grant you every dance you desire at the upcoming balls."

You felt the air leave your lungs as he finally reached out to take your hand delicately, leaning down to press a kiss to your silk-gloved knuckles. His lashes fluttered as he looked up at you.

"Apology accepted, sir," you murmured. "I expect you to keep your promise."

"Believe me, my lady. I have never broken a promise."

On the Monday of the following week, the gossip erupted in your home the moment you rose. Charlotte already held the newspaper—which encompassed all the news of the preceding week—and was reading it aloud with an almost exhausting effervescence. You took a seat across from her and poured a little warm milk into a glass.

"We regret to inform that Mr. Davenport was compelled to depart precipitously for the continent on this morning's tide..." she read, her eyes flitting in haste across the front page, her voice dwindling to a hushed murmur.

Her sudden silence was troubling, prompting Mary, beside her, to lean over her shoulder to read. You blinked a few times, glancing first at your father, then at your mother.

"What is it, Charlotte, my dear?" your mother inquired.

"This column is about us," she said, her brow furrowed.

"What does it say? Read it aloud," she requested with a complacent smile.

"Disturbing rumors are indeed circulating regarding the fortune and future of the House of the Duke of Bristol"—you hid behind your glass as you watched your mother's smile begin to wither; your father lowered his own paper to pay heed—"it is whispered in the tea rooms that the distinguished Duke has spent an unusually prolonged amount of time with his bankers in the city—"

"Enough," your father cut her off in a frigid tone, and you saw Charlotte lower the paper, tense.

"What a vile and unnecessary accusation," your mother chimed in, her eyes fluttering with nervousness and restrained anger. "How are we to respond to such a rumor?" She turned back to your father, who uttered a humorless chuckle.

"How are we to respond?" he repeated. "A mere rumor, lacking both weight and truth."

"It is your daughter's future that hangs in the balance with such slanders"—your father's gaze fell upon you, and you decided to set down your half-full glass of milk to look at them both—"your daughters'" she corrected, looking at the three of you this time. "Do you truly believe any gentleman will hold interest in them if all of society suddenly begins to lend truth to such rumors?"

"And what do you suggest?" he inquired, giving a slight, barely perceptible shrug of his shoulders.

"We must host a ball." Your two sisters sat up straight with smiles upon hearing your mother's decisive voice. "We cannot allow the integrity of our family to be insulted. Send letters this instant to all the noble families in the city."

Your mother puffed her chest with pride, and your father had no choice but to comply. He knew better than to simply refuse when she was set in such a mood.

Said and done, the date of the ball arrived two days later, and your home had been a tempest of chaos in anticipation of the event. Your sisters were beside themselves, obsessing over dresses; they even dragged you to Mayfair to purchase ribbons of the finest cloth, forcing you to sit and offer opinions while they tried on all manner of attire. You remained patient with them, for you knew this was the closest they would come to being in society for the time being, and how dearly they craved it.

You wondered if they would be just as weary and bored when their own turn arrived.

The havoc reigning in the kitchen and the main drawing room was no better than that within your bedchambers. Servant staff were shifting furniture to clear space, while cooks arranged pastries and delicacies across the tables. Men perched atop footstools to adorn the parlor drapes, and women scrubbed the floors.

It became painfully clear to you that attending balls was far more delightful than hosting them. Judging by the demeanor of both your parents, you assumed they had arrived at the very same conclusion.

"Is your Sir Wesbury invited to the ball?" Charlotte twirled in place to lift the skirt of her gown. Dusk was only just beginning to fall, yet your sisters had betrayed their eager anticipation by dressing far in advance.

"I saw to it that an invitation was sent to his estate," you offered with a gentle smile, only to be met by the gleeful squeals of your sisters. You could do little else but blush under the weight of such sudden scrutiny.

You had learned a great deal about Anthony during your promenade through Hyde Park, and you were utterly enchanted. He hailed from a family as large as your own, with two younger sisters and an elder brother who was already happily wed. He was twenty-six, born in Bristol, and you knew he had completed his studies at Oxford—a man deeply devoted to, and dearly cherished by, his family. You knew his sisters' names, and he knew those of yours. Moreover, he was undeniably charming and full of wit—or so he seemed to you, at least. Perhaps it was simply that he always knew precisely what to say to draw a reaction from you.

"I can hardly wait to meet him and pass judgment on your good taste," Mary remarked with a subtle smile as Charlotte braided her hair.

"I wager he is quite handsome," Charlotte chimed in, using that sly tone that signaled they were both attempting to coax more details from you.

Even though you had already disclosed almost everything.

"He is," you confirmed once more, beginning to brush your hair.

"Do you suppose he will speak with our father soon?" You raised your head to look at Charlotte, who had suddenly grown far more solemn, her question posed with careful hesitation.

A mere fortnight had passed since you first met Anthony, yet it was time enough to know his character; you had heard tales of ladies whose betrothals were sealed in even less time. Not to mention that he was attentive enough to frequent the very same gatherings and society affairs as you, whether by invitation or sheer fortune. If you were invited to a tea party, he was among the guests. If you attended the opera, he serendipitously occupied a box at the exact same performance. He had invited you to stroll beside the St. James's pond, to go boating, and had even invited you to paint together.

Anthony was the most attentive gentleman you knew.

"I do not rule out the possibility," you replied evasively, unwilling to tread upon uncertain ground.

"He would be a fool not to," Mary said, sensing your hesitation, which brought a soft smile to your lips.

All three of you were dressed and ready shortly before the guests began to arrive. Soon, the grand hall of your home and its spacious corridors were teeming with the finest high society—dresses of every hue, confections and dainties of every flavor, accompanied by the uplifting strains of fine music.

You were attempting to keep your sisters from depleting the pastry table too early when someone pinched the back of your arm. Surprised, you turned hastily, only to encounter a grinning Anthony. You cast a cautious glance about the room.

"Daring as ever, Sir," you murmured by way of greeting, curtsying before him.

"You know me well," he smiled, before casting his eyes upon your two sisters.

Both had promptly dropped their pastries to bestow their undivided attention, wearing smiles that were anything but demurely polite.

"Sir Wesbury. Allow me to introduce my two sisters, Charlotte and Mary," you offered, gesturing gently toward them. "Sisters, this is Sir Anthony Wesbury."

Charlotte's cheeks were flushed from her effort to suppress a playful laugh. "It is an absolute pleasure, Lord Wesbury. We have heard your name spoken with such frequency that I feel as though I have known you all my life."

"Charlotte," you cautioned under your breath through a smiling mask.

"I trust the accounts were favorable, and that my introduction meets your expectations," Anthony replied smoothly, though his playful smirk did not escape your notice.

Astonishing. Simply splendid.

"Oh, utterly glowing!" Mary interjected merrily. "My sister has endlessly praised your lightness of foot and your ease in conversation." This statement visibly filled Anthony with pride, making him practically puff his chest.

"You stand before the finest dancer in all of London," he boasted, offering a sweeping little bow.

"Oh, is that so?" Charlotte teased.

"Prove it," Mary chimed in, her tone bright and full of playful anticipation. She giggled softly as Anthony extended a hand, which she delightfully accepted.

You watched them glide toward the dance floor, though not before Anthony sent a fleeting glance and a respectful bow your way—his subtle manner of reassuring you that it was a mere gesture of courtesy. You were not troubled in the least; it was difficult to be, even if Anthony was naturally charismatic, flirtatious, and all smiles.

You remained off to the side with Charlotte, watching them dance. Mary chuckled on occasion or glanced your way before replying to something Anthony had said.

"I cannot fault your good taste," your sister beside you remarked, lightly clapping her hands to the rhythm of the music.

"Do you approve?" you asked, turning your gaze toward her.

"I wish you could marry tomorrow," she teased half-jokingly. "He is truly charismatic and handsome. And he looks upon you as though there were not a single lady in the room whose attention was more worth possessing than yours."

You turned your eyes away, feeling the tips of your ears begin to warm. Perhaps it was true. Anthony did not look upon your sister in the same manner; there was a polite enough measure of interest, but no spark, no sign of that coy little smirk he always bestowed upon you, nor the way his eyes came to rest when beholding you, his pupils dilating ever so slightly.

And you could not have been more utterly enchanted by the fact.

Charlotte and you watched them dance and laugh in soft intervals until the music drew to a close. You saw them exchange a few parting words before going their separate ways; Mary strolled back in your direction, while Anthony turned and dissolved into the crowd. Your sister must have caught the flicker of confusion on your face, for the very first thing she said upon reaching your side was:

"Fear not. Sir Wesbury wished to step away to the washroom."

"Oh," you nodded, a smile gracing your lips. "And how was the dance?"

"Exquisite," Mary beamed broadly. "Sir Wesbury is terribly amusing; he knows precisely what to say to make a lady laugh beyond proper decorum."

"Now I feel somewhat at a disadvantage," Charlotte teased, making you laugh as you rested a reassuring hand upon her shoulder.

"You shall have your moment; allow Sir Wesbury to return from the washroom first."

Yet he began to take far too long, and your curiosity began to prick at you as you cast subtle glances in every direction, searching for him. Could he have lost his way to the washroom? To be sure, your home was quite grand, with washrooms on both the ground and second floors, but five minutes stretched into ten, and before you knew it, you were informing your sisters that you would go in search of him.

You skirted the perimeter of the ballroom first before stepping out to search the corridors leading to the washrooms. Nothing.

Could he have fled? No. That was impossible, was it? There would be no reason for him to desire flight so early in the evening.

The hall was teeming with guests, making it difficult to reach the foyer, but once you broke free, you cast a quick glance up the staircase before stepping toward the garden. You reasoned it was entirely understandable for him to crave a breath of fresh air after dancing in such a crowded, stifling room. Yet Anthony was not in the garden either, nor in any corner within the estate.

You were beginning to feel uneasy in your own skin when you stepped back inside—and then, at last, you spotted him descending the foyer stairs. Upon seeing you, he offered a smile tainted with mild embarrassment, assuming he must have noticed your brow furrowed in perplexity.

"I lost my way searching for the washroom; one of the servants directed me upstairs," you exhaled a soft laugh of pure relief as he descended the final steps of the staircase to join you. "You possess a vast estate."

"How strange, the ground floor is abundant with washrooms," you noted, puzzled, but shrugged it off. It was a ball, after all; the hall was crowded, and many guests were bound to seek the washrooms.

"They must have been occupied," Anthony offered with a slight shrug of his shoulders, extending his hand to you. "A dance, my lady?" Naturally, you accepted.

Anthony fulfilled his promise of granting you a second dance; however, he first bestowed upon your sister Charlotte her first. Even your mother was delighted with Sir Wesbury, observing them from a discreet distance as she conversed with the chaperones of other young ladies—no doubt striking agreements or merely exchanging gossip while granting the three of you sufficient space. Even so, she possessed the eyes of a hawk, and it was rare for her gaze to stray far from the four of you.

Your first dance of the evening had been with Anthony, before he danced with Charlotte and another gentleman introduced by your mother requested the pleasure of a dance. The conversation with Sir Ashford proved a welcome enough distraction to keep you from dwelling on the rigid feet that had undeniably stepped on your shoes more than once; he was politely agreeable, yet a dreadful dancer, and comparing him to another brilliant gentleman was entirely beyond your control.

"I have been pondering a great deal these past few days," Anthony murmured as he turned you in place, before returning his hand to hold your waist with precise firmness. It was your second dance of the night with him.

"I see," you replied. "Would you care to share your thoughts with me, Sir?"

Anthony continued to move to the rhythm, and judging by his expression and his silence, he was carefully measuring his words.

"It is common knowledge that I shall inherit the Ravenscroft estate, given that my brother is set to inherit Sidmouth," he began, earning a subtle nod from you as you listened with rapt attention despite the music and the turns of the dance. "And it is one of my greatest desires to take such fine company with me when the time comes to return after the end of the season."

You inhaled deeply, your chest rising beneath the subtle neckline of your dress.

"I have heard that the county of Cheshire is breathtaking beneath the autumn light," you offered carefully. "I doubt anyone could refuse the honor of admiring it."

Anthony's expression softened; you watched as his eyes danced between yours, looking at you with intense devotion. He drew a breath before speaking with a tender smile.

"If you will permit me the audacity... would I have your approval if I were to request an audience with your father in the coming week?" You felt a long sigh escape you, born of pure relief.

You wanted to kiss him. Never had you felt such an overwhelming urge to kiss anyone—not even the most gallantly attentive gentlemen of other ballrooms in seasons past—as much as you wished to kiss Anthony in that very moment.

"My father always receives gentlemen with great esteem, Sir Wesbury. I know he would not deny you a conversation in his study when the day comes."

"Most kind of him," Anthony murmured with a sigh of relief, bringing forth a laugh from the very depths of your chest.

The happiness you felt was surely shown in your face, but you couldn't even care less.

The momentous day arrived more slowly than you would have liked.

Perhaps it was your anxiety, and the fact that as soon as Monday arrived, you waited with bated breath—seated on the sofa in front of the grand window while embroidering—for Sir Wesbury's promised arrival. But Anthony did not appear until Wednesday, making Monday and Tuesday a complete ordeal during which you forced yourself to stay occupied with other chores. You organized the ribbons in your mother's bureau at least twice and helped the cooks bake a cake out of sheer boredom.

It was during the morning calls, right after Wednesday's breakfast, that he finally appeared. Mary was the first to spot him approaching the estate grounds and ran inside in such a hurry that she nearly tripped over the steps on her way back.

"It is Sir Wesbury! He is coming this way!" she squealed with a wide smile.

Charlotte looked at you instantly, and your mother rose in haste, quickly gathering all the things she had scattered across the small table.

"Quickly, hide the ribbons," she ordered, compelling the three of you to tidy the space you were sharing.

"Who?" your father asked, lowering his newspaper to look at the three of you with a furrowed brow of pure confusion. He was always the last to find out about anything, so nothing surprised you anymore.

"Mr. Wesbury," your mother said in a rushed tone, stuffing all the ribbons into a bunched-up mess inside their respective cabinet. It pained you to recall the hours you had spent organizing them by color just two days prior. "The gentleman who has been courting your daughter."

"Ah," he said simply, before returning to his newspaper. You swallowed hard at his lack of interest, but you had no time to dwell on it as a servant stepped into the room.

"Mr. Anthony Wesbury, Viscount Ravenscroft," he announced before bowing and departing precisely the way he came.

Your sisters quickly seated themselves on the small armchairs before Anthony entered, forcing themselves to appear modest and unbothered. He wore a gentle smile on his face, but you could spot the subtle tension in his shoulders, betraying his nervousness.

"My ladies," he bowed in your presence.

"Sir Wesbury," your mother greeted him with an impeccable smile. "To what do we owe the honor of your visit?" she asked, appearing practically nonchalant.

Anthony swallowed before speaking.

"If his Lordship permits, I should like to speak with Mr. [LastName] for a few moments in private in his study. There is a matter of utmost importance I wish to submit for his consideration," he said, bowing his head slightly in a gesture of respect.

Your father's newspaper rustled in the small parlor. You did not allow yourself to look at him directly, but you heard him rise from his chair.

"This way, if you please. Join me in the library." You exhaled a shaky breath of held air.

Anthony bowed to the four women in the room, and you watched him pass by your side before disappearing alongside your father into his small private study. You wished you had possessed the opportunity to say something to him, perhaps even to give him a token of comfort, but you knew etiquette did not permit such things.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Charlotte rose hurriedly from her armchair to sit beside you and take your hand in a silent show of support. You could not utter a word; you simply remained frozen for a few seconds before returning to your embroidery—the only thing keeping you sane these past few days.

"Mary!" you heard your mother whisper urgently, turning around just in time to see her running toward the door to eavesdrop through it.

"Shhh..." she pressed, right before your mother forced her away from the door.

It took Anthony approximately half an hour to emerge from your father's study, by which time you were nothing short of a bundle of nerves. You had been embroidering aggressively, while Charlotte read beside you and Mary helped your mother properly arrange the ribbons they had tossed into the cabinet. The silence had been practically deafening; neither of the men in the study spoke loudly enough for any of you to hear, which proved agonizing for every woman in the room.

When you heard the door open once more, standing up was an automatic reaction. You watched the exact moment your father allowed Anthony out of the study. He looked... well, calm, almost relieved. When your eyes met, his features softened, granting you that signature smile that made you sigh inwardly.

"[Name], my dear. Come here for a moment," your father called out instead, stealing your attention from your future fiancé.

"Yes, Father." You left your embroidery on the armchair and passed Anthony to step into the study.

You could feel your heart hammering wildly against your chest as he closed the door behind you and walked over to sit in the chair on the other side of the desk.

"I assume you already know the reason for Sir Wesbury's visit," your father began. You exhaled quietly and murmured a soft "yes," allowing him to continue. "He has expressed a very sincere affection for you... He has come to request my consent to offer you his hand... if that is what you desire."

You could not help but let out a flustered, awkward chuckle.

"Oh, Father, there is nothing I desire more," you admitted softly, shyly. The expression on your father's face softened slightly upon hearing you. "All the other lords are so dull, and Anthony... he is so charismatic." You covered your mouth a little, trying and failing to hide the foolish smile on your face.

"It reassures me to know your interest is genuine," your father said carefully, nodding. "However, you must consider that his fortune stands at four thousand pounds a year... It is more modest than ours, and it will require sacrifices to which you are unaccustomed."

"Four thousand pounds a year is more than enough to live comfortably; I should need no more than that," you replied with complete conviction.

Your father nodded in silence, scratching the stubble on his chin as he seemed to ponder. Yet he said nothing more, merely continuing to nod.

"Consider it settled then," he said, sounding decisive. "I shall send a letter to the Archbishop to request a special marriage license. After that, we may discuss the details regarding the venue and the date."

You gasped before rushing forward to embrace him tightly. You and your father were not usually physically affectionate, but you were so happy that the fact could not matter less to you. You felt him return the hug gently, patting your arm before you pulled back with a radiant smile.

"Thank you."

"And do extend my invitation to Sir Wesbury for dinner this evening."

Dinner that evening proved to be more than a mere formality. Anthony was already waiting for you outside, engaging in casual conversation with your two sisters and your mother. When you extended your father's invitation, you were certain his eyes gleamed with something resembling excitement—though, at that moment, you did not know the true reason behind it. It would be the first time you officially shared a meal together.

Your intentions were clear as you attempted to invite him to stay for the remaining hours.

"I ought to return to the estate to prepare a few things first, and prepare myself as well," he declined your offer gently. "I should not wish to dine with my fiancée looking like this."

You wanted to tell him he looked quite handsome as he was, but you did not wish to make him feel obligated to stay if he had other matters to attend to first. Thus, you escorted him to the door and watched him leave the property.

"How does it feel to have secured one of London's most eligible bachelors?" your mother whispered behind you as she watched him depart.

When you turned, she smiled softly; you could see the sheer weight of the social season lifting from her shoulders. You knew full well that one of a mother's primary concerns with four daughters was securing them a good future and a good husband. You felt a wave of pride knowing you had managed to captivate such a fine gentleman, endowed with a respectable fortune and a personality as buoyant as Anthony's. It was not as though ladies of the era enjoyed the luxury of marrying purely for love, so you felt immensely grateful that your best option had been, quite literally, the best choice available.

Your mother affectionately tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

"I shall style your hair for dinner," she decided then, before pressing a kiss to your forehead and stepping inside.

The remainder of your day before dinner was spent studying and practicing. Before luncheon, you dedicated a solid hour to the pianoforte while Mary learned to embroider with your mother and Charlotte, as always, buried herself in a book. After luncheon, you spent hours painting in a small studio before Mary interrupted to showcase her progress in embroidery and request your assistance. It was not until around six in the evening that you began getting ready for dinner.

Generally, family dinners were informal affairs; you were not required to wear a corset, makeup, or a lavish gown. However, since your now-fiancé was invited, social etiquette dictated that you look, at the very least, presentable.

"Upon closer inspection, I believe Sir Wesbury's eyes are more blue than green," Charlotte said, sifting through your massive array of dresses, "like the color of the sea on a sunny day."

"You should wear a blue dress," Mary added.

"Why do you both always insist on matching my dresses to the color of his eyes?" you asked, sitting on the bed while your sisters took it upon themselves to decide for you.

"Because it is romantic," Mary replied, pushing past Charlotte to hold up a pale blue dress that looked nothing like the color of Anthony's eyes.

Not that it mattered, anyway. For that very reason, you ended up ignoring them both and choosing a pale pink dress with puffed sleeves, a square neckline, and pearl detailing across the bust.

When the clock struck precisely 8:03 PM, Anthony arrived at your father's estate for the second time, looking unfairly attractive.

"My lady," he greeted you, pressing a kiss to the knuckles of your hand with that dangerously seductive, near-arrogant charm that you had found appealing from the very start.

You felt relieved that the atmosphere did not feel awkward by the time food was served and everyone was seated. The room felt warm, the candelabras illuminated the fine tableware, and your mother obliged you to sit directly across from one another, as etiquette dictated that you could not sit side by side.

"It gives me great pleasure to speak on behalf of my wife and myself when I say that we could not be more delighted to have Sir Wesbury at our table—not merely as a guest, but as someone who will soon become part of this family," your father raised his wine glass, prompting everyone at the table to follow suit almost immediately.

"Why am I not allowed to drink wine as well?" Mary asked in a low voice beside you, causing you to lean in toward her to whisper back.

"You may drink wine when you are of age, Mary... Besides, it is not even that good," you murmured the last part softly enough for only her to hear.

"For a mother, it is a profound joy and relief to know her daughter will be in the hands of such an unimpeachable gentleman. It is an invaluable blessing," your mother built upon your father's words with a flushed smile, brought on both by the heat and the subtle effect of the sweet, fruity wine.

"Your words honor me deeply," Anthony replied, wearing an equally dazzling smile. "The trust you have placed in me by bestowing your daughter's hand is the greatest honor I have ever received."

You smiled as you looked at him, feeling your cheeks and ears warm under the attention.

"Your intentions are entirely mutual, Sir," you concluded almost shyly.

"A toast to that," your father declared from the head of the table, prompting everyone to drink from their respective glasses in unison.

Everyone managed to eat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound echoing through the room being the gentle clinking of cutlery against fine china.

"We have planned our customary afternoon stroll through Hyde Park tomorrow," your mother began once more with a perfectly flawless smile, after swallowing a generous bite of potato salad. "Now that intentions are official, I do hope you will join us in the carriage, Sir Wesbury."

You watched Anthony chew and swallow before he could reply.

"An absolute privilege," he nodded. "I have also taken the liberty of securing a box at the Drury Lane Theatre for next Friday. I trust you will all honor me with your presence at the performance."

"We should be delighted to accept, my lord," you replied as you carved a piece of tender meat on your plate. "They say this season's production is exceptional."

From that moment on, the conversation never ebbed. Your mother led most of it, flitting seamlessly from one topic to another: art, the shared interests you two enjoyed, the condition of the estate Anthony was set to inherit from his family, the wedding date, his family's health. There was not a single subject left untouched that evening.

By the time it was time for Anthony to depart, he made his way toward the door with a somewhat unsteady gait. He took his leave of your entire family, and your mother granted you permission to escort your fiancé to the entrance to say your goodbyes.

"It has been, without a doubt, a most delightful evening," Anthony said with a sigh, his cheeks flushed from the abundance of wine—it even seemed to you that his speech was slightly slurred. "To know that we shall soon share my home..."

"The tenderness with which you speak of our future brings me peace," you murmured, feeling your heart swell with emotion.

You watched him raise a hand in your direction.

"May I?" You felt your heart hammer against your chest.

You offered him yours and watched him lean in to kiss your knuckles, but you were swifter and bolder, leaning in at the exact same moment to catch his lips with yours. It was a chaste touch, and the sheer surprise of it caused you both to pull back immediately. Anthony stared at you with his lips parted and his brow furrowed in pure bewilderment.

Yet, there was not a trace of rejection in his eyes.

"We are not supposed to... Etiquette does not—"

"When have you and I ever adhered to etiquette, Sir?" you countered softly, a touch shyly.

Anthony relaxed at that, letting out an amused huff.

"You are entirely correct," he said, though he made no move to kiss you again, and you did not attempt it a second time.

"Until tomorrow, Sir Wesbury." You gently disengaged your joined hands with a smile, watching him bow with a warm, flushed grin.

"Until tomorrow, my Lady. Sweet dreams."

And with that, Anthony departed.

The following morning dawned overcast, despite it being the height of summer. Perhaps that should have served as an omen.

The previous night's dinner felt like a fever dream amidst the quiet routine of breakfast. The table was unusually serene and still. Charlotte sipped a cup of steaming black tea, buried in her customary reading, entirely silent. Mary appeared somewhat restless, though that was hardly unusual for her; after all, she was the most energetic of the four of you.

Your mother was spreading butter over a piece of toast when you all heard it.

Horses.

Everyone seemed to straighten up at once, attempting to peer through the grand window. Visitors were a frequent occurrence at the estate at such an hour; after all, your father was an influential duke who maintained ties with a vast fleet and numerous merchants most of the time. It was precisely what had allowed you and your sisters to grow up within such elevated social standing.

Yet your father looked utterly bewildered. You watched him glance up from his newspaper, as he always did, from the far end of the table.

"Merchants?" your mother inquired.

"I have reason to doubt it," your father said cautiously. "All accounts are up to date, and I have signed no new contracts."

You and your sisters exchanged glances before looking back toward one of the windows. Mary, as ever, was the only one to rise from the table to look directly over the windowsill. The rest of you remained seated.

"There are many gentlemen..." Mary whispered, just seconds before a group of smartly dressed men entered unannounced—an intrusion that caught your family entirely off guard.

The expression on your father's face hardened; your mother's lower lip quivered for a brief second.

"A very good morning, my Lord, my Lady," all the men halted at the dining room doorway, though only one of them spoke. "I extend my sincere apologies for interrupting your breakfast so early in the morning."

"My Lord... I attempted to explain to them that it is no hour for receiving visitors," one of the maidservants stammered near the door, before your father dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

She departed hastily, ignoring the badged officers.

"I act under direct orders from the Privy Council and the Secretary of State for the Home Department," the man reached into his coat and produced a thick parchment, sealed with red wax. "In the name of His Majesty King George III and by the authority of the Prince Regent, you are hereby placed under arrest for the crime of high treason against the Crown and conspiracy with foreign powers."

You jolted in your seat as the loud crash of a glass pitcher shattering against the tiled floor echoed all the way from the kitchen into the dining room. The silence was so deafening from the shock that you could hear the hushed, frantic whispers and, after a few seconds, the sweeping up of scattered glass.

"What sort of outrage is this?" your father demanded. Your mother stared at him with her mouth half-open, her eyes wide with terror.

Neither of your sisters dared move a single finger, and neither did you.

"The warrant authorizes the immediate seizure of the property, the confiscation of all papers, correspondence, and journals, and your transport without delay," the man said imperturbably, before rolling the parchment back up. "I must ask you to surrender your sword, Sir."

"How monstrous," your mother said in a trembling voice, looking deeply offended. "What kind of cruel joke—"

"Helena," your father cut her off, shaking his head silently before rising quietly from the table and surrendering himself to the officer.

"Your carriage awaits at the main entrance."

Your mother sprang to her feet, following your father and the officer as they escorted him outside, demanding answers all the while. You could hear her trembling voice as she wept hysterically. Charlotte sat with her head bowed, while Mary seemed to cling to the window ledge as if she had seen a ghost.

Not a single one of you uttered a word while the officers entered to search your mother's library. The table remained uncomfortably silent until your mother returned; her eyes were red and swollen, and her lower lip quivered just like her voice when she spoke directly to you.

"You will write a letter to Sir Wesbury this instant," she commanded harshly. "We shall bring the marriage forward as quickly as possible."

Yet no matter how many letters you sent, Sir Anthony Wesbury had vanished into London's sweltering summer air, leaving you utterly ruined.

Dear readers of The Morning Chronicle, hold tight to your teacups, for Mayfair’s high society is trembling to its very foundations.

What promised to be a serene, sunny morning has instead collapsed into the most thunderous scandal of the season.

The Duke of Bristol himself has been stripped of his untouchable mantle. The whisper echoing through the corridors of "treason against the Crown" has ceased to be mere conjecture and turned into a stark, cold reality. The scene was worthy of the grandest theatrical drama: the King’s officers presented themselves at the Duke’s monumental residence, disrupting his parlors. Before the stunned gazes of the household staff, they read the royal arrest warrants in a firm, unyielding voice.

The distinguished Duke was escorted into a somber black carriage that whisked him away straight into the shadows of the Tower, leaving the true disaster behind the mansion’s closed doors: a devastated Duchess and her three young daughters, reduced in a matter of hours to absolute uncertainty. The family now finds itself adrift in a sea of debts and crown investigations. The question hanging in the Mayfair air is as cruel as it is inevitable: how will they ever survive this?

The vilest blow, however, falls upon one of his eldest daughters. The poor young lady must not only bear the heavy stain of a father imprisoned for treason, but also the cowardice of her supposed suitor. That distinguished gentleman—already regarded as her near-fiancé—had absent himself from the ballroom for days, and today, upon confirmation of the tragedy, the man has simply vanished into thin air.

How convenient it proves for some to lose both memory and affection at the exact moment a fortune vanishes!

The young lady’s reputation has been entirely ruined, and high society will not hesitate to turn its back on her. In our beloved Regency, a father accused of treason is a tragedy, but being left stranded by your fiancé before the eyes of the entire world is a social sentence from which one rarely recovers.

F1

• lando norris :

miss you, baby</3

pairing: lando norris × f! producer reader

summary: when your dear boyfriend of three years goes out with his guys for a night out, things don't really go the way they should have. you can't stay forever mad at him though. (smut)

•

I want to break free! (part 1.)

pairing: streamer! lando norris x f!reader

snippet: As she was laying in her bed, on her stomach, thousands of thoughts circling in her mind, she was thinking about everything all at once. Thinking about everything good and especially about everything horribly bad. Where did all of this start? Her suffering.

•

I want to break free! (part 2.)

pairing: streamer! lando norris x f!reader

snippet: There it was. The unmistakable sign of the fact that Lando was also just a human, and he couldn't keep up the nice act forever.

•

I want to break free! (part 3.)

pairing: streamer! lando norris x f!reader

snippet: Her body was still tense, but not nearly as rigid as before. The frantic pounding of her heart had eased into something steadier, lulled by the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, and probably by the pills. She hadn't realized how desperately she'd needed this. Not to be fixed, just held.

•

drunk and shared

pairing: lando norris x f!reader, oscar piastri x f!reader, lando x oscar

summary: your friend lando brings his friend, oscar to the party with himself, and it finishes with you in the backseat of lando's car with them all over you. (heavy smut)

•

naughty boy

pairing: lando norris x f!reader

summary: your boyfriend is acting up again,you just have to punish this naughty boy. (heavy smut)

•

muffins and meds

pairing: lando norris x f! reader

summary: summary: your boyfriend is sick, but of course, he acts like it's the end of the world, you need to take care of him.

•

delete that, lando!

pairing: lando norris x f!reader

summary: lando doesn't really care about being famous, when it comes to you, his wife, he will leave ridiculous comments under your posts. his PR team hates it. (a compilation of you and lando being disgustingly in love on social media, plus him getting scolded for it)

•

handmade

pairing: lando norris x f!reader

summary: your boyfriend wants to surprise you with handmade paper flowers, but he fails, and is incredibly upset over it. you comfort him, easing up his sadness.

•

my first and last

pairing: lando norris x f!reader

summary: lando is your first ever boyfriend, and you finally have sex with him, well actually , you finally have sex for the first time ever. it turns into probably the best night of your life, and his too. (heavy smut)

• oscar piastri :

drunk and shared

pairing: lando norris x f!reader, oscar piastri x f!reader, lando x oscar

summary: your friend lando brings his friend, oscar to the party with himself, and it finishes with you in the backseat of lando's car with them all over you. (heavy smut)

•

A gallery of you

pairing: oscar piastri x f! artist reader

summary: when mclaren approaches you about hosting an exclusive art showcase at your gallery about their team, you expect a professional collaboration, not a certain australian driver falling in love with your work, and eventually, with you.

•

morning, love

pairing: oscar piastri x f!reader

summary: oscar wakes up in the mood and he just needs you to let him love on you. (smut)

MotoGP

• marco bezzecchi :

I want more, and I want it now!

pairing: marco bezzecchi x f! western horse rider reader (yn)

summary: your schedules finally align, and you both can get to see each other racing. these two weekends bring you closer than ever, and best friends turn into more. the internet loves to see it unfold.

Your mom always said you were an adrenaline junkie; when you told her you were accepted into the fire academy for the paramedic path at the age of 20, she just chuckled and said: “That’s my girl”. 

When you told her you were promoted to paramedic in charge at a station known for its rescues, she almost threw a party. 

You were in the middle of taking nightly inventory of your ambulance when the trucks pulled in, the smell of soot lingering as the garage doors descended behind them and twelve brute men began to file out, boots thudding against the garage pavement followed by the routine shedding of their fire gear. 

You can usually tell how a call went based on the body language of your truck boys; a helpful tool you have acquired from spending hundreds of hours with them. It was calm, almost as if everything was soon to click into place. 

The last pair of boots hit the ground, and the door to the passenger side slams as Lieutenant Lando Norris hops from his seat in the front. Freshly promoted and smiling as if he didn't just help a family of four out of a small kitchen fire. 

Lando transferred to the station around the same time as you. Eyes full of light and his curls just barely peeking through a backwards baseball cap. The two of you have grown close over the years, watching as firemen pass through, some cracking under the weight of the job, and some moving on to other things completely. You have gone through almost 5 partners yourself, the one thing that has remained consistent was Lando. 

The day he was promoted to lieutenant, you were the first to congratulate him, throwing your arms around him as the rest of the station applauded their fellow fireman's well-deserved promotion. Overwhelmed with emotions, he held you tight as you whispered praise in his ear, about how this was a long time coming. 

Somewhere between then and now, you realized you saw him more than a friend. The spark you felt when his hands brushed yours during meals pushed to the forefront of your mind. Hours spent analyzing every freckle on his face, as if you could solve him like a puzzle, yet every time you got close enough, the sparkle in his ocean eyes pulled you away from focus. 

You tried to fight your crush, but he made it so hard; After every call, he’d offer to make you a grilled cheese because you mentioned it was your favourite meal growing up. 

A knock on the metal exterior of the ambulance shook you back to the present. Lando stood below you in the garage, his face slightly char stained but smile still warm. 

“Hey,“ you greeted, “how was the call?” Abandoning your clipboard, you invite him into the shop. 

He took a step inside, running a hand through his curls as he sat across from you. “Good, uh–“ He looked nervous, but you couldn’t place why. “Just a small grease fire, no major injuries or damage, quick in and out.” He listed as if, instead of casually talking to you, he was speaking with captain Zac Brown. 

“Why do you sound upset about this?” 

“I’m not,” his voice squeaked at the end of his sentence. He was lying. You squint at him, “Lando, you’re picking your fingers like you did when Zac called on you in roll call. What's up?” You push, hoping he’ll crack. 

He sits on his hands, chuckling through a breath before he answers you. “Fewtrell is having a barbecue at the end of shift, he wanted me to invite you and Lily.” 

Ah yes, you should’ve known Fewtrell and Piastri had sent him to do their errands. Max Fewtrell and Oscar Piastri were Lando's closest mates on shift, the three grew up on the same street and now neighboured just down the road from where you and your roommate (also known as Oscar's girlfriend) Lily reside. 

“Yeah of course! Is there anything I can bring?” you replied, slightly taken aback this was what he was cautious over. 

He smiles softly shaking his head, “nope, just yourself”

Your stomach seemed to forget you were chatting with lando, and not about to drop into a rollercoaster.

“And Lily, of course. Oscar will kill us if not.” He adds and you suddenly remember you're not supposed to feel like this about your best friend. 

“No, yeah– definitely,” you respond quickly, forcing a laugh to hide the awkwardness that has undoubtedly formed. To try and look busy, you pick up your clipboard, double checking the already triple checked numbers before the familiar sound of the dispatcher crackles through the speakers 

Ambulance 81: person injured, 12,725 champion street  

Your eyes meet his before you stand, coming back to reality, “duty calls,” you quip with a tight-lipped smile. 

He nods, helping you with cleaning before giving you a quick salute, “see you later!” 

You smile before your partner joins you in the passenger seat and you flick on the lights and sirens, following where the job takes you. 

──── ঌ ────

Your shift had ended an hour ago and you were sitting on Lily's bed while she was runway style showing you potential outfits for the barbecue. 

“Oscar will love anything you wear Lily,” you say, after paying no attention to her outfits past the third one she's tried on, after they all became the same pair of jeans with a different top. 

“But what if he doesn't!” She counters, studying her outfit in the mirror. 

You laugh, resuming your scrolling, “he’ll be too busy helping Max and Lando with the grill.”

She wiggles her eyebrows at the mention of the brunette, “speaking of,” she teases, “have you told him how you're feeling?”

You scrunch your face, “no, of course not.”

She scoffs, flicking a chip at you. “He’s not going to know you like him if you only look at him with those puppy dog eyes.” 

You fall back into her duvet with a sigh. You knew this. But you also knew the other factors of a firehouse relationship; the teasing when you walk into a room together, the looming fear that if Captain Brown were to find out you’d both lose your jobs. 

“It just wont work, Lils.” 

She throws a pair of jean shorts on top of you, “not with that attitude it won’t,” she declares, “now put these on, they make your ass look good.” 

You smile gratefully and change, opting to pair the light wash shorts with a grey tank top and a pink striped button up. You were doing your makeup when Lily's phone chimed. 

“It's from Oscar, he and Lando are on their way back with drinks and offered to pick us up,” she reads, waiting for you to finish carefully applying your lip combo. 

You pretended to think about it for a moment before turning in your chair to look at your roommate, “yeah of course, I’ll just grab the chips from the pantry, they said not to bring anything but I’d feel bad if we show up empty handed.” 

The girl let out what you think was a squeal and began frantically typing on her phone, shortly after it chimed again. “They’ll be here in ten!” 

It wasn't long before the boys turned up, music blasting from their shared Mercedes like they were fratboys, not firefighters. Lando rolled his window down as you and Lily approached the vehicle.

“Somebody order an uber XL?” He jokes, adjusting his cap that was sat atop his chocolate curls. Oscar was in the driver's seat, eyes fixated on Lily– you made a mental note to applaud her ability to read her boyfriend later. 

“You're in my seat, Norris!” she shouts, opening the door from the outside with a playful jab of her thumb over her shoulder while you make your way to the backseat. “Out!”

Lando makes no argument as he joins you in the back, eyeing the chip bag in your hand and shooting you a wink before clapping Oscar's shoulder from behind, making the boy flinch slightly. He laughs and merges back into the road.

Fewtrell was already running the grill like a navy general when the four of you arrived. Pietra, his lovely wife who you’ve become quite close with over the years, welcomes you with open arms. 

“Please, somebody assist this mad man.” She sighs when Max can be heard shouting in frustration from the back patio. 

You join Lando in making your way to the deck, finding other firefights from your shift including Max, Carlos, and a younger one named Ollie, who was a recent addition to Truck. 

While Lando takes Max's side and assesses the burgers you are sure are close to burning, you take a seat in a foldable chair next to Ollie. 

“So Ollie, how are you enjoying your first months at the station?” You question, curious about the new boys thoughts on your tight-knit family 

He shrugs, taking a swig from his drink. “It's been nice, good city, with great people,” his eyes down your body and rise back up towards your face, a smirk painting over his own, “you know any good places to eat ‘round here?” He smoothly asks. 

You know where this is going, new firefighters often will flirt with the paramedics since nine times out of ten they are women, but you never liked to entertain them since your heart was currently occupied by a certain curly haired lieutenant. 

Lando’s neck snaps towards you when he hears the question come from Ollie’s mouth. If looks could kill, the boy would’ve been six feet under. His scowl audible while Max’s complaints about the grill not cooking fast enough falls on deaf ears. 

“Dude!” The older man forced Lando to pull his ice filled gaze away from you, “I think I’m low on propane. Can you grab me two from the shed?” When Lando groans, Max continues to flip his burgers. “Take y/n with you, she knows where they are,” he offers over his shoulder. 

At the faint mention of your name, your attention shifts towards the grill. Lando's eyes meet yours from across the patio, motioning you to join him. You politely excuse yourself from Ollie, the boy holding his drink up in mock cheers to send you off. 

The tension is thick when you join the boys at the grill. You assumed that Max was fussing about the hotdog to burger ratio, but were surprised to see Lando's shoulders to be up by his ears. 

Max explains the propane situation and you happily agree to assist Lando, since one summer ago you and Pietra needed propane for a wine night firepit, you’ve become an expert in navigating the Fewtrell shed. 

The two of you enter the small structure, Lando immediately taking in all the karting equipment that's resided here for years, Pietras told you. A small kid-sized kart with blue and fluorescent yellow accents propped on a rig, wheels surrounding the floor below it. 

Your eyes follow the wall, pictures of boys with flushed cheeks and sweaty hair, arms thrown around each other in race suits, an identical set of smiles etched on both their faces. When you look closer, it's almost impossible not to recognize the set of boys. 

Your fingers tap the picture lightly,  “This you?” You look to the boy who's been occupied with the pedals on the kart. He turns to look over your shoulder, the heat radiating off of his body. You can feel his breath against your ear when he points to the smaller boy in the middle. “Me,” he points to the boy on his left, “Max,” to his right, “Oscar.” 

Your heart squeezes, looking at the boy who once considered himself a racer and now races towards flames before they swallow a structure whole. 

In a way, firefighting is similar to racing– the calculation before every move, the fear of one slip causing it all to go wrong– these boys risked their safety on track the same way they do whenever they run into a burning building. 

“You seemed pretty cozy with the new guy,” Lando says hesitantly, like he's unsure if it came out formed as a joke or ammunition. Your eyes meet his back as he fiddles with a spare part. 

Something in your mind told you that this was the proof you needed, that maybe Lily was right and you should just confess right there and then.

But another quiet voice, the one that always wins against the logical part of your brain, was telling you to stop daydreaming. And so, you shrug, "He seemed nice enough. Why? You jealous?” 

He whips around to face you, brows knit and eyes wide. “What? psheesh–- no!” He says, too quickly for your heart to slow down, "I'm just saying, he's new and probably just looking to get laid or something,” he shrugs, twisting the small trinket between his fingers, trying to act like this doesn't bother him as much as it does. 

Your heart is racing, but you stay composed, crossing your arms before squinting at him. He doesn't get to act this way and get away with it. “Why do you care?” 

He scoffs, eyes falling to the part in his hand, “I don't." 

You hum, unconvinced. “Alright, then maybe I’ll go out with him, then.” 

Lando drops the part and before the loud clang can fully hit your ears he’s in front of you, his face mere inches from yours, so close you can draw constellations between his freckles. 

His eyes stare firmly into yours as you meet his gaze with terrifying confidence. His hands are planted on the table behind you, caging you in. “You're not gonna do that” he says low, his pupils dilating, absorbing the watercolour irises. 

You tilt your chin up, not backing down. “Well why not, Norris." 

His eyes flicker between yours, down to your lips, and then back up to your eyes,exhaling as he contemplates. You lean in slightly, the space between you becoming thinner with every second. 

You’re starting to lose your faux confidence, eyes falling to his lips when his tongue darts out to wet them. 

The energy between you could light a match, charged with unspoken words and feelings. You could feel his breath on your face, his lips ghosting over yours.

“Do it,” you whisper into the silence of the shed.

He waits about one second before his lips crash into yours. The outside world starts shrinking into the confines of the karting shed, just the two of you, moving in unison. 

The kiss was everything you’d hoped it would be, soft but firm, gentle but hungry; Years of pining evident in the way his lips moved against you, his tongue licking yours as the kiss deepened, hands finding your waist while yours tangled between his curls. 

You pull apart for air, his forehead falling to rest against yours, breath heavy as you both realize what just happened. Your eyes dart all over the shed, out of embarrassment, or maybe fear, but once you look back up at the curly mess of a man before you, you realise his eyes never left yours. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he says, a little out of breath yet still grinning. You find that hard to believe, “really?” you ask. He nods, “since the first day I walked in and saw you sitting in the ambo bay.” 

Your breath catches before you kiss him again, holding his cheeks in your hands. “I've wanted that for ages, Lan,” you say into his lips. 

He connects your lips again, kissing you until you're dizzy and breathless. You're not sure how long you were hiding in the shed, which made you want to stay there even longer. You felt like two secondary schoolers, hiding and kissing like it’s forbidden, but with him you didn’t seem to care. 

And when Oscar notices the slight flush to both of your faces when you finally return with two full propane tanks, he doesn't say anything and hands you a drink.  

──── ঌ ────

It’s been a week since the Fewtrells, when Oscar finds Lando furiously typing on his laptop for a report on the stereotypical cat-in-the-tree rescue from yesterday. He's propped against the door frame, arms crossed against his chest as he watches Lando let out another sigh when the system freezes. 

“Y’know, you could just talk to her,” he deadpans. 

Lando doesn’t look up; if he does, Oscar will see how exhausted he looks, and he’ll know something is up.

The past week has been hell for Lando. The truck needs a new spare tire, a rookie on the rescue squad just quit, and now you're avoiding him like the plague. 

Since the kiss, you’ve hardly spoken to Lando unless the job required you to and he was going insane. Everytime he closed his eyes, he was back in the shed with you, his furious gaze meeting your soft one. Even while you gave him a hard time, he still found your eyes mesmerizing.

 Most importantly, however, he missed his friend. The friend he spent downtime with in between calls and sat next to at dinner. All because he couldn't keep his feelings in check. “I don’t need to talk to her,” he lies quickly. 

“You’ve been hiding in your quarters like the old man up the street we tell the kids not to trick or treat at,” Oscar replies, seeing right through him. 

The curly-haired boy falls back against his chair, letting out a long exhale through his nose and tilting his head back to study the ceiling; there’s still a paper dart from when you took April Fools' Day far too seriously. “Ever since the barbecue, it’s been awkward.” 

Oscar raised a brow “How so?”  

Lando squeezes his eyes shut, physically bracing for the outcome of what he's about to say. “We kissed in the shed.” 

Oscar, the little fucker, just smiles before saying in the most neutral tone humanly possible, “I know” 

Now that makes Lando look at him, eyebrows shooting towards his hairline. “What do you mean, I know?” He responds in slight disbelief. 

“I'm not blind, Lando,” the man just shrugs, “when you came back wearing the same smile as the day you got promoted, it wasn't hard to put two and two together, mate.” 

Lando huffs, rubbing his temple to soothe the headache that's forming from the racing of his thoughts. “I don't know, mate, we both know how firehouse relationships work.” He sighs, “what if it doesn't work out?” he adds quieter. 

Oscar listens, being an open ear to Lando as he voices his thoughts. It's been like this since their racing days. When Lando had a tricky time correcting a corner, Oscar would listen as they ate pizza and Lando spoke his thoughts aloud, only adding his input when he felt it was needed. 

“You would never know unless you talked to her,” he simply says before he's gone and Lando is left alone in his quarters. Later, he's in the kitchen heating up leftover pasta from the first watch. The boys are scattered as it's been a quiet day already, a call here and there for small situations. 

You, however, Lando feels like he's hardly seen all shift. And when he did see you, you've barely sat long enough for him to catch you.

It's like the universe is dangling this conversation in front of him on a stick, but just as he gets close enough to grab it, the shrill ring of someone in distress rips you away from him. 

He sat on the couch, overalls bunching into his lap as he's crosslegged in front of the TV, scarfing down some food. 

The news anchor on the screen blurred in the back of his mind as he played a game you downloaded on his phone years ago, focusing on beating that level, when suddenly, the atmosphere on the small television shifted- something was wrong. 

Lando straightened up and set down his game, watching as the bold text on the screen informed the viewers of a motor vehicle accident that caught a child in the crossfire. They explained that the young girl was thrown from her car and knocked unconscious; her condition unknown when responders arrived. 

That's when it struck him, like a loud screech in the back of his mind. 

Wasn't your last call an unconscious minor? 

He waits anxiously for more coverage, waiting to see if he can spot you or your ambulance on scene. “Fuck…” He mumbles to himself as the clips keep rolling, showing more and more angles of the devastating accident. It doesn't look good. 

He knew you loved kids; he’s met your nieces and nephews. The way your face lit up when they spoke nonsense to you about their favourite paw patrol character. Lando knew your heart couldn't handle this going sideways. 

Just when he thinks it was a coincidence– that maybe somewhere a mother mistook their kid having a nap and you were begrudgingly filling out paperwork– your ambulance is shown screeching to a halt and out jump you and your partner, rushing to the little girl's aid.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees as he watches on. Lando is holding his breath while on-screen you is effortlessly hooking up the monitor, inserting an IV, things he has watched you do over a thousand times, yet feels that this time it weighs heavier– maybe because he hasn’t talked to you, or maybe because you’d barely look at him at the station– he still felt your heart breaking through the screen. 

What the camera almost fails to pick up is the light shake in your hands– something you told Lando during a late-night shift– that only rarely happens when your emotions are hitting you at an overwhelming rate. He saw you squeeze your fingers together to try and make it stop, but the news anchor moved on before the camera could catch it. 

He sat in silence as the coverage shifted to something much lighter, but Lando couldn't shake the memory of the look on your face, the pure devastation written across your features. 

Max had joined him now, sitting next to him in silence as they waited for your return. The firehouse felt still, like a puzzle piece was missing to function properly. 

While waiting, Zac found him– the man shaking an authoritative chill down Lando's spine as he mentioned he'd taken the truck and ambulance out of service for a few hours. 

The sympathetic look on his face told Lando the reason why. Not that he was complaining; he wanted to be there for you when you came home, regardless of whatever avoidance competition you two were competing in. 

What felt like hours was actually half until the familiar sound of the garage doors opening filled his ears. Lando didn't move, not wanting to crowd you; he stayed planted on the couch until he heard the sound of your boots frantically thud past the common room and down the hallway. Your partner entered shortly after, her posture heavy with the events of today. Lando stood, cautious with his words. 

“How is the kid?” he asked slowly. 

She just sighed, deflating into the chair beneath her, “I'm not sure if she’ll make it, she arrested again on the way to the hospital–” 

Lando didn't even let her finish before he was moving. He followed the direction you went, walking with the same urgency he has when the bell goes off. His head is storming with a hurricane of thoughts, but his sole focus is to find you. 

After checking everywhere he thought was possible to hide out in, he ended up at the laundry machines, a dead end of the hallway. Right as he turned to begin checking the rooms he just stormed past, he heard a sniffle come from an adjacent door. He threw the door open, and his heart plummeted at the scene before him, 

You were sitting on a small cot in a room that he forgot existed and was slightly shocked you knew about. Your knees were pulled to your chest, tears were streaming down your cheeks. The sobs were heartbreaking as you could barely catch your breath. 

“Hey, hey–, I'm here,” he whispers as he wraps his arms firmly around you, one hand cupping the back of your head and the other rubbing small circles on your back. “I’ve got you, it's okay” 

As the sobs wracked through your body, he never let go. He held you while you cried, gripping his uniform like a lifeline. His chin rested on your head as he rocked you both slightly, reassuring you that he was here; that he was your rock and despite any distance, he was unmoving. 

“She was so small,” your wobbly voice spoke through the tears, “she didn't deserve this.” A new wave of sobs shook your body.

Lando just held on tighter, his heart hurting at the state you were in,“you did everything you could, love,” he comforted, “what happened was not your fault.” He kept talking, reassuring you of your efforts while you cried. His fingers combed through your hair as he spoke softly. 

Your breathing slowed, the height of it had passed but your tears still fell silently. Lando moved to have you rest your head on his chest while he continued to rub your back, placing kisses to the crown of your head every time a hiccup escaped you. 

“I just wish there was something else I could've done,” you murmured, picking at the hem of your sleeve. Lando took your face in his hands. “Look at me,” he said, not firm, but stern enough to get your attention. 

Your crystallized eyes met his, his face laced with concern. His hands cradled you like you were the most delicate thing he’s ever touched. “What happened today was not a result of your work,” he assured, wiping a stray tear that escaped. He continued, “you are a brilliant paramedic, and you know you did everything humanly possible to help that girl.” 

Your eyes poured into his as he spoke, his hands cupping your face like they were made to do just that. He leaned down to be directly in your eyeline, making sure you were here with him. 

“I need you to know that you know that, baby,” he said, the last word fell quieter, but the butterflies in your stomach still fluttered awake as you nodded in his hands. 

He gave a hum of acknowledgement before pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You're too beautiful to cry,” he mumbles, more to himself, but you heard it nonetheless. Your eyes flick to his lips; he inhales like he knows what's about to happen. He doesn't stop you from leaning in and slotting your lips against his. 

The kiss is soft, slow like a Sunday morning; blooming between you like spring after a harsh winter. The kind that says I'm here, I'm not going anywhere. 

This kiss felt different than your first one in the shed, this kiss felt real, grounding, like coming up for fresh air after the waves pushed you under for too long. 

You pulled away to catch a breath, lacing your fingers together. You look at Lando, his uniform is ruffled, his lips are puffy and pink, and he looks a little dazed, but he's wearing the brightest smile you've ever seen. 

“Sorry– wait,” you chuckle, taking your thumb to wipe the remnants of your lip gloss that had smudged onto his face in the heat of the moment. 

He brushes your hand away “No, leave it,” he simply states, “it's fine.” 

You're sure that if it wasn't for him holding you up, you would've melted right then and there. You laugh and tap the end of his nose instead, the emotions of today shifting to become much lighter, “you like me,” you tease, drawing the words out to make him playfully scoff before pulling you against his chest and throwing you both against the cot so he lies beneath you. 

Your giggles fill the room as he pretends to deny his feelings, but the fact that you can count all 32 of his teeth tells you otherwise. 

You stay like that for a while, lying in each other's presence as the station continues to move outside of this room you have found yourselves in. You can feel his heartbeat beneath you, it begins to pick up slightly before he speaks. “I don't want to rush things, but I really like you,” he says, vulnerable, like he's been keeping it in for long enough he didn't know how it would sound coming from his mouth. 

You rest your chin on his chest, your gaze meeting him as he stills– waiting for you to respond to the question he convinced himself for years would bring rejection. 

The smile that etches onto your face tells him he was wrong in the best way possible.

“I’ve been gone for you since the day you made lieutenant and the first person you looked at was me,” you whisper and the words sit between you for a second, hanging like a declaration, in so many ways they were. 

He remembered that day like it was yesterday, the words Zac spoke proudly died in his ears instantly when you came into view. 

You lace your fingers with his, running your fingers along the ridges of his knuckles, “but we also work together, Lan.” 

He sucks in a breath, fingers tightening around yours like he never wants to let go. “Then let's go slow, we can do whatever you want,” he says softly, allowing the ball to be fully in your court. 

“I want to go slow, no labels,” you decide, he nods agreeing with you. “And we can't tell anybody here, if Zac finds out, we’re cooked.” He looks at you like that one was obvious. 

“M’kay, deal.” He says before hooking his hand behind your neck and pulling you in for another kiss. You could definitely get used to this. 

──── ঌ ────

And so began your surreptitious relationship. Stolen moments across shifts have been what get you both through the hard days. 

There was the time where Truck had a bad call, a miscommunication during a barbeque gone rogue ending in a flashover and a father in the hospital overnight for smoke inhalation. He came back with a storm cloud over his head, slamming cabinets like they were his enemy until you grabbed his wrist and dragged him to your new favourite spot in the city, the closet by the laundry room. 

You never said anything, just let him vent his frustration until he came back down to Earth. Until he was calm enough to face his men and not come close to punching one in the face. 

Then there was the time he had you pinned down on that same cot he held you while you sobbed, though these were sobs of pleasure that he was pulling from you as he ate you out. 

His tongue worked magic on your pussy while one hand splayed across your stomach, holding you down as you squirmed, grinding against his face. 

“Give it to me baby,” he groaned into your folds, slick coating his face as he slipped a finger inside, “gotta be quiet though– the boys’ll hear you.” 

You feel your stomach tightening, his tongue flattening across your clit, drinking everything you had to give him. 

“Lan, I’m–” you breathed, the hand in his hair gripping harder as you climbed higher, and higher, Lando being ready to catch you once you fell into pure bliss. 

Your high detonates and you hold a hand over your mouth to stay quiet, Lando, the smug bastard continues to lick you as you ride out your orgasm. Placing kisses up your stomach until he reaches your face, pecking your lips before he plops down next to you with a smirk on his face. 

“That was– wow,” you say, still catching your breath as you roll over to straddle his lap. His hands gripping the skin of your ass as you begin to grind down on the evident bulge in his pants. “Now it's your turn,” you murmur, a mischievous look on your face.

Your mouth finds the sweet spot under his ear, making him gasp. “Ooohhh fuck– baby,” your hands find his belt undoing it and pulling his pants down his knees, leaving him in nothing but his grey calvin klein boxers that leave little to your imagination; a small wet spot already forming. 

Just as you slip your hand in, teasing the waistband while you suckle at the base of his neck. 

The bell goes off. 

Ambulance 81, person in distress, 5524 beach street. 

You both freeze, Lando hides his face in your shoulder, a groan escaping him as you back away to put your clothes back on. “Nooo” he whines as you button your pants, “don’t go,” the pout on his face makes you actually consider rerouting this call. 

You giggle, lacing up your shoes before placing a quick peck to his lips and turning towards the door. “I’ll see you later, Norris,” you say before opening the door. 

“This is evil!” He shouts as you walk towards the apparatus floor with a smile. 

Back in the room, Lando was cheesing far too hard for a man who just got practically edged by his girl. 

There was also the time you almost got caught. 

You were in his lieutenant quarters, he's kissing down your neck; his hands are everywhere as you tilt your chin so he can have more access 

“Lan–” you cut yourself off with a gasp when he mouths the space between your collarbone. “Oscar could come in here any second”

“Who cares?” he mumbles into your neck before pulling away to smash his lips into yours. His tongue licking into your mouth as your hands find his curls; you grab a handful and tug lightly. Not hard, but enough that a small whimper escapes Lando. 

His hands found your ass before he squeezed tightly, pushing himself against you so there wasn’t even a hair between you. You kissed, and kissed, and kissed, you kissed so much you almost forgot where you were. 

Key word, almost.

The knock on his door made you pull apart, the door handle starting to shimmy made Lando shove you in the closet. Lando adjusts his collar, then his pants before he opens the door to find a disgruntled Max Fewtrell on the other side. 

Confused, he takes a look around the room, “why do you look sneaky?” He asks carefully, eyeing lando like a suspect in a police investigation. 

“I don't look sneaky” the boy answers quickly, “you’re the one showing up unannounced.” 

Max waltzes in, plopping himself on the chair that is threateningly close to the closet you are currently hiding in. Lando feels his pulse spike as he takes a seat, but he remains calm. Taking a seat at his desk across from him, “so what's up man, did George need help with those drills?” 

You were in the closet listening to them talk about stuff you frankly didn't understand, the firefighter lingo went out your ears as they sat there for 5 minutes discussing last week's chemistry lab fire that hit the news. 

“You seem happy lately man, something new?” Max inquiries, and Lando sits up straighter in his chair. Playing it extremely cool, blowing air through his lips and shaking his head, "No, man, nothing, I guess,” he pauses, subtly glancing towards the closet, “I guess, some things are clicking into place.” A smile works its way onto his face, unable to hide his happiness. 

Max watches him carefully, and maybe he noticed something, either way he didn't say anything. Just clapped hands with Lando when he stood up,saying a quick, “C’ya out there, mate,” before exiting. 

Lando watches the door latch, waiting for the click before scurrying to open the closet and catching you when your legs fail you from crouching in the small box for so long. 

You look up at him flustered, “Next time, put me under the bed!” You both dissolve into giggles before the bell interrupts. 

And then there was your favourite time, the time that had absolutely nothing to do with the fire station at all. 

It was your day off, you were on your couch in your apartment, grey baggy sweatpants and a navy London FD hoodie swallowing your body. 

Yesterday had been a rough shift, calls stacking up, adding on a run of minimal sleep resulting in your body being utterly exhausted. Sniffles escaping you as your nose runs. Lily left you alone about an hour ago, mentioning some day date with Oscar to a flea market followed by dinner, so this left you to your own devices while you battled the post shift plague. 

Also known as the couch, the tv remote, and 5 episodes of love island to catch up on. 

Your phone buzzed around episode 3, the goofy picture of Lando sticking his tongue at you flashed on your screen as he called you. “Hey you!” you answered, the slight rasp in your voice evident on Lando's end. 

“You sound like a sailor, you okay?” He asks immediately

“Just a post-shift illness, nothing crazy,” you shove a handful of popcorn in your mouth, watching Melanie crash out at a criminally low volume. 

A gasp trickled across the line, “Why didn’t you lead with that!” You hear rustling that sounds awfully close to keys being grabbed, “I’m on my way,” he states.

“No, Lando-” you say, knowing he had plans today, "Don't bail on Max for me, I’ll be fine–” 

“Nope! Already on my way with soup!” He cuts you off, “See you soon, baby!” 

The line goes dead. 

You stare at your now locked phone, the corners of your mouth tilting up at the confidence in his voice. Determined to cancel his plans just to hang out with you while you're ill. 

This boy has you in deep. 

He arrived less than 15 minutes later. You opened the front door to see Lando, looking adorable in black sweatpants with a grey hoodie, topped with a maroon LFD cap that was placed backwards and a paper grocery bag clutched in his hands.

He kissed your lips as you welcomed him in, “You didn't have to come, Lando." He toed his shoes off before making his way in. 

“I can't have you getting sick on me,” he joked as you followed him into the kitchen, he's been here enough times in the past two months to know his way around. 

“Besides,” he wraps his hands around your waist in a hug, “Golf is boring anyways” he says softly before leaning in to kiss you. 

You push him away, not wanting to have him get sick. “Those are words you would never utter even if it got you a pay raise.” 

He pouts, squeezing your hips like if he's not touching you in some way, the entire block will burst into flames. “L’emme be your nurse for the day, you spend so much time taking care of people.” He mutters lowly, “Let someone take care of you for once.” 

Your heart melted at the boy stood in front of you, staring at you like you were his whole world. giving you the puppy dog eyes just so he can care for you. 

It was so hard to say no to him. 

You spent the day wrapped up on the couch watching movies, your limbs entangled with his under a cozy blanket. Lando gave you medicine, attempted to braid your hair when it was in your face, doing anything he could to make sure you were the most comfortable you could possibly be. 

His fingers traced mindless patterns on the skin of your back while the two of you lay together on the sofa. The sun had begun its descent, painting the room in a mosaic of warmth. The sun filtered on his face just right, spotlighting his eyes as they shone a beautiful mix of blue and green. 

He turned to catch you staring, a warm smile forming on his face as he studied your face.

“Hi,” he said softly, his hair slightly ruffled from abandoning his hat hours ago. 

God, you could just stare at him for hours.

You drink him in for a moment, counting the moles that scatter from his forehead to his collarbone and how his curls frame his forehead perfectly to create a halo in the light. He looked angelic, truly. 

Your hands find his curls, running your hands through them in an attempt to tame them. Lando lets out a contemptuous hmm while your nails scratch his scalp perfectly. 

“Hi,” you say smugly, placing kisses across the planes of his cheeks and every ridge of his dimples. 

 “Thank you for being my cute n’ sexy nurse today.” Lando's cheeks flush pink in embarrassment, heat filtering down his neck.  

“Of course,” he says quietly into your shoulder. His breath fanned across your skin. “Anything for you,” he adds with a breath.

There was a deeper meaning somewhere in there, but the sound of a key turning in its lock put a humongous pin in this conversation. 

The door swung open and in walked your roommate and her boyfriend, giggling at something Oscar said. They looked a little drunk, whether that was because of alcohol or just being within proximity of each other, you couldn’t tell. 

They paused in the doorway, eyes falling to you and lando lounging on the couch. 

Oscar hummed, his arms draping around Lily. “Oh, hey, thought you were golfing?” He asked the lieutenant as he walked towards the couch.

Lando didn’t move from his spot underneath you, dapping up Oscar with a crisp clap. “Somebody was deathly ill and needed nurse Norris to rescue her,” he said confidently. 

His eyes flicked to meet yours, sending a wink your way. You laughed at his antics, “um–” you interjected, “I was fine on my own, thank you very much.” 

His smirk only grew, “sure you were, darling?” 

fuck, this guy is good. 

Your cheeks grew warm as you sunk deeper into the cushions beneath you. You hate the effect he has on you sometimes, making you speechless with a flash of a smile. 

As if a lightbulb went off in his head, “crap–,” he looked at his watch, “you’re due for meds.” He mumbles as he moves you gently off him, resting you back on the couch before bolting into the kitchen. 

Oscar and Lily watched, exchanging a knowing look from their place at the other end of the sofa. 

Lando returned with two small pills and a glass of water, handing you the small medication and watching carefully as you washed them down. Lily watched carefully, watching your interactions with the boy. Taking mental notes of the mannerisms she observes that resemble her own with Oscar. 

Lando resumed his position beneath you, holding you close as he turns to the room, smiling so big before he grabs the remote,

“So, football?” 

The four of you spent the rest of the evening talking aimlessly while the tv faded into the background, the sound of boys bickering at the tv filled the apartment as you and Lily gossiped about your neighbors.

Your eyelids began to grow heavy as the clock neared 11:30pm, the feeling of Lando continuing to draw shapes into the skin under your hoodie lulling you into a deep sleep. 

“I think she’s out,” Oscar says, pointing at you while Lily non-subtlety took a picture of the two of you. 

Lando craned his neck to see your face, soft and undeniably asleep. His eyes combed over your face, your eyelashes kissing your cheeks, fluttering slightly as you dream. 

There was something so vulnerable about your sleeping state, making Lando want to hide you from the rest of the world, keep you warm in his arms forever. 

“I'll take her to bed and then I'll head out, you comin’ with, Osc?” He asked as he gently gathered you in his arms. 

Oscar nodded at him as he stood, lifting you bridal style with ease. The blanket draped across you like a dress, your head falling against his shoulder allowing him to feel your breath trickle along his neck. He walked carefully to your bedroom, kicking the door open with his foot and placing you gently down on your mattress. 

As he was tucking you in, you let out a sigh of content and Lando felt the urge to get in bed with you. Instead, he pushed fallen hair from your face, revealing the soft features he was enchanted by. 

He bent down to place a lingering kiss on your forehead, holding it before moving to kiss the corner of your mouth, mumbling, “night beautiful,”  before he made his way to the door. 

He looked back before crossing the threshold, every bone in his body wanting him to get in bed with you, to wrap his arms around you while you both slept peacefully. 

But his head told him otherwise, his head let the fear of moving too fast catch up to him, what ifs lingering in the forefront. He wanted you so badly, but couldn’t bear the thought of you risking your career for him.

He knew he loved you, it was that simple. He's known he loved you for a while now. Which is why he won't allow you to risk it all for him. 

So he quietly shut the door and went back to the living room where Oscar awaited with his keys in hand. 

──── ঌ ────

You and Lily found yourselves in the kitchen, sharing a bottle of wine while snacking on some salty nacho chips. Work had kicked both your asses and you were due for a much needed girls night. These were your favourite nights, any night not spent sleeping on a small firehouse cot sandwiched between two snoring men, was something you cherished greatly. 

You just finished retelling a story from yesterday’s shift, explaining the horrible joke Lando said to Oscar before your last call. 

Lily straightens up at the mention of the lieutenant, “speaking of...” she says slowly, the tone of the night changing from lighthearted to something more serious. Lily placed her glass down before speaking again, “You two are good together.” 

Your eyes meet Lily's, your fingers running around the rim of your glass. “Yeah,” you blush, “he's been great.”

The girl raised her brow, “can I ask you something though, babe?” You take a breath, bracing for impact, "are you and Lando official yet?” 

You frown, taken aback, “no– we’re just,” you pause, finding the words “keepin’ it casual y’know, for the firehouse,” you said, words becoming less confident as they blurted from your mouth.. 

Lily paused, sitting up slightly in her chair, pursing her lips while she thought. “Babe, I love you,” she spoke, choosing her words carefully, “but that man is basically your boyfriend.”

You stare at her, recounting moments with Lando from the past month. The time he came over while you were sick, all the mornings he offered to drive you to work, every sandwich he brought you mid-shift because he knew you needed to eat. 

Your shoulders deflated, eyes stinging, “I don't know what we are, Lils,” you murmured, hiding your face in your hands. Lily knew you inside and out, even better than you knew yourself sometimes, and as much as it helps with daily decision-making, this wasn’t helping your situation at all.

“If you can’t see that that man is in love with you, then the paramedics board needs to check your sight before shift,” she says, taking a sip of her wine. 

“Lily, he’s not in love with me.”

Lily took your hand in hers, her eyes are fierce and telling you she's not joking around anymore. “There is no way he took care of you all day last week, carried you to bed and then looked depressed as he had to leave you just because this is casual for him.” 

You absorb her words, the sentences hitting you like a train. Maybe she was right. Maybe the moments you shared were more than casual, but Lando could never and would never allow it to go further, as much as that hurt to acknowledge. Your eyes found your lap, fingers picking at the stem of your glass. “It doesn’t even matter, he’s not going to ask to be my boyfriend.” 

Lily watches you fidget with your glass and practically sees the gears in your brain turn. As stubborn as you were, she knew you’ll get there eventually, she just needs to help you along. 

“Honey, it does matter,” she sighs “it matters, because you want him to be” she adds, gently. 

A pang of sadness echoed in your chest. She was right, you knew she was right; You wanted everything, you wanted dates, you wanted nights spent wrapped in each other's arms before coming into shift together the next morning. You wanted him to love you openly and loudly across the city you both have dedicated nearly a decade to. 

You didn't realize you were crying until the tears blurred your vision, Lily reaching out her hand to wipe them askew. “Talk to him, babe, I can see you want more.” 

She leaves you with your thoughts, alone in the living room as you ponder whether or not Lando wanted you at the same level you wanted him. 

──── ঌ ────

The firehouse was always quiet in the morning, fighters coming in slowly with coffee cups clutched like a lifeline. 

You were waiting for Lando on the cot by the laundry machines. After your talk with Lily, you decided to talk to him. 

You had messaged him to meet you at your spot, saying you wanted to talk. The ticking clock on the wall didn’t lessen your anxiety as its legs reached just past 9:30a.m. 

The door opened quietly before Lando snuck his way in, curls still damp from his shower and a crisp uniform on. You noticed the slight tense in his shoulders, followed by the crease in his forehead he gets when he's stressed. 

“Hey,” he says shortly, taking a seat next to you before placing a sweet kiss on your cheek. His eyes looked tired and you began to regret choosing now as the time to bring up your relationship. 

“Morning, everything okay?”  

He sighs, “Zac just dropped a whole stack of reports from last week that admin filed wrong,” he vents, “now I need to go through them all.” 

“Oh, well this can wait then,” you stand to leave, but he grabs your hand, spinning you back around to face him. 

“No,” he breathes, "don't do that. What's on your mind, love?”  

You stare at him, eyes darting across his face to find any excuse to not utter the words you're about to say next. But the steady hold he had on your hand was enough to tell you this was happening now, whether you wanted it to or not. 

“What are we, Lando?” You sigh, shoulders falling. 

The boy blinks, wrinkles forming between his brows, “what do you mean?” 

“I mean us, Lan– what is this?” You say, jutting your hand between the two of you. “Are you planning on being fuck buddies forever?” You add, anger rising in your tone. 

You watch the gears turn in his brain, he tilted his head before scratching lightly at the nape of his neck. “I thought we were just keeping things casual,” he says, his voice an octave lower than usual. 

You roll your eyes, a scoff escaping your lips before you can shove it down. Taking your hand from his, you cross your arms across your chest. 

“No–” the boy catches your attitude, “you were the one who decided no labels,” he argues, utter confusion written across his face. 

“I said that three months ago, Lando!” you snap, the boy pinched the bridge of his nose as he exhaled, running a hand down his face before fanning it out in front of him. 

“So what are you saying, you want more now?” he asks, “While zac is breathing down my neck you wanna throw this at him, shall we give him a heart attack while we're at it? Stroke maybe?” he quipped, sarcasm oozing from the anger in his voice. 

You watch him rub his temples, your lip trembling slightly as he sighs, calming his emotions before he speaks. 

“We work together, y/n, this can't be anything more than casual.” He said gently, like he's trying to let you down easy, it broke your heart. 

“Its just easier.”

It was like glass shattering, your chest felt the blow as the words landed. 

“Easier...” you parroted, eyes swimming as Lando slowly realized what he'd implied, his face morphing from frustration into regret. 

You lick your lips, emotion draining from your face while your eyes dart everywhere but him. “You want easier?” you question, Lando shrugs lightly where he stands, his words failing him in fear of making this conversation fly further south.

“I will do you one better,” the coldness in your voice shook him to his core, and as you said the following words, he felt his heart shatter, “it's done.” 

 The boy's eyes went wide, breath catching in his throat. “No– what?” 

“We’re done, Lando, it's done.” you repeated, voice shaking.

His eyes met yours then, both red rimmed and wide before you turned to leave. He steps in front of you blocking the door. “y/n– baby, wait–”

He's cut off by an unpleasant ring sourced from the ceiling. 

Ambulance 81, Truck 81, Squad 4, Engine 81, Structure Fire, 7625 Silverstone Road.

You both freeze, eyes locked on each other as the bell reads out. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears as Lando opens the door slowly. 

He looks at you, eyes glassy with unleashed tears of frustration, “this conversation isn't over,” he mutters, low but firm.

“I think it is, Lando,” you respond, brushing past him as you rush to the garage. 

Your partner falls into step beside you, sensing your tension immediately. “You okay?” 

You stare forward. “Can you drive?” 

She says nothing as you hand her the keys and walk to the passenger side, slamming the door as she starts up the lights and sirens. Your ambulance led the train of first responders down the street towards the cloud of smoke gathering in the sky ahead. 

You leaned your head against your hand propped on the window, your mind still reeling from your fight with Lando. You wiped the stray tear that made it past your waterline. 

Three trucks behind you, Lando sat furious.

His silence was thick in the front seat; Max in the driver's seat slightly worried his friend had sung into a seashell and a seawitch stole his voice. This wasn't normal for him. 

Usually he was listing orders, giving everyone a job to do once they land. Leading his team in the race against time. But today, he looked like he’d rather let the stopwatch win. 

Max looks over, finding him starting dead straight at the dash. His fire helmet was held in his hands between his legs. His mind anywhere but the truck.

“You alright, mate?” He shouted over the drilling sound of the siren. 

Lando locked eyes with him, empty and cold. “Yeah, I'm fine.” 

He lied, he knew he shouldn't've. But how can he say 'my semi-girlfriend just broke up with me and now I have to run into a burning building' without causing Max to crash into a telephone pole. 

He just shrugged and looked out the window, shoving the rock in his gut further down. The community needed him, so he needed to shut up and fight a fire. 

He smells the smoke before he sees it. The tinge fills his nose as the truck makes a wide turn onto Silverstone road, he spotted the cloud instantly. The black smoke rose rapidly as civilians crowded the road, watching in horror as the house went up in flames. 

The truck halts to a stop and Lando jumps out, boots hitting the ground with a loud thud before he's shrugging his jacket on. He turns to his crew, Oscar already grabbing air tanks from the side compartment. 

“Mask up boys–” Lando orders, analyzing the flames that are spitting from the first story window. “Gonna be a long one.” he pulls his SCBA over his head, adjusting his balaclava. 

Max eyes the house before turning to Lando, skepticism written across his face. “Are you sure you wanna go in, lieutenant?” he asks, shouting over the roar of glass shattering and wood burning. 

Lando turns to him, “We have to make sure no one's inside,” he turns to his crew, pointing at Oscar and Carlos. “You two, with me on primary search.” 

They take off towards the front door, Lando's step falters when he hears a vehicle door slam shut to his right. He turns to be met with you, staring dead into him. Your eyes narrow, but he can decipher the concern hidden behind your cold gaze. 

He holds your gaze for a moment, before shaking from it, his helmet sliding atop his head.“Oi Fewtrell, you coming or what?” He yells at the man scrubbing his mask on. 

The door busts open with a satisfying boot kick. A gust of wind follows as flames lick up the walls and devour what's left of what, Lando assumes, was a living room. 

The men make their way through the foyer, passing the stairs as the first floor took priority. 

Smoke blackened out their vision as they came through, bracing their hands on the wall for any sense of direction. Carlos takes the lead, guiding the group throughout the first floor. Keeping low as they come into a engulfed hallway. 

“I’ve got one!” He bellows, spotting a body limp on the floor. A teenage boy with arms singed in burns. Carlos puts two fingers to his neck, “He’s got a pulse!” He shouts down the line. 

“You and Piastri take him to the paramedics,” Lando responds, “Fewtrell and I will continue upstairs.” 

The two men drag the young boy out past Lando and Max, reporting on the radio to Chief Brown outside. Lando continued on with Max on his heels, the pair finding their way back to the stairs. His heart was pounding as they made their way up, his gear heavy, weighing down his body. The routine hiss from his air tank whispered in his ears every time he took a breath. 

The second floor wasn’t much better, fire raging in every direction he could see. The flames screamed a warning, angry red as Lando and Max began their search. 

Coming to a closed door, he places his palm backwards against the middle, no immediate heat. Sending a nod to Max, a signal to force entry. 

“Fire department, call out!” He roared out once Max kicked in the door, finding a bedroom wrecked from an attempt to control the fire.

He dropped down, checking under the charred twin bed, nothing; behind the rocking chair, nothing. 

He turned to Max, the man shaking his head. Just when the flames gave them a moment to think, a woman's voice came from the closet. 

“Here!” She screamed out, “we’re in here!” 

They followed her voice, throwing the door open to find a mother and son huddling together under a blanket. Jumping into action, Lando assists the mother up, her wincing once she puts weight on her leg. Lando looks down to see burns, bad ones, covering her lower thigh. The skin seared through to the muscle. 

“We’ve got you guys, we're gonna get you out,” he assures as he takes her arm around his neck, helping her walk through the hallway and down the stairs. Max moves ahead with the boy in his arms, rushing him to paramedics, leaving Lando to take mom to safety. 

They're halfway down the stairs, the sunlight beaming through the smoke as the front door is in sight. But the lady suddenly braces her hand on the railing, halting their step. 

“Wait! My husband is in the kitchen; he went back for our dog!” 

Lando’s brain short circuits, of course there’s a fourth, unidentified victim. Because the universe wants to play with him today. 

“Ma’am, I'm sure he's fine–” he speaks but the lady pushes.

“No you have to find him- I can't live without him.” 

Lando could laugh at the sheer irony. But he doesn't, instead he thinks about what to do next. 

The smoke gathered at the ceiling, they were running out of time. He needed to think. C’mon Lando, think!

Then, like an angel sent from heaven, Oscar appeared through the smoke, breaking it to reveal the exit ahead. “Need some help?” he queried, taking the woman's hand. 

“She says her husband is in the kitchen, did another man come out?” Oscar shakes his head, and Lando curses behind his mask. “Okay, I’m going back, you take mom to ambo–” 

“It might be too late, lieutenant!" Oscar argues, his voice wary as Lando shakes his head. 

“I have to try!” He shouts before he's gone, leaving Oscar and the women standing in the foyer. The firefighter grumbles before taking the victim under his arm, leading her out the door. 

You watch as Oscar carries the woman to an open gurney, allowing you to jump in with an O2 mask, pressing it against her mouth as she gasps from the relief of fresh air. You dress her burns while Oscar stands by his mask hiked up on his face, eyes focused on the front door he just emerged from. 

Chief Brown stood tall on the sidewalk, watching as the fire spoke to him. Black smoke began to roll from the second floor, telling him their time was up. 

“Alright, nobody in or out, this is gonna blow,” he authorizes, turning to count his men. 

Oscar is the first to speak up, “Sir wait–” 

Time slowed down in the seconds he paused. 

“Lando’s still in there.” 

Your heart plummeted, fingers stuttering on the bandages you had just carefully wrapped. You couldn't panic yet, Lando was smart and this woman needed you to be composed.

Even if you were anything but.

Zac grumbles, hiking his radio towards his mouth, “Norris, report” booms through the surrounding radios. 

There's silence for a moment. You held your breath, all eyes watching the burning house.

The crackle came through followed by the frantic voice of Lando Norris. 

“I’ve got a victim down in the kitchen here, chief," he says, grunted and loud, shouting over the flames you imagine that surround him. 

Zac curses under his breath, bringing the radio higher, “Norris, you gotta get out of there right now.” He says firmly, leaving no room for argument.

The silence that followed made you stop, panic rising in your chest as Lando failed to respond. You watch, waiting for him to say something, anything on the radio. You took your lip between your teeth, “c’mon lando,” you mumbled to no one.

The world went silent for a moment. The eye of the hurricane, taunting you with the illusion of safety.

Then it erupted. 

There's a deafening clap as the fire flashes, an explosion of flames snapping, shattering any glass that remained. Bystanders screamed in horror as the smoke curled, black and evil like the supervillain had won. 

Oscar took off running, securing his mask before rushing inside. Despite the order of Chief Brown and multiple other firemen. 

“Piastri– Don't!" 

He disappeared into the smoke and your stomach couldn't settle what it was going to be like planning two funerals. 

You stood frozen at the ambulance, your partner taking over the care of two patients while you stood useless. Your ability to move stolen as the entire block stood in silence. 

Your eyes began to well up as the seconds ticked on, water streaming from the fire hydrants as men began to take off their helmets, all efforts to tame this fire abandoned. 

Carlos and Max stood with their hands on head, stress heaving from their bodies as they waited for a sign of life. 

Losing one firefighter was enough. Losing two would be devastating. 

You all waited anxiously, smoke still filing from the front door. Minutes ticking by, still radio silence.

You covered your mouth to muffle a sob, you think of your fight this morning. How small it now feels to have asked to be his when he was being ripped away entirely. 

You shake your head as Zac silently nods to the engine. His signal to ready the water canons, sorrow written across his face as he turns his back to the house. 

Your knees feel weak, you crouch with your head in your hands. Tears freely flowing as they prepare to fry two of your best friends alive. 

The booming voice of max is what draws you back,

“They’re coming out!”

You lift your head to see the smoke part; a man held up by two firefighters emerges, walking towards the ambulances. 

Holy shit they’re alive.

You rush with a gurney, your partner in tow to catch them. You meet them halfway, Lando's mask slightly cracked and his helmet was off centered, but he was standing, breathing here in front of you.

He fell onto your gurney before you –along with Max and Carlos– assist him in shedding his gear, holding an O2 mask to his face, coughs shaking his body as the smoke inhalation takes its toll 

“You’re okay, breathe, Lando, breathe,” you shush, voice as calm as you can make it while he gasps for air. His balaclava is toasted, revealing burns running along his neck. Your heart lodges itself in your throat as you dress them. 

Your partner shouts, taking the lead. “Alright, let's load ‘em up!”

You stay by his side as they roll him towards the ambulance, his hand searching for yours along the side rail. You link your hands instantly, squeezing his fingers tight. 

“I’m here baby, I'm here,” you assure wobbly, the boy lifts his head to look at you, tears filling his eyes in shame. 

“I’m–” he chokes out, "I'm sorry” 

You shake your head, your own tears blurring your vision. “No, Lan– none of that right now.” 

“But I–” He grunts in pain, his grip on your hand strengthening. They load him into the ambulance and you take a seat, wrapping both your hands around his. 

“It's okay,” you whisper, placing a kiss on his fingers. “Let’s just get you to the hospital, okay?” 

The paramedic hangs him an IV, informing you the sedative will kick in soon, his eyes begin to droop and you watch as the pain fades from his eyes, your heart finally beating steady again. 

Lando mumbles incoherently before he's out, his eyes meeting yours before he nods off. “M’kay,” he says, sleepy. 

What you didn't hear, lost in the chaos of sirens and potholes, was a faint “I love you” whispered before the meds pulled him under.

──── ঌ ────

At the hospital, nobody dared to speak. 

Firefighters taking up the waiting room, gear hanging over their chairs as the whole crew sat in silence. 

You were sitting in a plastic waiting room chair that gave no sense of comfort while nurses ran back and forth across the burn unit. 

The silence was deafening, you felt underwater. Sound muffled in your ears as the men around you talked amongst themselves, trying to take their mind off the boy sitting in pain somewhere within these walls.

Oscar was sat to your right, fire jacket still on, soot staining his face from the flashover he dove into to save his lieutenant from becoming a cautionary tale. 

He hasn't spoken since he emerged from the burning house, refusing to leave your side as you watched them roll Lando into the ICU. 

He didn't speak when you took a seat next to him, eyes solely focused on the floor in front of him. 

You’ve seen Lando do this before, replaying every moment of the call before it went wrong, trying to understand what he could've done differently so maybe they wouldn’t have to be sitting in the harsh light of the hospital. 

Your station was no stranger to the burn unit; in fact, you could probably name every nurse and direct anybody towards a functional vending machine, if needed. 

But it was different when you were the one waiting.

It was different when you were the one holding your breath every time a doctor came through those double doors; it felt heavier, it sat with you as the image of Lando's burned, limp body plastered itself behind your eyelids. 

You’ve had men in here before, but none of them held the weight lando did. 

You sat there for almost an hour before a nurse came out, her hair tied back perfectly in her peony pink scrubs. She locked eyes with chief brown, making your stomach drop. 

You stood as she approached; Oscar and Lily–who had recently arrived– rose beside you, everyone waiting anxiously. 

The nurse took a breath before turning towards Zac. “He sustained first-degree burns across his neck and a very small second-degree burn along his left ear, along with heavy smoke inhalation,” she began. You felt sick. “But he's going to be fine, just a few days' rest–” you stopped listening then; he was fine. 

Lando was going to be fine. 

The tears flowed before you could stop them, your breathing stuttered as you sobbed from relief. The world fading as a pair of arms–who you later realized were Oscar’s– pulled you in, holding you tight as his own eyes filled. 

The crew watched as you cried, your body shaking as Oscar held you. The nurse leaned into Zac, her brows knit together. 

“Girlfriend?” she politely asks, pointing. 

Zac tsks his lips, trying to piece together a three month long puzzle that he doesn't even have the reference for.  “Um," the man responds, “I'm not sure.” The nurse just smiles, a nod of understanding as she takes a step towards the group of firemen. 

You lift your head from Oscar's shoulder, eyes while redrimmed and wet, full of hope. 

The nurse stares directly at you when she asks, “do you want to see him?”

Lily held your hand as the crew walked through the hallways, passing hundreds of doors, waiting for Lando to be behind one of them. 

She finally paused near the end of the hallway, stopping in front of a pale beige door.

“He’s a little loopy from the pain meds we gave him, but he's alert and responsive.” She warns as the door opens with a soft click and ten firefighters along with two paramedics file inside. 

The room was spacious, though you and Lily stayed near the door. You weren't sure whether he wanted to see you, granted you weren't sure if you were ready to see him. 

“Heyyy,” his cheery voice fills the room, “there's my people!” 

Laughter fills the room as Lando motions you all to come in, a dopey smile etched across his face.

“Thought we lost ya there, pal!” Max jokes from the end of his bed, slapping his calves lightly. 

Lando just laughs, “it’ll take more than a fire to get rid of me, maxie!” 

The room was lighter, laughter and jokes filling the space. You're still leaning against the door, eyes studying his burns, predicting which will fade with time and which will become a story he tells his grandkids. 

You keep an eye on his monitor, checking his vitals like your triple checking he's alive. 

“Got burned pretty good there, cabron," Carlos says, pointing to his ear. 

Lando just pushes air through his lips, waving his hand in dismissal while he shakes his hand, his curls shaking with him. 

“No– guys,” he drawls, those meds must be amazing, "I'm fine, promise!” He declares sitting up straighter, playing into the bit. You watch his eyes scan the room as the room continues to converse, as if he was searching for someone. 

“He's looking for you,” Lily whispers next to you and you snap your neck towards her. 

You lean further into the wall, slightly hoping it would swallow you whole. You haven't forgotten this morning, and you were unsure if you and Lando stood on solid ground. 

The last thing you wanted was to overwhelm him in a hospital bed, but fate seemed to disagree.

“Alright crew, let's leave your lieutenant to rest.” Zac announces after a while, motioning towards the door. His eyes lock with you. “I'm sure he doesn't need you smelly lot crowding him” he finishes as the crew begin to exit. 

Zac stops in front of you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You're done for today, stay with him,” he says low, your eyes widened before sending him a grateful smile, nodding. Patting your shoulder, he follows the crew out the door. 

The door shuts softly, leaving you and Lando alone. The rhythmic beating of his heart monitors ground you to this moment, drinking him in as he notices your hesitation to come closer. 

He looked so small lying in that hospital bed, his tan skin glowing against the harsh white sheets. His hair askew from nurses adjusting his bandages. You hated it. You hated seeing him in this state. 

It reminded you of how real your job is, how quickly the world can take something you love away. 

He slowly reaches his hand out– his palm facing up– inviting you to take his hand. 

“C’mere,” he says softly, eyes pouring into yours like the only thing that mattered was you. You take a seat in the chair by his bed, placing your hand in his, sighing at the feeling of his fingers between yours. 

You feel yourself choke up, lip wobbling while your eyes swell. “You really scared me,” you say, voice shaking. His thumb rubs soothing circles on your knuckles.

 “I know,” he exhales, turning his head towards the window, looking out over the sunkissed city. “I’m so sorry.” 

The silence was full between you, not awkward– but thick. Waiting for someone to speak, you stayed with your hand in his as he searched for his words. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was small.

“All I could think about,” he murmurs, looking down at his lap, “during those moments, was how I would never see you again.” 

Your eyes rose to meet his, the world fading away to leave just you and him, together. 

“How I would never get to have a life with you,” he continued, his heart picked up. “We’d never get to do everything I planned.” 

You paused, tilting your chin, “what did you have planned?” 

He smiled, thinking for a moment.“I was gonna talk to Zac,” he starts, “y’know, get his blessing,” he adds quickly, you let out a laugh. 

“Then I was gonna take you somewhere special, ask you properly.” 

You listen, digesting his words as he pours his heart to you. Laying himself bare before you, he squeezes your hand three times. 

“I wasn't with you because you were easy,” he said, you feel your stomach twist.  “You make everything lighter,” he utters, tears flowing down both of your cheeks. “Just by being you, your smile, your laugh, that little scrunch of your nose you do when you concentrate,” he confesses, your heart doing somersaults in its chest cavity. 

“You’ve always caught me when I fell, showed me what it was like to be loved.” he states. Your fingers trembling in his hand. 

“What are you saying, Lando?” you sniffle, wiping your tears. 

“I want everything, I want to take you on dates, I want to kiss you in my quarters without having to check if the blinds are drawn,” he lists, his eyes never leaving yours. “I love you so much, I can’t hide it anymore” he confesses, and your heart breaks open. You smile, warm and bright as he mirrors your expression, his tooth gap on full display. 

“You love me?” you question quietly, “it would be hard not to” he says, eyes bright and full of hope. 

“I love you, too,” you respond, and he somehow smiles wider, his dimples shifting even higher to meet the crease of his eyes. 

“Yeah?” he asks, sitting up as you nod, tugging your hand slightly. “Can I kiss you now?” his eyes begging you to come closer. 

You hesitate, not wanting to crowd his burns. But he pulls out those puppy dog eyes, pouting his lip and your defence weakens. Heart melting when your lips brush across his in a sweet kiss. 

He pulls you into bed with him, letting you lie on his chest. Careful of his IV and other monitor wires. His chin rests on your hair as he holds you tight. 

“So, no more casual?” you say lightly, and tilt your chin to face him. His eyes are serious before he kisses you deeply. Lips sealing over yours as you sigh into him. 

“There was never anything casual about this,” he mumbles against your lips, his thumb rubbing up and down your cheekbones. 

You smile before returning to your previous position, your head resting just above his heartbeat. A steady thud that brings you back to your stolen moments by the laundry machines. 

And when Zac Brown returns at the end of shift to find you both sound asleep, limbs tangled with one another in the small hospital bed, he doesn’t say anything, he just smiles and quietly retreats out the door. 

biting at the bars of my cage. foaming at the mouth.

Leaning against the hallway lockers, you listen as Max Verstappen, captain of the hockey team, says something that earns him a small bite of your lip. Beside him stands Lando Norris, his teammate, who's spent far too long watching Destiny cling to your arm with a look that can't possibly mean anything good.

They're funny. They're handsome. Everything is going well. The conversation is actually heading somewhere you enjoy, not because it's serious. It isn't. But a girl is allowed to indulge in a little harmless fun, isn't she?

"I just ran into the teacher. He's on his way," says a voice you know far too well from behind you.

Both boys abandon the conversation the second Oscar Piastri appears, greeting him with handshakes and pats on the back as if you and your girl had never been part of it to begin with.

Friends. Of course. As if it made perfect sense that the two hottest guys at school would hang out with... him.

He glances at you and Destiny standing side by side, raising an eyebrow as though he'd only just noticed either of you existed. Oscar offers a brief nod in greeting, and you can tell by the look on his face that he's only doing it because some deeply ingrained sense of politeness refuses to let him do otherwise.

Well, thanks for the consideration, Oscar.

You roll your eyes.

"Come on," you say, reaching for Destiny's hand. She nods in agreement.

On your way to class, you tug gently on Alex's blazer sleeve. She'd been making out with Charles in the gap between the lockers, but she peels herself away with a small smile, wiping the corner of her mouth before falling into step beside you. He stays behind, taking a moment to compose himself.

Class is about to begin.

Everyone heads to their usual seats.

As you pass the teacher's desk, you toss your bubblegum into the trash and, without breaking stride, gather your hair into a messy bun. You hold out a hand without even looking; right on cue, Alex drops a glitter pen into your palm, and you slide it through your hair to keep everything in place.

Perfect.

The chatter in the classroom carries on. The boys are already seated on one side, you girls on the other, and the moment the teacher walks in, Lando flashes the three of you a wink, sending the entire group into quiet giggles, hands flying up to hide your smiles.

"I have a feeling something very amusing is going on," Professor Webber says, setting his materials down on the desk. "If anyone would like to share, now's the time."

"Lando, sir," Destiny replies. "He's very funny."

A few more students laugh, Lando included.

"A joke, Lando? I'd love to hear it," he says.

"No joke, sir. But I can wink at you too, if you'd like," Lando replies, doing exactly what he just offered.

The room erupts into laughter once again, but Professor Webber simply smiles and shakes his head before turning to write the date on the chalkboard.

"Very kind of you, Lando. I'm deeply touched by the gesture. Now..." he says, pointing the piece of chalk at the class. "Good morning, everyone. Shall we begin?”

In the seat in front of Lando, Oscar glances over at Destiny and wrinkles his nose, pulling a rather ridiculous face before turning back to the board.

You shake your head, resting your chin on your hand as you wonder how some people can be so unpleasant just for the fun of it.

The final bell rang overhead, and plans were already being made as backpacks were slung over shoulders, baseball caps were pulled on, and sticks of gum were passed between friends.

"We should do that candy salad trend tonight," Alex said as the three of you stepped through the classroom door. "I'll buy those new strawberry marshmallows. Destiny can bring the grape lollipops, and you..."

But she was cut off when Charles appeared outside the classroom, slipped an arm around her waist, and pulled her toward him. You and Destiny rolled your eyes in perfect sync, though you couldn't help smiling when Alex let out a surprised little squeal.

"She's mine now, girls," Charles announced, already walking away with her.

Alex laughed, barely bothering to resist as she intertwined her fingers with his.

"You bring the M&M's!" she called over her shoulder, letting him tug her down the hallway.

You give her a thumbs-up and watch her disappear down the hallway before turning toward the lockers with Destiny. There's no point lingering either. By now, Alex is probably already halfway to the parking lot!

"I think their relationship is so cute," Destiny says, punching in the combination almost from muscle memory as you do the same. "I'd love to have something like that someday."

A soft laugh slips past your lips. You glance at her over the edge of your locker door before turning back, pulling the glitter pen from your hair so you can fix it in the little mirror stuck inside.

"You'll find it," you say with certainty, giving the locker door a gentle push until it clicks shut. "Until then, we'll just have to settle for being the prettiest single girls in the entire school.”

Slowly, she turns to face you with a smile, holding out her pinky. You hook yours around it without hesitation, the same silent little ritual the three of you came up with years ago.

For a moment, neither of you lets go.

"Okay, okay. I should get going now. The girls are waiting for me," she says at last, leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek.

You wrinkle your nose, laughing quietly as you shoo her away with a wave. Destiny laughs too, adjusts the soccer bag on her shoulder, and finally breaks into a run, calling one last goodbye over her shoulder.

With a contented sigh, — because, really, how nice was it that your two favorite girls in the world were on their way to their own little moments of happiness? — you finally turn to head home.

The hallway is still fairly crowded. Students chat as locker doors slam shut, teachers hurry toward the parking lot, and you're too distracted to pay much attention. Your phone is tucked away in your pocket, and you pull it out to remind your dad that he still has to pick you up since your car's in the shop.

You're almost through the exit when your forehead bumps into… Someone's back.

Slowly, your gaze lifts to figure out why anyone would be standing right in the middle of the doorway. Of course. Of course it's Oscar. Of fucking course.

"I hope you realize you're not intangible," you say, irritation creeping into your voice.

Oscar mutters something unintelligible, something along the lines of, "Mm-hm." Your eyebrow arches. Apparently, you're not even worth eye contact.

"Hello? Excuse you?" you protest, planting your hands on your hips.

Without looking at you, he says,

"I hope you realize there's plenty of room around me.”

Oh. You see what he did there, the idiot.

You glance to the side. Technically, he's right. The doorway is wide. There's plenty of space. Still…

"And you do realize you're standing exactly where people are supposed to walk, right?" you shoot back in the same insolent tone, deliberately mimicking his. "I don't know if you can read, but it says Exit right there."

Oscar tips his head back to inspect the sign overhead, his brow knitting together in a performance of mock surprise that exists for the sole purpose of irritating you. A second later, his eyes find yours again as he turns to face you properly.

"Funny. I must've missed the announcement that Mrs. Becker retired and they'd hired a new hall monitor," he says, perfectly composed.

A slow breath slips out through your nose as you straighten your posture, lifting your chin.

"Oscar, you're blocking the way."

The corner of his mouth tugs into a faint smile.

"Oh. So the princess knows my name.”

You let out an irritated huff, clench your fists, and meet his gaze head-on. Oscar pouts for a second, a ridiculous little imitation of someone about to cry, before the smile is gone as quickly as it appeared. Your jaw tightens.

You march through the open space beside him, each step just a little heavier than the last.

Oscar watches you walk away for a moment, one eyebrow raised as he slowly shakes his head, then he goes right back to whatever he was doing.

That night, comfortably settled into your pajamas with face masks on, you, Alex, and Destiny are in the middle of one of your games. It's basically Truth or Dare, except there are no dares, just gossip, and then even more gossip about the same things you've been talking about for years.

Alex, who's painting Destiny's nails, blows softly on one foot before gently pulling the other into her lap to start on the next.

"We need to know when your next game is, Desty," you say, taking another sip from the can of strawberry Poppi in your hands. "We have to look like actual cheerleaders! The outfits we ordered in the team colors should be here any day now."

Alex nods, brushing the first coat of nail polish onto Destiny's toes.

"That's true! The boys were really excited. Charles said they watched your practices, and you guys have a really good chance of beating that other school full of losers."

A huge smile spreads across Destiny's face.

"Probably sometime next month. Coach is still sorting out the schedule and said she'd let us know. We've been training like it's tomorrow, though," Destiny replies, reaching for your Poppi. You hand it over without a second thought. "Did you hear Oscar joined the hockey team?"

Ugh. She just had to bring him into the conversation.

You climb off the bed and make your way over to the vanity, settling into the fluffy chair as you slowly peel off your face mask. It had done its job.

"And what exactly does he know about sports?" you ask, your tone as insolent as ever whenever his name comes up. "I thought the only things he cared about were knowing when teachers are about to walk into class and getting Aristotle's autograph.”

That earns a loud laugh from Destiny.

Alex buries her face against her own shoulder, squeezing her eyes shut as though she's desperately trying to hold back a particularly wicked laugh.

A small, satisfied smile tugs at your lips.

"I think he's just trying to add one more thing to his résumé. You know... the whole college thing," Alex says, still smiling to herself as she goes back to painting Destiny's nails.

One of your eyebrows arches. You reach for the moisturizer.

"Besides, Oscar looked over at you a few times during class today with that same disgusted expression, you know," she adds.

"That's true," Destiny chimes in. "He keeps looking over at us. He's not even ugly, to be honest..."

Your response is a look of utter disgust as you slowly smooth the moisturizer over your face with your fingertips.

"I think he's an ill-mannered, clueless brute whose favorite hobby is getting on my nerves," you say, rubbing moisturizer into your cheeks.

Alex and Destiny exchange a look, the corners of their mouths curling into the same quiet smile before they both look away. They have a habit of doing that, and for some reason, it almost always seems to be about you.

"Nah, he's not rude," Alex says softly, blowing on Destiny's nails as though it might somehow help them dry faster before looking up at you from beneath her brows. "And you know that."

Your silence is more than incriminating, but they don't press the issue, and neither do you. You're too busy taking the clips out of your bangs. Your peace, however, lasts all of two seconds.

"I've been thinking about something," Alex says, screwing the lids back onto the nail polish bottles as casually as if the thought had just crossed her mind.

A low grumble escapes the back of your throat. Behind the phone she's now scrolling through, Destiny lets out an amused little snort through her nose. Alex, completely unfazed, continues as though nothing had happened.

"Do you remember when we were talking about the hottest guys at school?" Alex asks, catching your eyes in the vanity mirror.

You blink.

"Yeah...?"

"You said you could get any one of them to do whatever you wanted."

"Ooh..." Destiny murmurs, shifting into a cross-legged position on the bed.

"Okay... and?" you ask, spinning the chair around to face Alex.

"You're so convinced Oscar hates you, and that you hate him," Alex says with a shrug, a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I don't think you could be nice to him long enough to convince him to come cheer for Destiny at the game..."

You almost think she's finished, but then she narrows her eyes.

"...wearing our team's colors.”

A brief silence follows as the image slowly takes shape in your head. Once it does, it's so utterly ridiculous that you throw your head back, laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep inside you.

Alex had officially lost her mind.

The only problem was that Destiny seemed to have lost hers too, because she was nodding so enthusiastically, smiling at Alex as though she'd just come up with the greatest idea in human history.

"There's no way you two are being serious," you say, the grin slowly fading into a look of utter disbelief.

Alex's smile turns positively mischievous. Destiny mirrors it, resting her chin on Alex's shoulder to create an image that will probably haunt you for the rest of your life.

You let out a slow breath.

"I can convince him to come to Destiny's game, even if I don't understand why she'd want him there in the first place," you say, looking from one amused face to the other. Your eyes roll for what feels like the hundredth time. "Being nice to him? That's another story.”

"We can work with that," Alex says. "But if you actually manage to get him to wear our team's colors..."

Destiny doesn't even let her finish.

"We'll pay for your matcha for the entire next month.”

Oh...

Oh.

That was a low blow.

Mean girls. Mean, mean girls... They knew exactly what they were doing.

"You... you're exploiting a very serious addiction," you say, pouting so dramatically it borders on childish.

They both stare at you hopefully.

You clap a hand over your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut.

"I'lltrytogetOscartowearDestiny'steamcolors," you mumble in one muffled, impossibly fast breath.

They understand every word.

The very next second, the three of you are bouncing on the bed in a blur of squeals, hugs, and candy flying in every direction.

It doesn't take long before you start wondering whether matcha is really as good as you remember. And, naturally, questioning a few other life choices while you're at it.

Your friends are gathered on the other side of the cafeteria. You can hear Yuki laughing from here, and George looks one step away from a breakdown trying to figure out why Charles has that stupid I'm definitely hiding something look on his face.

From across the room, Destiny and Alex catch your eye, both smiling as they wave you over.

Then they look past you.

Oscar. Right there.

Alone, because Lando's serving detention and Max is off talking to the coach about... something.

You look back at Alex and Destiny, your shoulders slumping into a grimace.

They respond with silent little claps and two enthusiastic thumbs-ups.

Ugh. Fine.

You straighten your posture, put on your brightest smile, and, with the soft click-clack of your low heels echoing across the cafeteria, make your way to Oscar's table. Ten steps. They might as well be eighty.

After one particularly dramatic sigh, you chirp, "Good morning!”

Oscar looks up at you halfway through a mouthful of peanuts, his cheeks puffed out just enough to make him look like a squirrel. He immediately covers his mouth, his brows knitting together.

You remain completely unfazed. Sliding into the seat beside him, you set your tray down on the table without so much as asking for permission.

He slowly finishes chewing and swallows, his brow still furrowed.

"...Did I miss something?”

Your smile widens in a way that's just a little too suspicious, and your hand reaches for your wrapped chicken wrap. The laugh that escapes you is unmistakably fake.

"Hahaha... Oh, Oscar, you're so silly! I'm having lunch with you, duh," you say, unwrapping it.

His gaze flicks to the shrinking distance between the two of you. Without a word, he subtly scoots his tray a little farther away.

Your smile stiffens. It doesn't disappear.

"I don't think I invited you to have lunch with me," he says, lifting one eyebrow before reaching for his juice. "No offense."

You take another bite of your wrap.

"Is that illegal?" you ask around the bite, quickly covering your mouth with your hand.

His gaze sweeps across the cafeteria before settling on your friends' table. Alex and Destiny, who'd been watching the two of you with absolutely no shame, abruptly pretend to be in the middle of a conversation. You simply shake your head in disappointment.

"I think there are people over there who'd love to have lunch with you," he says, gesturing toward them with his chin. "You have... friends."

You set your wrap down on the table and fix him with a narrowed look.

"What's with the hesitation?”

He raises a hand between the two of you in a silent one second, taking his time finishing the last of his juice.

"Why aren't you sitting with them?" Oscar asks, setting his empty cup on the tray. A tiny smile lingers at the corner of his mouth because, naturally, he's doing this on purpose.

Again.

Every conversation with Oscar makes you feel noticeably less intelligent. Which is rather impressive, considering he's supposedly the smartest boy in school with his endless list of championships in... whatever it is. Math. Science. Robotics. Programming...

Anyway.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, take a deep breath, and meet his gaze again.

Rather than answer, you tilt your head.

"Do you like sports, Oscar?"

His brow furrows even deeper.

"...What does that have to do with anything?”

Your shoulders lift in a small shrug.

"It's a yes-or-no question. Do you?"

He doesn't even hesitate.

"No.”

"Liar. You're on the hockey team."

Oscar pauses, his lower lip caught between his teeth for a brief moment. He blinks.

"Have you been stalking me?"

A little "Pff." slips out before you can stop it, accompanied by a small smile and a shake of your head.

"We have mutual friends, in case you hadn't noticed," you reply, resting your elbows on the table. "People tell me things."

Oscar nods, rubbing at the corner of one eye as a quiet chuckle escapes him.

"They clearly have questionable judgment."

"Shut up," you say at once, quickly changing the subject as you lace your fingers together and rest your chin on top of them. "Oscar, the girls' soccer game is coming up. Are you going?”

"Why would I?"

"Because..." You gesture vaguely with one hand. "It's fun. It's a school event. Everyone's going."

"I don't know." Oscar shrugs. "I think I'll be busy that day."

"You don't even know when it is."

Oscar lets out the most theatrical fake sneeze you've ever heard.

"Wow. I think I'm coming down with something already."

He stands, picking up his tray. You roll your eyes.

"It's not until next month."

"A month-long flu." He nods gravely. "Tragic. I could die.”

You spring to your feet, fists balled at your sides, your expression bordering on desperation as you scramble for something, anything, to say.

Oh!

"I'm going!” you announce with a bright smile, as though that alone might be enough to convince him.

His eyes drift to you. One second… Two… Then a laugh slips out, surprisingly loud, at least by Oscar's standards.

"All right," he says, turning his back to you. "I'm pretty sure it's pneumonia..."

By the time you lift a hand to call after him, Oscar is already halfway to the tray return.

Damn.

Your gaze drifts across the cafeteria until it finds Alex and Destiny. They look at you expectantly, silently asking “Well?”. One look at the pout on your face is enough. They know it went horribly wrong.

You narrow your eyes at Oscar's retreating figure.

Oh, he wants a tragic problem? He just got one.

By four in the afternoon the next day, Oscar realized he was far beyond exhausted.

Learning how to skate wasn't the problem. His sisters had been using him as their skating partner ever since he was old enough, and just the right height, to accompany them to the skating rink at the mall. The problem was... hockey.

Skating from one end of the rink to the other with a stick, chasing a puck while trying to remember the team's strategy, all in enormous, heavy boots with literal knives strapped to the bottom. And, somehow, everyone else is wearing the same knives.

It seems like an extraordinary amount of effort to stay involved in an activity that could very easily kill you if you stop paying attention. Oscar couldn't help wondering whether anyone had ever considered that.

Either way, he wasn't doing particularly well. He'd fallen. More than once. One of those falls had earned him a nasty scrape just above his left eyebrow, now covered by a bandage. Max, standing beside him, insists it gives him a badass look. Oscar, meanwhile, thinks it looks rather pathetic. He decides to keep that to himself.

Lando was... everywhere. Tracking him with his eyes felt like an impossible task.

"Come on, Piastri! Life isn't just books and laptops..." the coach shouted from across the rink, blowing his whistle every now and then.

This guy… Oscar hated him. More than once, he had the overwhelming urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Why did he have to yell all the time?

With a few more steady strides, Oscar nudged the puck forward with his stick. Lando picked it up farther down the rink and the look he shot him wasn't intimidating. It was more of a Come on, you've got this.

Oscar chose to take it as encouragement.

Squaring his shoulders, he was just about to take the shot when… The coach's whistle shrieked across the rink.

Oscar nearly fell over from the fright. Jesus Christ.

"I'm heading out for lunch. You can stay and keep practicing, but try not to kill yourselves," the coach called.

Us? Oscar thought. You're the one trying to kill us. Lando was practically shaking with laughter, while Max simply shook his head.

"He's always like that, Osc. Don't let him get to you," Max said.

The laughter was still written all over Lando's face as he skated the puck back toward them, casually nudging it along with his stick. As ridiculous as he could be, it was genuinely impressive how Lando managed to do that without looking like he was one second away from having a stroke, unlike Oscar.

"He was nice enough to let us have this private practice, though," Lando said, nodding toward the goal. "Ready?”

Oscar tightened his grip on the stick and gave a small nod.

"Yeah. Let's go.”

From that point on, things actually went well.

Oscar wouldn't say he was a natural at it — Max wouldn't say that either — but he was dedicated. Attentive.

For someone who'd never imagined he'd find himself on a hockey rink, the progress was actually quite promising.

It wasn't that Oscar hated sports. He simply preferred watching them to playing them.

Oscar belonged with the school's academic crowd, one of the minds people naturally gravitated toward whenever they needed help. He enjoyed spending time with the robotics club, helping out with the debate team, and even volunteering as a tutor during detention, assisting the teacher.

Funny what the promise of an athletic scholarship can do to a person.

His balance had improved considerably, and his shot was surprisingly good — good enough to earn an enthusiastic round of applause from Lando. He could've kept practicing for another hour without complaint. That is, if one very specific figure hadn't appeared at the very top of the bleachers.

The door swung open without warning.

The three boys looked up in unison, curiosity giving way to a synchronized blink as you walked in.

Without the slightest concern for the attention you'd just attracted, you strolled over to the bleachers and settled into what you decided was the perfect seat. You rested your elbows on your knees and cupped your chin in your hands.

"Oh, hi, boys!" you said brightly. "Don't stop on my account."

Max was the first to react, gliding over to the glass that separated the rink from the stands.

"You know we're in the middle of a private practice, right?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

You casually adjusted your bangs, your smile widening as though he'd just paid you a compliment.

"I love private practices."

Instantly, Oscar felt exhausted all over again. Naturally, the Pink Panther had decided to show up and make things difficult. Fantastic.

Oscar skated over to Max and met your eyes with a look that couldn't have been more impatient. He was much too tired for... whatever this was.

"Don't you have a mall to go to? Or a salon appointment?" he asked, letting out a tired sigh. "Seriously, I need to focus, and having an audience isn't going to help."

"Oh, Osc, but I'm a great audience!" you said.

Lando immediately skated over to Max, leaning in to whisper,

"Did she just call him 'Osc'?"

Oscar, however, remained entirely unimpressed.

"Whatever," Oscar muttered irritably before skating back toward the middle of the rink.

Slowly, Max trailed after him, glancing back at you with an almost sympathetic look.

It was genuinely impressive how reliably you managed to get on Oscar's nerves. He'd give you that.

It had been this way for years. All the way back to when his family moved from Australia, when he and his sisters were still kids. Oscar couldn't quite remember the exact moment you became so insufferable, but he couldn't remember a time he'd ever thought you were particularly pleasant either. Lando and Max liked you, though, and apparently that meant you were always somewhere nearby.

Ridiculous.

Now he had to focus on skating the right lines while doing his best to concentrate without the arena lights reflecting off your million little gold accessories and blinding him every few seconds. What were you even doing here, anyway?

"Has she left yet?" Oscar asked, glancing at Lando.

Lando looked up, waved at you, and broke into a wide grin when you happily waved back, the bracelets on your wrist clinking together with a metallic jingle that made Oscar take a slow, steady breath.

"No, mate. She's writing something," Lando replied, resting his hands on his hips. "Just ignore her. Don't let her intimidate you."

Intimidate, pff. Oscar let out a quiet snort and settled back into position.

Max had the faintest smile on his face, but he didn't say anything. He simply pointed at Oscar.

Oscar nodded and started.

He knew how to focus. He knew how to concentrate.

Glide. Glide. Glide… Shoot.

Okay.

The puck landed close enough to the goal this time.

"Not bad, champ," Max said with an approving nod. "You just need a little more power behind it, but the accuracy's there."

Max glanced up toward the stands, then looked back at his friends.

"Break?"

Oscar nearly snapped his neck nodding.

Lando didn't waste a second before skating off toward the locker room as fast as he could. Max followed close behind, laughing as he caught him by the arm to keep him from wiping out when they reached the edge of the rink, the two of them already arguing about the upcoming scrimmage.

Letting out a long breath, Oscar made his way over to the players' bench along the boards and sat down, if only to give himself a moment to recover. For exactly three seconds, he managed the rare feat of thinking about absolutely nothing before tugging off his gloves, one finger at a time.

Everything was so strangely peaceful, so wonderfully quiet that, for a moment, he almost forgot that...

"So?" Your voice, far too bright and cheerful, cut through the silence, reminding him that you were, in fact, real. And right there.

Oscar reached beneath the bench for his water bottle and took a sip, deciding that if he ignored you long enough, you might simply disappear.

You took two small steps closer.

"I came to watch your practice!" you announced, clasping your hands behind your back.

He looked at you out of the corner of one eye, making no effort to turn around.

"I noticed," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Great." Your smile somehow grew even brighter. "I have something for you. Look!"

You finally brought your hand out from behind your back. A folded sheet of paper. Oscar eyed it for a moment before taking it with his free hand.

"So... Destiny's really excited about the game, and it would be really nice if everyone could—"

You had barely begun before Oscar cut you off.

"I'm not interested in Destiny."

You stopped so abruptly that all you could do was blink at him in complete confusion.

"...What?”

Interpreting your reaction as offense (because, really, only you could manage to look offended that someone didn't want to kiss your friend) Oscar set his water bottle aside and continued.

"You interrupted my lunch and my practice to talk about her two days in a row," he pointed out with a shrug. "I don't want to be rude. Destiny seems really nice, and... well, I don't know if flattered is the right word, but I'm fine if she likes me. I just don't feel the same way."

A small, almost apologetic smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, the kind people wore when they genuinely believed they were being reasonable. And you… You simply couldn't believe what you were hearing.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, shaking your head.

"Oscar, I'm just inviting you to the game. Destiny doesn't want to kiss you."

A faint frown appeared between his brows.

Oscar didn't say another word. He didn't acknowledge the misunderstanding or try to explain himself. He looked at you, then at the paper in his hand and let the silence linger for a second longer. When every trace of tension softened from his expression, he finally said,

"I'll think about it.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, shooting him a mildly annoyed look. That wasn't exactly the answer you'd been hoping for.

"Hm... can't you think about it now?" you asked, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "We're having a party afterward, and I'm putting together the guest list and everything..."

Oscar let out a huff through his nose, his smile returning in full force as he reached for his gloves on the bench and slipped them back on. Max and Lando were already gliding back onto the rink.

"I said I'll think about it," he replied.

Leaving you standing there with no comeback and a tiny pout, Oscar skated back onto the ice to rejoin practice. But not before glancing over his shoulder… and letting out a quiet laugh.

By the time you got home and threw yourself onto the living room rug, taking full advantage of the rare moment of solitude while everyone else was still at work, you barely had time to process what a disaster your second attempt at convincing Oscar to come to the game had been.

You grabbed your phone and immediately called Alex and Destiny.

"Hiiiii, gorgeous!" Alex greeted cheerfully.

Before either of them could steer the conversation in a completely different direction, you beat them to it.

"We need to plan a party after Destiny's game."

"...What?!" Destiny asked, completely bewildered.

You stretched out an arm to grab the cushion from the couch and pulled it against your chest.

"Yeah... well... I may or may not have crashed Oscar's hockey practice today and invited him to the game by casually mentioning we'd be having a party afterward as a persuasion tactic..." you admitted sheepishly. "And I know throwing together a party at the last minute is a lot of work, but just hear me out..."

"You crashed Oscar's practice?!" Destiny exclaimed.

Somehow, you knew she was still blinking in disbelief on the other end of the call.

"Wait, wait, wait. Start from the beginning, please," Alex said, making you take a deep breath before letting out a dramatically fake whine.

But of course you told them. That was the whole reason you'd called in the first place.

You started from the very beginning, explaining how the idea had popped into your head, how you'd asked the student coordinator if he knew where Oscar was, how he'd pointed you toward the hockey rink, and everything that happened after that — all the way up to Oscar saying he'd think about it.

Granted, you'd had to resort to some rather creative tactics. Namely, inventing a party that now actually had to happen because it had become part of the plan...

Alex and Destiny, however, didn't seem particularly impressed.

Well... except for the part where Oscar had convinced himself Destiny had a crush on him. That earned a few laughs and several incredulous grimaces.

"Okay," Alex said at last. "We're planning this party."

"Yeah, it could be fun," Destiny agreed. "If everything goes well, we'll celebrate. If everything goes terribly..."

"Nothing's going terribly. Don't jinx it," Alex cut in, sounding thoroughly offended.

You let out a long, relieved sigh, followed by the biggest smile. Outside, your parents' car doors slammed shut, and you quickly sat up to peek through the gap in the curtains.

"Girls, I love you. Seriously. Thank you," you said, pouting at your phone. "My parents just got home, so I have to go."

"Love you too, troublemaker," Alex replied with a quiet laugh. "Bye-bye, loves."

"Bye, cuties! Kisses!"

Beep. The call ended.

You had a whole lot to think about.

Being alone in the library the following afternoon wasn't exactly how you'd wanted to spend your day, but life isn't all flowers, matcha, and parties.

Midterms were just around the corner, and you'd sentenced yourself to a few hours without friends or fun because... damn it. This stupid physics just refused to stick.

Party planning had already begun that morning. The three of you had spent every free moment inviting as many people as possible, earning yourselves a scolding in the middle of English class for whispering far too loudly.

Unfortunately for your teachers, organizing parties — or organizing just about anything, really — was Alex's favorite pastime, so she never missed an opportunity to flip through the color-coded planner she'd created inside her binder.

But that wasn't the only thing on your to-do list. Unfortunately. Very unfortunately.

The stack of books kept growing by the minute, and your notes somehow made less sense the longer you stared at them. All you wanted to do was give up, leave everything right there, and do literally anything else. Even the community yoga classes your mom taught for the elderly at the park were starting to sound appealing. They even had afternoon tea afterward... Ugh.

Calculations. Calculations. Calculations. Formulas. Formulas. Formulas... Vectors, and some weird symbol you didn't even recognize… Before long, the ends of your hair became far more interesting than physics. Then the tiny fly that landed beside your book. Then the couple kissing behind one of the bookshelves. Your pen kept wandering across the page all the while. Who on earth was that?

There was just... so much... So much...

…

…

…

By the time Oscar walked into the library, it was nearly empty. He needed to pick up a book for one of his classes and, if he got lucky, maybe find something to read for fun too. God knew he'd earned it after everything his body had been put through over the past few days.

There was no doubt Oscar knew the library like the back of his hand. He spent an absurd amount of time there, whether he was reading, studying, or simply passing the time. It was quiet. Conversations were frowned upon. Peace. That was what he liked most about it, and it was one of the few places where he could almost always find it.

It took him all of two and a half minutes to find the books he wanted and make his way toward the end of the aisle. But when he turned toward the study tables, he spotted a very familiar figure bundled up in an oversized green sweatshirt, her hair spilled across a mess of notes... asleep.

Without making much of it, Oscar quietly walked over. He looked at you, then lowered his gaze to the sheet of paper tangled between your fingers. Trying not to make any noise, he set the books he'd been carrying on the empty side of the table.

Carefully, he eased the paper from your grasp, the cool brush of your fingertips against his making him pause for the briefest moment. The air conditioning was probably turned up too high.

You let out a slightly deeper breath, making him pause, but when he realized you were still fast asleep, he gently pulled the page the rest of the way free.

It was a page of formulas from the first few weeks of physics. Judging by the frustrated scribbles covering it, you were nowhere near understanding how any of it worked. But it was all so simple…

He'd listened to Lando complain about physics for what felt like hours on end, and somehow that had been how they'd become friends, but he hadn't realized it was this difficult. No wonder Lando, you, and half the class seemed to be struggling. The overall understanding of the subject was... disastrous.

Oscar reached for your pink-barreled pen, which, rather surprisingly, wrote in blue ink, and turned the sheet over to the blank side.

Casting one last glance at you, Oscar gave a small shake of his head before quietly getting to work.

Step by step, he rewrote the formula, breaking it down and adding little notes wherever he thought they might help, making everything as clear as he possibly could, the same way he always did during the tutoring sessions he volunteered for after school. He reached for your pencil case. There was one more thing he wanted to explain, but he couldn't find what he needed. Didn't you have any sticky notes?

As he searched through it, something slipped out of your pencil case. Oscar caught it before it hit the table.

He blinked.

Heart-shaped Post-its.

He honestly wasn't sure what he'd expected. With another quiet sigh, he peeled one off the pad and scribbled a few helpful shortcuts on them. By the end, he stuck them neatly across the top of the page.

Just as you let out a sleepy yawn, Oscar decided he'd done enough. Maybe, with all the notes he'd left behind, you wouldn't do quite so badly on that week's exam. It had helped him review a few things too. Nice.

He set your pen back down on the table. Then he noticed a tiny line of drool at the corner of your mouth and pulled a face. Not out of disgust. More out of amusement. You really did seem a lot more at peace like this. It was weird, but... it was okay.

With the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, Oscar left the library, his books tucked under one arm, leaving you behind with your notes and your deep sleep.

"I'm telling you, I have no idea who did this!" you exclaimed to your friends as the three of you sat around one of the stone picnic tables in the school's courtyard.

Spread out between you were the miraculous notes that had appeared sometime that afternoon while you'd been asleep in the library.

Alex munched on the carrot sticks and green beans from her lunch container as she studied the page with a thoughtful frown.

"Do you think it's a girl's handwriting or a guy's?" she asked before biting into another carrot.

Destiny, who was practically lying across the table, leaned in even closer.

"This is the most androgynous handwriting I've ever seen. Seriously..." she murmured, squinting at the page.

You shrugged and picked the paper back up, bringing it closer to your face. A faint scent still lingered on it. Soft. Slightly woody. You couldn't quite place it, but if you had to guess… It smelled like something a boy would wear. A very good-smelling boy.

"Doesn't matter," you said dreamily, swinging your legs beneath the bench. "They're my guardian angel. There's no way I'm failing that exam now. If teachers always explained things like this…”

The three of you laughed. You smiled to yourself and slipped the page back into your binder. Ever since yesterday, you'd been protecting that little sheet of paper like it was your most prized possession, handling it with absurd care.

"I have to admit, whoever wrote these put an impressive amount of thought into explaining everything," Alex said, finally snapping the lid back onto her container of vegetables before tucking it into her bag. "But anyway, you still need to update us on your little Oscar adventure. And the game."

Your grimace was immediate, earning a knowing smile from Destiny, who rested her cheek in one hand as she took the party planner Alex held out to her.

"I think I've already told you everything," you said with a disappointed sigh. "He said he'd think about it. So... I'm waiting for him to think.”

Alex nodded.

"And what about the part where you're supposed to be nice to him?" Destiny added.

You rolled your eyes.

"I am being nice." You pulled the planner closer, scooting in beside Destiny so the two of you could look over the party details together. "Super nice. Really nice. Mega nice."

Your finger drifted down the guest list before stopping on the neat little check mark beside Lando Norris's name.

"Huh... That's interesting. Did Lando say he's coming?"

"He did," Destiny replied. "He found me before class this morning and said he couldn't wait. He even asked if he could bring something.”

Your finger drifted a little farther down the list, and you narrowed your eyes.

"Hattie Piastri's coming too?"

"You know she always comes!" Alex said. "And honestly? Her outfits are to die for."

Destiny nodded enthusiastically.

"Girl, did you see how she cut her hair short and bleached it?" she said. "That look would be awful on just about anyone else, but she looks absolutely gorgeous.”

The two of them kept talking about it, drifting completely away from your train of thought. You weren't paying much attention to the conversation either, but when you finally looked up and shook your head, they both stopped.

"What?" Destiny asked, looking genuinely confused.

"Guys, hello!" You snapped your fingers to get their attention. "Lando's coming. Max is coming, I just saw his name. Hattie's coming! Hattie is his sister! Hattie Piastri."

The two of them exchanged a look before nodding in realization.

"Oh... right. I always forget," Alex admitted, absentmindedly tapping a fingernail against her chin. "Oscar's just so... plain. In a good way, obviously.”

"But if everyone around him is going, then why wouldn't he?"

"He never said he wasn't," Destiny pointed out. "He said he's thinking about it. Twice, actually, if I remember correctly. And the second time he even smiled a little."

"Completely irrelevant detail," you muttered, dropping your gaze. You had no idea why you'd even mentioned that part the other day. "The point is..." You sighed. "I think he's messing with me.”

"Or maybe he just doesn't like parties," Destiny said with a shrug. "I mean, I love the whole filling-the-stands-with-people thing. But Oscar doesn't really seem like the crowd type."

You picked up your pen and tapped it thoughtfully against your chin. Think. Think. Think.

"I think..." you said slowly. "...I need to do something."

Alex and Destiny exchanged a look. That never meant anything good.

Hockey. Now golf.

For what had to be the billionth time, Oscar wondered how his life had somehow come to this.

He was even wearing proper golf clothes, courtesy of Lando's mum, who had kindly supplied outfits for him, Max, and Charles.

But they weren't the only ones caught up in this bizarre afternoon. Albon was there too, and everyone called him by his last name to avoid confusing poor Charles, who happened to be dating a girl with the feminine version of his name.

Naturally, Albon had brought George along.

Max looked annoyed.

Right.

So... these were the dynamics.

"Watch closely, little Oscar. Witness a master at work," Lando announced, swinging his club with the kind of wholehearted commitment people only ever showed on a golf course.

Beside him, Albon shaded his eyes with one hand, tracking the ball's arc as it landed barely an inch from the hole. Alex pursed his lips, genuinely impressed.

"Mate... that was badass."

He held out his hand, and Lando slapped it with a smug grin.

Charles wandered over, and now it was his turn. Slowly, he pushed his sunglasses up onto the top of his head and leaned into his stance.

"I'm pretty sure golf isn't exactly known for being a teenage pastime, you know," Oscar said, folding his arms.

"And I completely agree with that," Max cut in.

"Yeah, yeah. Of course you do," George muttered, looking up at the sky.

"You say something, Russell?" Max asked, narrowing his eyes.

Lando stepped between them, placing a hand against each of their chests.

"Gentlemen, not on my golf course. Leave that stuff outside," he said, trying to keep the peace. "As if dealing with Oscar and his little attachment wasn't enough.”

That was… Entirely unnecessary.

"What does that have to do with me?" Oscar asked, folding his arms.

Charles, who had just sent his golf ball flying spectacularly off target, straightened up with a grin.

"It's true, though. I heard you've got yourself a very close companion these days."

Albon craned his neck.

"Oscar's dating someone?"

"Almost," Lando answered.

Max finally cracked a smile, and George immediately drifted over to Albon, visibly intrigued.

"She was at hockey practice the other day," Max pointed out.

"Against my will," Oscar replied.

"And she invited you to the party," Lando added.

"Which I'm not going to."

"Oh, yes you are." Max slung an arm around Oscar's shoulders. "And you're gonna look nice while you're at it."

"Showing up to practice? That's girlfriend behaviour, mate," Charles chimed in.

"Exactly! And when we came back from the bathroom, she was down there talking to Oscar." Lando grinned. "She even had him laughing!"

The chorus of laughter, exaggerated “Yeah!”s, and relentless teasing confirmed that Oscar had been asking himself all the right questions: how had his life come to this?

He knew the truth.

He'd laughed because you was annoying. He hadn't wanted you at practice to begin with. And he wasn't going to the party. He knew all that. There was just no arguing with them.

Instead, he simply raised his middle finger at Lando. Lando raised his right back.

Pathetic. So much for golf.

On Monday, your Literature teacher asks you to stop by her classroom to talk about something you'd brought up before the weekend.

After coming up with your wonderfully complex and highly elaborate plan to get Oscar to both the party and the hockey game, you'd realised you needed a way to spend time with him that was slightly less pathetic than barging into places and sitting down without being invited. What was the best way to do that? Duh. Tutoring.

"Ah, hello, dear. Come in, please," Mrs. Wolff said, beckoning you inside as you stepped into the classroom, your books tucked against your side. "I followed up on your request, and I'm so pleased you're interested in exploring the subject further. You're already a wonderful student, but more knowledge, and discussion, is always encouraged."

"Yes, Mrs. Wolff. I completely agree. Literature is such an important subject," you replied sweetly.

Despite your utterly nefarious intentions, you genuinely liked Mrs. Susie. And you genuinely liked Literature. It was all part of the plan.

If your goal was to spend more time talking than studying, the sensible thing to do was pick a subject you already excelled at.

"Well, I spoke to the boys, and Yuki was willing to help, but..." she trailed off, frowning thoughtfully. "...No."

The mention of another name made your stomach tighten. It hadn't even occurred to you that it could be someone else. Mrs. Wolff pulled a face, and you instinctively took a step closer.

"Well..." she began. "Everyone else is busy, but there is one..." She paused. "One moment. I'll go get him."

Oh, God. You blinked, frozen.

With the particular sense of urgency only high school teachers seemed capable of possessing, Mrs. Wolff was already out the door to fetch this mysterious tutor.

Oh, crap. This wasn't exactly what you'd had in mind. Your logic had been flawless… If you needed a tutor, Oscar would obviously be the one, right? Wasn't he the school's tutor? So why was Yuki even on the list? Or anyone else, for that matter?

You didn't even want tutoring. And now you'd have to come up with a way to politely turn this person down because… No. You weren't actually interested in studying with a tutor.

That was the whole problem.

"He'll be here in just a minute," Mrs. Wolff said as she returned to the classroom with a small smile. "He's just finishing up an extracurricular activity."

She settled back behind her desk, gathered a few folders into her hands, and gestured for you to take the chair across from her.

"A-And... who is it, Mrs. Wolff?" you asked, unable to hide your nerves.

Mrs. Susie Wolff looked at you for a moment before raising an eyebrow.

"He's a lovely boy. I'm sure you know him, you’re in the same year," she began. "He's involved in just about everything, but he hasn't taken on any tutoring these past few weeks. It's something he genuinely enjoys."

She smiled.

"His name is—"

She never got the chance to finish.

Oscar Piastri appeared in the doorway.

His cheeks were slightly flushed, his hair neatly combed, and his uniform perfectly in place. He glanced around the room, spotted you, then looked at Mrs. Wolff with a slight frown.

"Can I help you, Mrs. Wolff?”

The mere sound of his voice seemed to delight her. She rose to her feet with the warm smile she appeared to reserve for only her favourite students and walked over to Oscar, beckoning him closer.

When he stepped forward and stopped beside her desk, she rested a hand on his shoulder and gestured towards you with the other.

"Oscar, I have a very special student here. Do you know her?" she asked, looking up at his puzzled expression.

Slowly, his eyes settled on you. Yours lifted to meet his, and at last, at long last, you smiled. A huge smile.

"Hi, Osc," you greeted in that unmistakably you kind of voice.

Despite everything, he gave you a slightly distracted nod before turning back to Mrs. Wolff, silently waiting for an explanation. Preferably immediately.

"She's looking for a Literature tutor. To prepare for university, isn't that right, dear?" Mrs. Wolff asked.

You nodded emphatically.

"There's no one better suited to help her than you."

Mrs. Wolff was already rifling through the folders on her desk for the tutoring schedule and a list of suggested topics when Oscar took a small, almost desperate step forward.

"Mrs. Wolff, I..." he began.

"Here we are!" She held out a sheet of paper for him and met his eyes. "Oscar, are you terribly busy at the moment?"

He blinked. Slowly, he shook his head.

"No, ma'am..."

"Excellent!" Then she turned to you, handing you a sheet of paper as well, which you accepted. "Classroom Eighty-One has been reserved for the two of you. You're welcome to use it whenever you'd like during this time slot. I've already told the coordinator you'd be using it today, so…” She smiled. "Off you go.”

Your smile slowly faded.

Wait… No. No, no, no. Today? But you had party planning to do, and… And you weren't ready for this. You'd thought—

"Mrs. Wolff, actually—"

"Ah, Madame Susie!" The hall monitor appeared in the doorway, cutting you off mid-protest and immediately stealing Mrs. Wolff's attention.

You had never hated anyone so much in your entire life.

Oscar noticed your panic, taking in your defeated posture and the way your arms hung limply at your sides, but he didn't soften. If anything, he simply tipped his head towards the door.

Mrs. Wolff was already engrossed in conversation with the hall monitor, who seemed to need her husband's help with something or other, while all you could think about was how everything was spiralling completely out of order. What a disaster.

Still, you hurried after Oscar. He walked much faster than you did, and it took a considerable effort to catch up with him in the hallway.

"Hey! You! Wait!" you called, your voice carrying a hint of irritation as your heels clicked louder than usual against the floor. "This isn't exactly what I had in mind, and..."

Oscar stopped so abruptly that you nearly walked straight into his chest. He looked down at you, his expression perfectly serious.

The silence stretched on. One second. Two.

He was still looking at you by the time you'd managed to notice the freckles scattered across his face. There was no way you could count them all. There were far too many.

"What?" you asked, straightening your posture.

"That's my question," he replied, folding his arms across his chest. "You're the one who came up with this whole tutoring idea, and now we're on our way to Classroom Eighty-One." He raised an eyebrow. "I think you're the one who's supposed to explain."

Your fingernails drifted to your forehead, scratching absentmindedly before sliding down to the back of your neck. Thinking about it now… This might not have been your smartest idea.

Your cheeks felt noticeably warm, and Oscar was witnessing every second of it. In fact, he frowned slightly, tilting his head to one side. He couldn't remember ever seeing you blush like this before.

"It's just that you're never anywhere, and..." you blurted out, folding your arms in return, your tone bordering on accusatory. "...I didn't want to keep barging into your activities! I need your answer about the party, and this seemed like the best way to get it.”

Oh, God… He'd actually heard all of that? Every single word? He… He couldn't believe it. Impossible. It was so utterly ridiculous that Oscar couldn't help the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his nose wrinkling ever so slightly. Of course, he didn't give you the chance to be certain you'd actually seen it. By then, he'd already turned away and started walking again, much to your obvious dismay.

It took you half a second to process what had just happened.

"Where are you going?" you asked, hurrying after him.

"The library," he replied. "We're going to pick up the books Mrs. Wolff recommended."

"But... I don't want actual tutoring," you protested, blinking.

Oscar glanced at you.

"And I don't want to go to the party." He shrugged. "I suppose we're both going to have to do something we don't want to do."

Wait. Wait a second. Was he saying what you thought he was saying?

"You're coming to the party?!" you asked, absurdly excited as you practically skipped after him.

"I'm going to the library," he replied, turning the corner.

A grin spread from ear to ear across your face.

"You're going to the party," you concluded, rounding the corner right behind him.

Oscar slowly shook his head and let out a quiet sigh. Oddly enough, he wasn't particularly in the mood for a mountain of library books to come crashing down on him and drag him straight into the abyss, so he simply kept walking.

The ballroom smelled faintly of sweat mixed with bubbly and an excess of men’s cologne. Perhaps it was due to your lack of interest, but you felt trapped in the single most boring conversation in existence—even considering that you used to attend the occasional meeting with your father regarding the naval fleets. Standing before you were two handsome nobles attempting to entertain you with a conversation about the rise in the wheat market over the past few weeks. It had even crossed your mind that discussing political decisions sounded far more amusing than anything these lords had to say.

You wished your sisters had been there to keep you entertained, but considering the eldest was already married and utterly forgotten, and your two younger sisters were not yet old enough to make their debut, it was entirely impossible.

Your own debut had been grueling. You had never worn a corset so tight for so long; you were certain the skin covering your ribs had been left bruised after the evening. But it had been completely worth it—thanks to that, you had incredible proposals and dashing gentlemen competing for your hand.

Pity none of them had been blessed with a lively, charming personality.

"If we allow foreign wheat to flood our shores, what will become of the landowners' honor?"

"An unimaginable tragedy, no doubt, Lord Danbury," you sighed, trying not to sound as flat as you felt. "I cannot imagine a cruel destiny for the nation than slightly cheaper bread for the common people."

Lord Danbury blinked, trying to decipher whether the comment was a display of refined knowledge or simply lethal sarcasm. He seemed to decide it was the former, for he offered a smug smile.

"I see the Duke has instructed you quite well in matters of true importance. I can only imagine a lady of your stature understands the weight of property."

You inhaled deeply, limiting yourself to just that, though all you wanted to do was sigh out loud from sheer boredom right in their faces.

"Believe me, my lord," you smiled, fluttering your feather fan to cool off the suffocating wave of tedium, "the weight of your properties is practically the only thing I have heard about since the evening began."

You glanced away for just a moment, indulging in the view of other prominent young lords. You wondered if any of them were even half as amusing as they were handsome, but assumed, looking back at Lord Danbury, that it was practically impossible.

Lord Harrington beside him, sadly, was no better. He was a brainless, cheap copy who spent his time nodding along and smiling every time you made even the slightest eye contact with him.

Your dance card at your wrist lay completely blank—an embarrassment considering how passionate you were about dancing, and a vile demonstration that your father had only introduced you to the most boring lords in the entire court.

You were beginning to calculate how much it would cost you to feign a swoon to escape the conversation when a shadow was cast over the three of you, forcing your attention back to the present. The sight of a third lord momentarily stole the air from your lungs—not only from surprise, but also from sheer cheekiness; a gentleman could not present himself before a lady without an intermediary to introduce them.

"My lords, I apologize for interrupting such an important and profound conversation about the price of wheat, but I fear I must kidnap the lady," he said, his tone warm and terribly amused.

"Kidnap me, sir...?" You placed a hand on your chest and instinctively accepted the glass of bubbly he was offering you with a smile.

This man was barely a head taller than you—not particularly tall, but infuriatingly attractive. He had skin that could only be sun-kissed, flawlessly styled, shiny curls, and emerald-blue eyes with enviable lashes. He took your breath away for a second time in a matter of moments.

"Wesbury. Anthony Wesbury, at your service," he grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he did, which you found to be the most wonderful thing. "May I?"

You looked down to where his finger was pointing. Your dance card, completely empty.

You puffed out your chest and extended your arm, allowing Anthony to write his name himself. You blushed furiously when you saw him hesitate and exhale a soft laugh before writing on the completely blank page. When he looked back up to meet your eyes, you had to resume fanning yourself with your feather fan, as the room was starting to feel suffocating all over again.

"It would be a true tragedy to ruin such exquisite music by choosing to remain among the stagnant crowd," his smile was directed at both lords, neither of whom had managed to offer you a single dance. "Will you grant me this dance, or would you prefer to keep hearing about the price of wheat?"

"You are dangerously impertinent, sir," you said, before placing the completely empty glass of bubbly onto a passing servant's tray and accepting Anthony's hand. "But you are quite right. The music is far too exquisite to be wasted."

You tried not to react when Anthony led you straight to the center of the dance floor, pulling you close in a swift movement with an arm around your waist. His hand was warm, large, and somewhat calloused, but it covered yours with ease, instantly giving you a sense of protection—even if you did not know this man at all.

You looked around, trying to see if anyone else was watching you dance. But both Lord Danbury and Lord Harrington were already nowhere to be seen.

"Is something troubling you, my lady?" Anthony asked to bring you back, which worked, as you looked back at him, a bit distracted. "Don't tell me you are thinking about something as banal as wheat again."

"Not at all, sir," you replied, following his steps. You were surprised by the ease with which he moved you across the floor to the rhythm of the orchestra. "I was simply looking for my aunt."

"Are you worried about being seen with me?" he inquired with a hint of mockery so subtle you almost missed it, were it not for the stupidly handsome grin on his face.

"I could expect nothing less after such insolence on your part, sir," you shot back, slightly on the defensive.

"On the contrary," he said with conviction as he spun you in place, "I highlight informality as the finest way to truly know a lady."

"Unheard of," you murmured between your teeth to hide the silly smile that threatened to make your cheeks ache.

"I fear that were it not for my lack of formality, you would not be interested," he answered carefully. "Or could you claim you wouldn't have found me to be just another boring lord from some boring estate had I approached with a chaperone?"

You allowed yourself a smile before replying, "I fear I cannot refute that."

You had to admit it: Anthony Wesbury was refreshing in an atmosphere as suffocating as a social and political ball. Your father had abandoned you to attend to other matters with the very first men who spoke to you, and your mother, seeing you occupied, had simply decided to stay out of it to let you socialize. You would have preferred your mother hovering over you, leading the conversation, over being left with two such dull men.

"Admit it," Anthony smirked, leaning in to whisper with a smile, "you were expecting another stiff-footed lord to step on your dress."

You let out a chuckle, knowing that Anthony actually moved remarkably well. There was a lightness to his steps that could only stem from confidence.

And what a thrilling thing confidence was in an attractive man.

"And instead, you are standing before the finest dancer in all of London." You raised an eyebrow at that, huffing with amusement.

"I admit your ego is as inflated as the dome of the royal house," you countered, earning a laugh from Sir Wesbury. "Though I must admit, my lord, you are quite light on your feet."

"Only that?" he asked, exaggerating his disappointment to make you smile. "Then I can only pray that merit works to earn me a proper compliment during our next dance."

"Next dance?" you inquired, feeling a blush creep up again.

"You couldn't have thought we would have such a disappointing end," Anthony spun you around once more, and you realized with horror that the waltz was drawing to a close. "When the most fun comes after the first."

"You must speak from experience," you said, narrowing your eyes with a smile.

"Do not be flustered, my lady," Anthony tilted his head to the side with grace. "I am just as much a newcomer to society as you are."

When the waltz finally ended, you stepped back from Anthony, your breathing slightly hurried. He bowed in your presence before disappearing into the crowd with the promise of your second dance.

Except Lord Wesbury did not show up for the rest of the night. And you did not accept any other dance for the remainder of the evening.

The following morning began as a total trial.

Perhaps it was the fact that it was your first social season, or perhaps you had drunk a bit too much sparkling wine—never enough to embarrass yourself publicly in a room full of people, of course—but you had woken up with a piercing headache. It didn't help that your two younger sisters attacked the moment the first rays of sunlight appeared. It was far too early, and you had returned far too late the night before, to endure a punishment of such magnitude.

"Did you meet many gentlemen?"

"Did you dance with any of them?"

"What did I tell you about bothering me so early in the morning?" you grunted, trying to press your face deeper into the pillow.

Mary, the youngest of your sisters, bounced onto the edge of your bed, making it tremble and squeak slightly under her weight.

"Did you?" she inquired, leaning over to catch a glimpse of your face.

"Did you drink?" Charlotte asked now.

You sighed before forcing yourself to sit up. Your head throbbed, and you rubbed your eye, still bearing traces of the makeup from the night before since you had collapsed straight into bed and forgotten to wash your face. When you were finally able to open your eyes without dying in the attempt, their faces were filled with eager anticipation for your answer.

"I met a few gentlemen. They were all boring, really—you aren’t missing out on anything," you answered, raising your eyebrows.

Charlotte huffed.

"Was at least one of them handsome?"

You looked away, recalling Anthony's face and his gorgeous emerald-blue eyes.

"Most of them," you answered instead, looking back at them.

"How many did you dance with?" Mary leaned forward on the bed, curious. You exhaled, bracing yourself for your response.

"Only one."

They burst into loud squeals and giggles before firing off a barrage of questions. Was he handsome? How tall was he? Was he funny? Did he dance well? You allowed them to ask every single question simply because they seemed so genuinely excited and intrigued.

"Is there any chance you’ll see him again today at Hyde Park?" Charlotte smiled.

Hyde Park was the most famous Royal Park in London. When there were no tea parties or organized gatherings, the elite would spend most of their time parading in their carriages to see and be seen, allowing high society ladies to be presented to interested gentlemen. You had been there a couple of times, and you remembered perfectly that your father had been invited to a garden party that very afternoon, to which he intended to bring you.

Whether you might cross paths with Anthony was a complete mystery. Besides, even if he were to attend, what were the odds he would actually speak to you again? After all, he had been perfectly clear the night before by failing to claim his promised second dance with you. You hadn't even seen him leave—no carriage, no chaperone.

It was as if he had simply vanished into the morning breeze.

"I don't know, Charlotte," you replied simply, looking away with a sigh. "I could only hope so."

Anthony Wesbury was not someone you wished to think about at this precise moment, nor did you want to grant him the satisfaction of occupying your thoughts—even if there was no way he could know. You preferred a thousand times over to worry about far more pressing matters, such as the garden party your father was invited to that afternoon, where you, of course, were also expected.

That was precisely the exhausting part of the social season: having absolutely no time to rest from so much interaction. The situation only worsened when you considered the significant role your father played in political affairs; after all, he owned the largest merchant fleet network at present and worked hand in hand with the Crown—one of the reasons he had been formally created a Duke. Your father’s high standing demanded that you attend every social event and live up to the status.

After luncheon, you found yourself obligated to prepare for the tea party with the help of your two younger sisters. They were far more excited than you were, which offered a bit of relief.

It was well known that debuting each sister separately rarely fostered sisterly harmony, but thankfully, that had never managed to divide your family—with the exception of your eldest sister, who had been married for two years and didn't even visit or invite them to her new home. It wasn't an obligation, of course, but you would have at least expected a little more warmth from the person who had helped raise you.

"You should wear the green one," Mary said, wrapping her arms gently around you and resting her chin on your shoulder to inspect the two dresses laid across your bed.

"It’s the color that flatters you most," Charlotte agreed with a nod.

The dress in question was an olive-green satin, plain save for the embroidered gold and white detailing. It featured puffed sleeves and an extra layer of sheer abaca fabric across the bust.

"Besides, it matches Sir Wesbury's eyes," you rolled your eyes at Mary’s teasing remark. Of course they would seize every subtle opportunity to bring up any detail you might have mentioned about him that morning.

You ended up choosing the green dress anyway. Your mother helped braid your hair while you applied a touch of makeup, and you left the house at precisely four o'clock in the afternoon.

"Hold your parasol firmly," your mother instructed, handing it to you in a hurried tone. "The wind might catch your dress, so you must be careful." She peered out the carriage window.

There was a heavy breeze under a dreadful summer sun.

"And keep your face and arms properly covered," she reminded you with a decisive tone. "Do not let the direct sun touch your skin."

You let out a silent sigh before offering a smile and a nod. The remainder of the journey passed in silence, and as the carriages pulled up after a long drive along Serpentine Road, you wanted nothing more than to step out. You were tired; the headache had subsided into a dull, annoying pressure between your brows, the sun was at its most suffocating point in the sky, and the breeze was hardly enough to offer relief—neither to you nor to any of the other ladies.

The first thing you noticed upon stepping out of the carriage were the long tables laden with refreshments. Pastries and sandwiches abounded, alongside steaming teapots, fine porcelain cups, cutlery, and sugar bowls placed at intervals. Your mother introduced you to a group of young ladies near your age who were chatting pleasantly around a small table. You caught sight of the gentlemen down by the lake, practicing archery while another group of ladies watched attentively.

You remained where you were, simply listening to the conversation without offering much input.

"One must admit the afternoon is turning out to be exceptionally pleasant. I feared this heat would melt the cream on the desserts, but the shade of these willows is truly a blessing," one of them remarked—you seemed to recall she was Miss Barrington, a young woman a few years your senior.

"A very timely blessing indeed. We were fortunate enough to secure the finest spot in the park," another lady’s mother chimed in.

The conversation soon shifted to the flavor of the pastries and the delicate care required in baking them, but you were already far too distracted by the scenery to pay close attention. Lately, everything felt so trivial that any conversation with your sisters was far more entertaining than upholding etiquette, yet you hadn't managed to make a single friend so far.

It was difficult, considering that most first impressions carried enough weight to keep everyone merely distantly polite toward one another.

"[Name], my dear, come here for a moment," you tore your gaze away from the lake to look back at your mother, who was approaching slowly alongside another gentleman.

It took you a few seconds to recognize Anthony.

His face and skin looked different in the sunlight; he appeared even more sun-kissed than you remembered. His eyes stood out strikingly against his attire, which was a pale, perfectly tailored blue. You forced yourself to press your lips together to keep your jaw from dropping as you bridged the remaining distance between you.

"The Viscount Ravenscroft was courteous enough to request an introduction. Sir Wesbury, allow me to present my daughter, Miss [Name]," you curtsied swiftly with a bend of your knees, biting the inside of your cheek.

"It is a privilege to finally meet you, Miss [LastName]," his smile made you grit your teeth slightly before offering a polite, false smile of your own.

"The honor is mine, Sir Wesbury," you bowed your head slightly, subtly twirling your parasol. You were just about to open your mouth to say something when Anthony cut in.

"Mrs. [LastName]," Anthony turned to your mother with a perfectly respectable smile, "the day is splendid. Would you grant me the honor of escorting your daughter to see the lake overlook?"

"Oh," your mother smiled, delighted, making no effort to hide her interest. "Of course. I shall follow just behind you."

Anthony offered a small bow and looked at you, gesturing with his hand to invite you to walk beside him. You moistened your lips, adjusted your parasol, and kept pace right beside him. Soon, you both reached the edge of the lake, embarking on a slow, relaxing stroll—technically alone.

"Did you not intend to mention earlier that you were the Viscount Ravenscroft?" you asked, glancing over your shoulder at your mother, who was a few paces behind, taking in the details of the park.

"Would it have offered me any sort of advantage had you known beforehand?" he asked in return, with his signature smirk, leaning slightly in your direction.

"I beg your pardon? An advantage?"

"In the pursuit of your hand," Anthony explained softly, his voice gentle. You looked away to hide your flush.

"There is no such thing, sir," you whispered.

"Then allow me to express my delight," Anthony smiled, "in knowing that I am the only one."

You swallowed hard. His interest was no longer something you could ignore. You had never been courted so directly—in truth, you had never been courted at all—and the sensation was exquisite. Knowing that someone like Anthony, with his poise and standing, was interested in you brought an indescribable joy. Your stomach fluttered pleasantly every time he smiled with such confidence.

"A clever move," you managed to say, "presenting yourself to my mother as though you hadn't bypassed proper protocol last night." Bringing up the previous evening felt strange, considering he was still walking beside you with the promise of a dance he had never delivered. To say you were still a bit offended would be an understatement.

"I hope it is enough to demonstrate my intention to do things properly," he turned to look at you as you walked side by side, his hands clasped behind his back, your own hands clutching the parasol to shield your shoulders from the sun.

"You are halfway there, Sir," you said, matching his action and turning to meet his gaze for a brief moment. "But you still owe me a dance for last night."

"Regarding last night," Anthony stopped abruptly, forcing you to do the same and turn to face him. His hand hovered, uncertain whether he ought to touch you, while his face betrayed how deeply he wished to do so. "I must offer my most sincere apologies. Urgent matters of utmost importance compelled me to leave early. But I want you to know that I have not forgotten, and I still hope to grant you every dance you desire at the upcoming balls."

You felt the air leave your lungs as he finally reached out to take your hand delicately, leaning down to press a kiss to your silk-gloved knuckles. His lashes fluttered as he looked up at you.

"Apology accepted, sir," you murmured. "I expect you to keep your promise."

"Believe me, my lady. I have never broken a promise."

On the Monday of the following week, the gossip erupted in your home the moment you rose. Charlotte already held the newspaper—which encompassed all the news of the preceding week—and was reading it aloud with an almost exhausting effervescence. You took a seat across from her and poured a little warm milk into a glass.

"We regret to inform that Mr. Davenport was compelled to depart precipitously for the continent on this morning’s tide..." she read, her eyes flitting in haste across the front page, her voice dwindling to a hushed murmur.

Her sudden silence was troubling, prompting Mary, beside her, to lean over her shoulder to read. You blinked a few times, glancing first at your father, then at your mother.

"What is it, Charlotte, my dear?" your mother inquired.

"This column is about us," she said, her brow furrowed.

"What does it say? Read it aloud," she requested with a complacent smile.

"Disturbing rumors are indeed circulating regarding the fortune and future of the House of the Duke of Bristol"—you hid behind your glass as you watched your mother's smile begin to wither; your father lowered his own paper to pay heed—"it is whispered in the tea rooms that the distinguished Duke has spent an unusually prolonged amount of time with his bankers in the city—"

"Enough," your father cut her off in a frigid tone, and you saw Charlotte lower the paper, tense.

"What a vile and unnecessary accusation," your mother chimed in, her eyes fluttering with nervousness and restrained anger. "How are we to respond to such a rumor?" She turned back to your father, who uttered a humorless chuckle.

"How are we to respond?" he repeated. "A mere rumor, lacking both weight and truth."

"It is your daughter’s future that hangs in the balance with such slanders"—your father’s gaze fell upon you, and you decided to set down your half-full glass of milk to look at them both—"your daughters'" she corrected, looking at the three of you this time. "Do you truly believe any gentleman will hold interest in them if all of society suddenly begins to lend truth to such rumors?"

"And what do you suggest?" he inquired, giving a slight, barely perceptible shrug of his shoulders.

"We must host a ball." Your two sisters sat up straight with smiles upon hearing your mother’s decisive voice. "We cannot allow the integrity of our family to be insulted. Send letters this instant to all the noble families in the city."

Your mother puffed her chest with pride, and your father had no choice but to comply. He knew better than to simply refuse when she was set in such a mood.

Said and done, the date of the ball arrived two days later, and your home had been a tempest of chaos in anticipation of the event. Your sisters were beside themselves, obsessing over dresses; they even dragged you to Mayfair to purchase ribbons of the finest cloth, forcing you to sit and offer opinions while they tried on all manner of attire. You remained patient with them, for you knew this was the closest they would come to being in society for the time being, and how dearly they craved it.

You wondered if they would be just as weary and bored when their own turn arrived.

The havoc reigning in the kitchen and the main drawing room was no better than that within your bedchambers. Servant staff were shifting furniture to clear space, while cooks arranged pastries and delicacies across the tables. Men perched atop footstools to adorn the parlor drapes, and women scrubbed the floors.

It became painfully clear to you that attending balls was far more delightful than hosting them. Judging by the demeanor of both your parents, you assumed they had arrived at the very same conclusion.

"Is your Sir Wesbury invited to the ball?" Charlotte twirled in place to lift the skirt of her gown. Dusk was only just beginning to fall, yet your sisters had betrayed their eager anticipation by dressing far in advance.

"I saw to it that an invitation was sent to his estate," you offered with a gentle smile, only to be met by the gleeful squeals of your sisters. You could do little else but blush under the weight of such sudden scrutiny.

You had learned a great deal about Anthony during your promenade through Hyde Park, and you were utterly enchanted. He hailed from a family as large as your own, with two younger sisters and an elder brother who was already happily wed. He was twenty-six, born in Bristol, and you knew he had completed his studies at Oxford—a man deeply devoted to, and dearly cherished by, his family. You knew his sisters' names, and he knew those of yours. Moreover, he was undeniably charming and full of wit—or so he seemed to you, at least. Perhaps it was simply that he always knew precisely what to say to draw a reaction from you.

"I can hardly wait to meet him and pass judgment on your good taste," Mary remarked with a subtle smile as Charlotte braided her hair.

"I wager he is quite handsome," Charlotte chimed in, using that sly tone that signaled they were both attempting to coax more details from you.

Even though you had already disclosed almost everything.

"He is," you confirmed once more, beginning to brush your hair.

"Do you suppose he will speak with our father soon?" You raised your head to look at Charlotte, who had suddenly grown far more solemn, her question posed with careful hesitation.

A mere fortnight had passed since you first met Anthony, yet it was time enough to know his character; you had heard tales of ladies whose betrothals were sealed in even less time. Not to mention that he was attentive enough to frequent the very same gatherings and society affairs as you, whether by invitation or sheer fortune. If you were invited to a tea party, he was among the guests. If you attended the opera, he serendipitously occupied a box at the exact same performance. He had invited you to stroll beside the St. James's pond, to go boating, and had even invited you to paint together.

Anthony was the most attentive gentleman you knew.

"I do not rule out the possibility," you replied evasively, unwilling to tread upon uncertain ground.

"He would be a fool not to," Mary said, sensing your hesitation, which brought a soft smile to your lips.

All three of you were dressed and ready shortly before the guests began to arrive. Soon, the grand hall of your home and its spacious corridors were teeming with the finest high society—dresses of every hue, confections and dainties of every flavor, accompanied by the uplifting strains of fine music.

You were attempting to keep your sisters from depleting the pastry table too early when someone pinched the back of your arm. Surprised, you turned hastily, only to encounter a grinning Anthony. You cast a cautious glance about the room.

"Daring as ever, Sir," you murmured by way of greeting, curtsying before him.

"You know me well," he smiled, before casting his eyes upon your two sisters.

Both had promptly dropped their pastries to bestow their undivided attention, wearing smiles that were anything but demurely polite.

"Sir Wesbury. Allow me to introduce my two sisters, Charlotte and Mary," you offered, gesturing gently toward them. "Sisters, this is Sir Anthony Wesbury."

Charlotte’s cheeks were flushed from her effort to suppress a playful laugh. "It is an absolute pleasure, Lord Wesbury. We have heard your name spoken with such frequency that I feel as though I have known you all my life."

"Charlotte," you cautioned under your breath through a smiling mask.

"I trust the accounts were favorable, and that my introduction meets your expectations," Anthony replied smoothly, though his playful smirk did not escape your notice.

Astonishing. Simply splendid.

"Oh, utterly glowing!" Mary interjected merrily. "My sister has endlessly praised your lightness of foot and your ease in conversation." This statement visibly filled Anthony with pride, making him practically puff his chest.

"You stand before the finest dancer in all of London," he boasted, offering a sweeping little bow.

"Oh, is that so?" Charlotte teased.

"Prove it," Mary chimed in, her tone bright and full of playful anticipation. She giggled softly as Anthony extended a hand, which she delightfully accepted.

You watched them glide toward the dance floor, though not before Anthony sent a fleeting glance and a respectful bow your way—his subtle manner of reassuring you that it was a mere gesture of courtesy. You were not troubled in the least; it was difficult to be, even if Anthony was naturally charismatic, flirtatious, and all smiles.

You remained off to the side with Charlotte, watching them dance. Mary chuckled on occasion or glanced your way before replying to something Anthony had said.

"I cannot fault your good taste," your sister beside you remarked, lightly clapping her hands to the rhythm of the music.

"Do you approve?" you asked, turning your gaze toward her.

"I wish you could marry tomorrow," she teased half-jokingly. "He is truly charismatic and handsome. And he looks upon you as though there were not a single lady in the room whose attention was more worth possessing than yours."

You turned your eyes away, feeling the tips of your ears begin to warm. Perhaps it was true. Anthony did not look upon your sister in the same manner; there was a polite enough measure of interest, but no spark, no sign of that coy little smirk he always bestowed upon you, nor the way his eyes came to rest when beholding you, his pupils dilating ever so slightly.

And you could not have been more utterly enchanted by the fact.

Charlotte and you watched them dance and laugh in soft intervals until the music drew to a close. You saw them exchange a few parting words before going their separate ways; Mary strolled back in your direction, while Anthony turned and dissolved into the crowd. Your sister must have caught the flicker of confusion on your face, for the very first thing she said upon reaching your side was:

"Fear not. Sir Wesbury wished to step away to the washroom."

"Oh," you nodded, a smile gracing your lips. "And how was the dance?"

"Exquisite," Mary beamed broadly. "Sir Wesbury is terribly amusing; he knows precisely what to say to make a lady laugh beyond proper decorum."

"Now I feel somewhat at a disadvantage," Charlotte teased, making you laugh as you rested a reassuring hand upon her shoulder.

"You shall have your moment; allow Sir Wesbury to return from the washroom first."

Yet he began to take far too long, and your curiosity began to prick at you as you cast subtle glances in every direction, searching for him. Could he have lost his way to the washroom? To be sure, your home was quite grand, with washrooms on both the ground and second floors, but five minutes stretched into ten, and before you knew it, you were informing your sisters that you would go in search of him.

You skirted the perimeter of the ballroom first before stepping out to search the corridors leading to the washrooms. Nothing.

Could he have fled? No. That was impossible, was it? There would be no reason for him to desire flight so early in the evening.

The hall was teeming with guests, making it difficult to reach the foyer, but once you broke free, you cast a quick glance up the staircase before stepping toward the garden. You reasoned it was entirely understandable for him to crave a breath of fresh air after dancing in such a crowded, stifling room. Yet Anthony was not in the garden either, nor in any corner within the estate.

You were beginning to feel uneasy in your own skin when you stepped back inside—and then, at last, you spotted him descending the foyer stairs. Upon seeing you, he offered a smile tainted with mild embarrassment, assuming he must have noticed your brow furrowed in perplexity.

"I lost my way searching for the washroom; one of the servants directed me upstairs," you exhaled a soft laugh of pure relief as he descended the final steps of the staircase to join you. "You possess a vast estate."

"How strange, the ground floor is abundant with washrooms," you noted, puzzled, but shrugged it off. It was a ball, after all; the hall was crowded, and many guests were bound to seek the washrooms.

"They must have been occupied," Anthony offered with a slight shrug of his shoulders, extending his hand to you. "A dance, my lady?" Naturally, you accepted.

Anthony fulfilled his promise of granting you a second dance; however, he first bestowed upon your sister Charlotte her first. Even your mother was delighted with Sir Norris, observing them from a discreet distance as she conversed with the chaperones of other young ladies—no doubt striking agreements or merely exchanging gossip while granting the three of you sufficient space. Even so, she possessed the eyes of a hawk, and it was rare for her gaze to stray far from the four of you.

Your first dance of the evening had been with Anthony, before he danced with Charlotte and another gentleman introduced by your mother requested the pleasure of a dance. The conversation with Sir Ashford proved a welcome enough distraction to keep you from dwelling on the rigid feet that had undeniably stepped on your shoes more than once; he was politely agreeable, yet a dreadful dancer, and comparing him to another brilliant gentleman was entirely beyond your control.

"I have been pondering a great deal these past few days," Anthony murmured as he turned you in place, before returning his hand to hold your waist with precise firmness. It was your second dance of the night with him.

"I see," you replied. "Would you care to share your thoughts with me, Sir?"

Anthony continued to move to the rhythm, and judging by his expression and his silence, he was carefully measuring his words.

"It is common knowledge that I shall inherit the Ravenscroft estate, given that my brother is set to inherit Sidmouth," he began, earning a subtle nod from you as you listened with rapt attention despite the music and the turns of the dance. "And it is one of my greatest desires to take such fine company with me when the time comes to return after the end of the season."

You inhaled deeply, your chest rising beneath the subtle neckline of your dress.

"I have heard that the county of Cheshire is breathtaking beneath the autumn light," you offered carefully. "I doubt anyone could refuse the honor of admiring it."

Anthony's expression softened; you watched as his eyes danced between yours, looking at you with intense devotion. He drew a breath before speaking with a tender smile.

"If you will permit me the audacity... would I have your approval if I were to request an audience with your father in the coming week?" You felt a long sigh escape you, born of pure relief.

You wanted to kiss him. Never had you felt such an overwhelming urge to kiss anyone—not even the most gallantly attentive gentlemen of other ballrooms in seasons past—as much as you wished to kiss Anthony in that very moment.

"My father always receives gentlemen with great esteem, Sir Wesbury. I know he would not deny you a conversation in his study when the day comes."

"Most kind of him," Anthony murmured with a sigh of relief, bringing forth a laugh from the very depths of your chest.

The happiness you felt was surely shown in your face, but you couldn't even care less.

The solemn day arrived far more sluggishly than you would have preferred.

Perhaps it was merely your anxiety, or the plain fact that from the very moment Monday dawned, you waited with bated breath—seated upon the sofa before the grand bay window, embroidery in hand—for Sir Wesbury's promised arrival. Yet Anthony did not appear until Wednesday. Monday and Tuesday proved to be a quiet torment in which you forced yourself to find solace in mundane affairs: you organized the ribbons upon your mother’s bureau at least twice, and helped the cooks bake a cake out of sheer, restless boredom.

It was during the morning call, just after Wednesday’s breakfast, that he finally appeared. Mary was the first to glimpse him approaching the estate, rushing inside with such haste that she nearly stumbled upon the steps along her way.

"It is Sir Wesbury! He is coming this way!" she squealed with a radiant smile.

Charlotte’s gaze darted to you instantly, and your mother rose in a flurry, hastily gathering the belongings she had scattered across the small table.

"Quickly, hide the ribbons," she ordered, compelling the three of you to tidy the space you shared.

"Who?" your father inquired, lowering his newspaper to look at all three of you, his brow furrowed in utter bewilderment. He was ever the last to be informed of anything; nothing about it surprised you anymore.

"Mr. Wesbury," your mother replied in a hurried tone, sweeping all the ribbons into a hasty bundle inside their drawer. It pained you to recall the hours spent arranging them by shade just two days prior. "The gentleman who has been courting your daughter."

"Ah," he uttered simply, before retreating once more behind his newspaper. You swallowed nervously at his indifference, but there was no time to dwell on it, as a servant stepped into the room.

"Mr. Anthony Wesbury, Viscount of Ravenscroft," he announced, bowing before departing precisely as he had entered.

Your sisters swiftly seated themselves upon the armchairs before Anthony crossed the threshold, forcing an air of composure and indifference. A gentle smile rested upon his lips, yet the subtle tension in his shoulders betrayed his underlying nervousness.

"My ladies," he said, bowing low in your presence.

"Sir Wesbury," your mother greeted him with an impeccable smile. "To what do we owe the honor of your visit?" she asked, feigning casual disregard.

Anthony swallowed hard before speaking.

"If your lordship permits, I should like to speak with Mr. [LastName] privately in his study for a few moments. There is a matter of utmost gravity I wish to lay before his consideration," he said, inclining his head slightly in a gesture of profound respect.

Your father’s newspaper rustled loudly in the quiet parlor. You dared not look at him directly, but you heard him rise from his chair.

"This way. Join me in the library."

You exhaled softly, releasing the breath you had been holding.

Anthony offered a bow to the four women in the room, and you watched him pass by your side, disappearing alongside your father into his private sanctuary. You longed for the chance to say something to him—perhaps to offer a word of courage—yet you knew etiquette afforded no such liberty.

The moment the door closed behind them, Charlotte leapt from her chair to sit beside you, taking your hand in a silent token of devotion. You could utter no words; you simply remained still for a fleeting second before returning to your embroidery, the sole tether keeping your sanity intact these past days.

"Mary!" you heard your mother whisper sharply. Turning around, you caught her hurrying toward the door to press her ear against it.

"Shhh..." she insisted, before your mother nudged her away.

It took roughly half an hour for Anthony to emerge from your father’s study, by which time you were nothing short of a bundle of nerves. You had been embroidering almost fiercely, while Charlotte read by your side and Mary assisted your mother in properly restoring the ribbons to their drawer. The silence had been deafening—neither man spoke loudly enough for a single word to cross the threshold, an agony for every woman in the room.

When you finally heard the door unlatch, standing up was an instinct. You watched the exact moment your father allowed Anthony out of the study; he looked... well, composed, almost relieved. As your eyes met, his features softened into that characteristic smile of his, making you sigh in silent relief.

"[Name], my dear. Step in here for a moment," your father called instead, stealing your gaze away from your betrothed.

"Yes, Father." You set your embroidery upon the armchair and passed by Anthony into the quiet study.

You could feel your heart hammering wildly against your chest as he closed the door behind you and walked over to sit at his desk.

"I presume you already know the purpose of Sir Wesbury's visit," he began. You exhaled silently, murmuring a soft "yes" that allowed him to continue. "He has expressed a most sincere affection for you... He came to request my consent to offer you his hand... provided that is your desire."

You could not help but let out a soft, bashful laugh.

"Oh, Father, there is nothing I desire more," you confessed in a hushed, shy tone. Your father’s expression softened ever so slightly upon hearing you. "All the other lords are so dull, and Anthony... he is so deeply charismatic." You covered your mouth, trying in vain to hide the fond smile blooming upon your lips.

"It brings me peace to know your heart is truly in it," your father said thoughtfully, nodding. "Yet you must consider that his income is four thousand pounds a year... a sum far more modest than ours, which may require sacrifices to which you are unaccustomed."

"Four thousand pounds a year is more than enough to live comfortably; I should want for nothing more," you replied with unwavering conviction.

Your father nodded in quiet contemplation, scratching the stubble on his chin as he pondered. He said nothing further, simply continuing his slow nod.

"Consider it settled, then," he stated decisively. "I shall dispatch a letter to the archbishop to request a special license for the marriage. Afterwards, we may discuss the time and place."

A breath escaped your lips before you rushed forward to embrace him tightly. Demonstrations of physical affection were rare between you and your father, yet you were far too happy to care. You felt him return the embrace gently, patting your arm before you released him with a glowing smile.

"Thank you, Father."

"And do extend to Sir Wesbury my invitation to join us for dinner tonight."

That evening’s dinner proved to be far more than a mere formality. Anthony was already waiting outside, exchanging occasional Words with your mother and two sisters. When you extended your father’s invitation, you were certain his eyes gleamed with something akin to delight—though at that moment, you could not have guessed the true reason behind it. It was to be the first time you officially shared a meal together.

Your intentions were clear as you attempted to persuade him to stay for the remaining hours.

"I ought to return to the estate to prepare a few things first, and to prepare myself as well," he declined gently. "I should hardly wish to dine with my fiancée looking like this."

You wanted to tell him that he looked quite handsome enough as he was, but you had no desire to make him feel obligated to stay if he had other matters to attend to first. Thus, you accompanied him to the door and watched him take his leave from the property.

"What does it feel like to have secured one of London’s most coveted bachelors?" your mother whispered behind you, watching his departing figure.

When you turned, a gentle smile rested upon her face; you could see the entire weight of the social season lifting from her shoulders. You knew all too well that the chief concern of a mother with four daughters was to secure them a prosperous future and a respectable husband. A wave of pride washed over you, knowing you had managed to captivate a proper gentleman—one blessed with good fortune and a lively, bubbling personality like Anthony's. It was not as though ladies of this era enjoyed the luxury of marrying purely for love, so you felt deeply grateful that your best option had turned out to be, in truth, the finest choice of all.

Your mother affectionately tucked a lock of hair behind your ear.

"I shall dress your hair for dinner," she decided then, kissing your forehead before stepping inside.

The remainder of your day before dinner was spent in study and practice. Before luncheon, you devoted a good hour to the pianoforte while Mary learned to embroider alongside your mother, and Charlotte, as ever, lost herself in her reading. After luncheon, you spent hours painting in a small study, until Mary interrupted to show her progress in embroidery and ask for your assistance. It was not until nearly six in the evening that you began to prepare for dinner.

Ordinarily, family dinners were rather casual affairs; there was no need for corsets, cosmetics, or grand gowns. Yet, with your newly betrothed as an invited guest, social etiquette demanded you appear at least presentable.

"Upon closer inspection, I believe Sir Wesbury's eyes are more blue than green," Charlotte remarked, browsing through your vast collection of dresses. "Like the hue of the sea on a sunlit day."

"You ought to wear a blue gown," Mary chimed in.

"Why must you both always try to match my dresses to the color of his eyes?" you asked, sitting upon the bed as your sisters took it upon themselves to decide for you.

"Because it is romantic," Mary replied, pushing past Charlotte to hold up a pale blue dress before you—one that bore no resemblance whatsoever to the shade of Anthony's eyes.

Not that it mattered, in any case. For that very reason, you ended up ignoring them both and choosing a pale pink gown with puffed sleeves, a square neckline, and delicate pearl detailing across the bodice.

When the clock struck precisely eight-three, Anthony arrived at your father’s estate for the second time that day, looking unfairly attractive.

"My lady," he greeted you, pressing a kiss to the knuckles of your hand with that devilish, almost arrogant poise that you had found captivating from the start.

You were relieved to find that the atmosphere remained comfortable once the food was served and everyone was seated. The room felt warm, glowing under the candlelight that illuminated the tableware. Your mother insisted you sit opposite one another, as etiquette forbade betrothed couples from sitting side by side.

"It is my absolute pleasure, on behalf of my wife and myself, to say that we could not be more delighted to welcome Sir Wesbury to our table," your father began, raising his wine glass, prompting everyone to follow suit almost immediately. "Not merely as a guest, but as one who shall soon become part of this family."

"Why am I not permitted to drink wine as well?" Mary asked in a low whisper beside you, causing you to lean in to reply.

"You may drink wine when you are of age, Mary... Besides, it is not particularly grand," you murmured, keeping your tone low enough for only her ears.

"For a mother, it is a profound joy and peace of mind to know her daughter shall be in the hands of so faultless a gentleman. It is an invaluable blessing," your mother added to your father’s toast, her cheeks flushed as much from the warmth of the room as from the silent effect of the sweet, fruity wine.

"Your words honor me deeply," Anthony replied with an equally dazzling smile. "The trust you have placed in me by bestowing your daughter’s hand is the greatest honor I have ever received."

You smiled as you watched him, feeling your cheeks and ears warm under the weight of the attention.

"His intentions are entirely reciprocal, Sir," you offered, almost shyly.

"A toast to that!" your father called from the head of the table, and everyone drank from their glasses in harmony.

A comfortable silence fell over the room for a few minutes, broken only by the quiet clink of cutlery against porcelain.

"We have planned our customary stroll through Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon. Now that your intentions are official, I hope you will join us in the carriage, Sir Wesbury," your mother resumed with a flawless smile, after finishing a bite of potato salad.

You watched Anthony chew and swallow before replying.

"An absolute privilege," he nodded. "I have also taken the liberty of securing a box at the Drury Lane Theatre for next Friday. I trust you will all honor me with your company for the performance."

"We accept with delight, my Lord," you answered, cutting a tender piece of meat from your plate. "They say this season’s production is quite exceptional."

From that moment on, the conversation flowed effortlessly. Your mother led most of it, flitting smoothly from one topic to the next: art, the interests you shared, the estate Anthony was set to inherit from his family, the wedding date, the health of his kin. There was hardly a subject left untouched that evening.

By the time Anthony prepared to take his leave, his steps were slightly unsteady. After bidding farewell to your entire family, your mother granted you leave to escort him to the door to bid your betrothed goodnight.

"It has been a thoroughly delightful evening," Anthony said with a sigh, his cheeks rosy from the wine, his words slurring ever so slightly. "To know that we shall soon share my home..."

"The gentleness with which you speak of our future brings peace to my heart," you whispered, feeling your chest swell with affection.

You saw him reach out a hand toward you.

"May I?"

You felt your heart leap against your ribs. You offered him your hand and watched him bend down to kiss your knuckles. But, moved by a sudden stroke of boldness, you leaned in at the same moment, catching his lips with yours.

It was a chaste touch, and the sheer surprise of it made you both pull back immediately. Anthony stared at you, his lips slightly parted, his brow furrowed in pure confusion.

Yet, there was not a trace of rejection in his eyes.

"We are not meant to... Etiquette does not—"

"When have you and I ever heeded etiquette, Sir?" you interrupted softly, a slight shyness creeping into your tone.

At that, Anthony relaxed, letting out a quiet, amused chuckle.

"You speak the truth," he admitted. However, he made no move to kiss you again, and you did not attempt it a second time.

"Until tomorrow, Sir Wesbury," you said, gently releasing his hand with a smile.

He offered a flushed, graceful bow. "Until tomorrow, my Lady. Sweet dreams."

And with that, Anthony departed.

You watched him fade into the night in silence, completely unaware that it would be the very last time you would see him for a long time to come.

Dear readers of The Morning Chronicle, hold tight to your teacups, for Mayfair’s high society is trembling to its very roots.

What began as a tranquil, sunlit morning ended in the most thunderous scandal of the season.

The Duke of Bristol himself has been stripped of his mantle of invincibility. The rumor that once drifted through the corridors, whispering of "treason against the Crown," is no longer mere conjecture, but a grim reality. The scene was worthy of the most dramatic of plays: the King’s officers arrived at the Duke’s monumental residence, invading his drawing rooms. Before the astonished gazes of the servants, they read the royal arrest warrants.

The distinguished Duke was escorted to a somber black carriage that swept him away directly into the shadows of the Tower. Yet behind the mansion's doors remains the true disaster: a devastated duchess and her three young daughters, reduced in a matter of hours to the utmost uncertainty. The family now finds itself adrift in a sea of debts and crown investigations. The question hovering over the Mayfair air is as cruel as it is inevitable: how ever will they manage to survive?

The vilest blow, however, falls upon one of the eldest daughters. The poor young lady must not only bear the heavy stain of a father imprisoned for treason, but also the cowardice of her supposed suitor. That distinguished gentleman, who was already regarded as her near-fiancé, had not been seen in the ballroom for days, and today, with the tragedy confirmed, the man has simply vanished into thin air.

How remarkably convenient it is for some to lose both memory and affection the very moment a fortune evaporates!

The young lady’s reputation lies utterly ruined, and the drawing rooms of high society will not be slow to turn their backs on her. In our beloved Regency, a father accused of treason is a tragedy, but to be left stranded by your betrothed before the eyes of all is a social sentence from which one rarely recovers.

I shall keep my ears tuned to the carriages and the letters. In the meantime, dear ladies and gentlemen, do remember to keep a firm grip on your crowns... one never knows when the ground beneath your feet may give way.

"Stand up straight, Charlotte, you are slumping," you muttered under your breath to your younger sister.

The ballroom was stifling. Not only did you have to endure the heat of an overcrowded, relatively small space, but you also had to appear completely unbothered under the watchful eyes of practically all of English high society.

Charlotte’s debut had been flawless, considering the position your family was in. Or rather, what was left of it.

After your father’s imprisonment on charges of high treason, you were left with nothing. The Crown had seized the estate registered in his name, and your mother had been forced to hurriedly seek shelter with one of her brothers. His standing was far from the comfortable life you once knew, but given the circumstances, none of you were in any position to utter a single complaint.

Your mother had been fiercely proud in adhering to the social timeline that had been set from the beginning, even if you had failed to secure a husband in the allotted time. Charlotte would make her debut right after you, and Mary would follow the next year upon coming of age. Now, you had to share these society events with your younger sister and pray to whichever god was listening that she wouldn't meet the same fate as you.

As for Anthony, you knew nothing. He had vanished a little less than a year ago, toward the end of the last social season. Just as the gossip columns so gleefully reported, he had disappeared into the summer wind without a word, leaving you heartbroken and your family ruined.

He had not only ruined your reputation—you had hoped that upon marrying, he would be kind enough to allow your family to reside on the same estate you lived in, saving them from ruin. But a week after the agonizing ordeal, you learned with heavy grief that his disappearance was not due to pressing matters of importance.

Anthony Wesbury had simply abandoned you.

"I am standing straight," Charlotte whispered urgently back. "I can't breathe in this damned corset. How do you endure it?"

"You would breathe much better if you stood properly," you whispered in response.

Your mother was only a few paces away, likely attempting to rebuild a decent reputation for her daughters. You adored her—the way she remained steadfast before the masses just to secure the best for her children. You couldn't hope to become anyone better than her. That is, if you could ever marry after the ordeal with Anthony.

Your chest still heavy with grief whenever you thought of him.

"Would you like some sparkling wine? It will ease your nerves," you murmured to Charlotte. She seemed to notice your newly relaxed composure and nodded.

"Please."

You placed a hand on her shoulder before slipping away through the crowd, signaling a swift departure. You needed to find a footman carrying drinks to help calm your tense sister.

You hadn't received a single proposal. It was to be expected. At least Charlotte had one or two gentlemen keeping a watchful eye on her. It was a true relief.

"My lady," someone called out, catching your attention. Turning around, you saw one of the stewards standing tall before you with a polite smile. "Sir Norris requests your presence."

Sir Norris. The host of the ball, whom you had not yet had the pleasure of meeting.

You furrowed your brow slightly. Why would he wish to see you specifically? And in private?

"Follow me, if you please."

Your curiosity had always been your greatest flaw.

You followed the man in silence, weaving through the crowd to the foyer, where he led you down a deserted hallway. He opened the door to a private chamber and stepped aside with a slight bow to let you in.

What you saw upon entering made your blood run cold.

Anthony Wesbury himself, dressed in his usual attire. Your heart sank into your stomach. You felt the sudden urge to fly at him, to strike him, kick him, scream, cry—and then kiss him.

You were only snapped out of your daze when you heard the door click shut behind you.

"My lady," he greeted softly, offering a bow. He bore no smile; he looked quite grave. A bit of a beard and mustache had grown in, making him look unfairly handsome.

And you hated yourself for still finding him handsome.

"How ought I address you, Sir?" you asked with guarded coldness. "I was told Sir Norris required my presence."

"[Name]..." he began gently before letting out a sigh.

"At the very least, it is a relief to know you are alive and well rather than dead in a ditch," you said, unable to bite your tongue any longer.

"I apologize for leaving in such a manner," Anthony said carefully. "But I had reasons... good reasons."

"And would you care to explain those reasons?" you interrupted, holding your head high. "I believe a former betrothed deserves to know. It is the least you owe me."

You watched him nod and lower his gaze for a moment, clearly bracing himself to speak the truth.

"My name is not Anthony Wesbury." Your chest tightened with anguish, but you held your ground. "It is Lando Norris. And I am no viscount of any estate—I work as a spy for the Crown."

"I beg your pardon?" You blinked, staring at Anthony—or Lando—with a furrowed brow and eyes brimming with tears. Had it all been a lie?

"I had to conceal my true identity to protect the mission I was assigned to," Lando explained hastily, seeing the expression on your face. "And that is the only thing I have ever lied to you about, my lady."

"The only thing?" you repeated, your voice trembling. "Can you truly swear that your intentions with me were honorable?"

You saw him hesitate for a fraction of a second and let out a humorless huff, turning your head away to hide a foolish tear that had escaped. You couldn't bear this.

"Your father was accused of high treason against the Crown," Lando said quietly. "That was my doing."

You whipped your head back to him, stunned.

"Not only have you ruined my reputation, but you have also managed to leave my family destitute," you breathed out, utterly distraught.

"[Name]," Lando called sternly. "Your father was caught using his fleet to strike deals with enemies of the Crown. He played both sides to advance his own wealth, and there is no crime more severe. I found the proof in his study—"

"You used me," you whispered, your voice shaking. Just when you thought nothing else could shatter your perception of him any further.

He crossed the room in two long strides and gently cupped your face with both hands. His hands were large, completely framing your cheeks, and you only allowed it because you hadn't had time to react—and because you were weak. You were utterly weak for this man.

"I assure you, I did not. I never intended to fall in love with you," he murmured.

"How dare you speak of love?" you asked, thoroughly offended.

"It is the truth." Lando gave you that look. The one where his eyes softened, where he gazed intently at your face, tracing every feature, his pupils dilating from the sheer proximity. "That is why I returned. To offer you a solution to your predicament."

"With all due respect, Sir," you sniffled, "I highly doubt you possess anything that could fix my family's ruin."

"Marry me," he cut in, his tone bordering on eager. "Marry me as we originally agreed. Allow me to take care of your family. I will settle your mother and sisters in a fine estate and provide for them for the rest of their lives, if only you give me your hand."

You let out a shaky breath, your mind reeling. This man had sent your father to prison, condemned him under the highest offense in the land, destroyed your reputation, and cast your family into misery.

And now, he was offering a way out. He was standing tall in front of you, offering what you only used to dream about months ago.

"Let me mend what I broke," Lando urged in a low voice. "And let me prove to you that I speak the truth. That I have been devoted to you from the moment I first saw you speaking with those other gentlemen. That no other lady could ever evoke such feelings in me as you do."

"Lando," you whispered. His name—his real name—felt so foreign yet so right on your lips.

He wiped your tears away with his thumb, his gaze dropping to your lips with something akin to hunger.

"You will never go hungry again," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. "And I will never allow anyone to speak of you with disdain ever again. Never."

Your lips trembled as tears welled in your eyes once more. Anguish and relief warred within you, carving a hollow ache in your chest.

"Very well," you agreed in a faint whisper before he closed the distance between you with a proper kiss. A real kiss.

And you could feel just how starved he was for you by the way he tilted his head, holding yours firmly to pour his devotion into your mouth, his tongue tracing your upper lip before pulling your lower one between his own.

"Very well," you repeated between kisses.

There’s this flash of headlights—way too bright, way too close—and the screech of tires that sounds like a banshee screaming in your ear. You barely have time to suck in a breath before the world just… folds. The impact is a sickening, metal-crunching jolt that spins your car like a top. Glass sprays everywhere, a glittery, sharp rain inside your own vehicle, and for a split second, you feel weightless. Then gravity catches up, slamming you back into the seat as the car grinds to a final, jolting halt.

Everything stops.

Silence follows the chaos, heavy and ringing, before it’s punctured by the distant, rising wail of sirens. Your vision is swimming, blurring at the edges until the streetlights turn into long, smeary streaks of neon. You try to move your hand, but it’s like it belongs to someone else. Darkness creeps in from the corners, hungry and fast, swallowing the dashboard, the steering wheel, and the last shred of your consciousness.

"BP is crashing! Systolic is eighty and dropping."

"Get the fluids going. I need a line in now."

Voices. They’re frantic, tight-edged, bouncing off the hard surfaces of the trauma bay. You’re a passenger in your own body, floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching them rush around with your limbs. There’s the smell of antiseptic and ozone—so sharp it burns—and the rhythmic, annoying *beep-beep-beep* of the monitor that’s somehow the loudest thing in the room.

"CT's up. Look at that displacement."

The door swings open, the hinges hissing. Someone walks in, and the energy in the room shifts instantly. It’s that weird, heavy calm that only happens when someone who actually knows exactly what they’re doing shows up.

Dr. Piastri glides. He’s still in his theatre blues, his cap slightly askew, looking like he just finished performing a miracle on someone else and was ready to do it again for you. He doesn't look stressed, he doesn't look hurried, even though every second counts. He moves with this annoying, enviable precision, his eyes locked onto the screen of the monitors.

He leans in, his brow furrowed just enough to let you know he’s concentrating, those cool, clinical eyes scanning the grayscale map of your own skull. He’s seen a hundred of these, maybe a thousand. To him, you’re not a person right now; you’re a puzzle, a series of physiological problems that need a solution before the clock runs out.

He turns, and for a fleeting moment, he looks straight at you—or, well, through you. His voice is steady, low-pitched, and completely devoid of panic.

"Prep OR One," he commands, already stripping off his gloves and reaching for a fresh pair. "We don't have time."

— ​✦

Lights in the OR are blinding, humming with a frequency that vibrates right behind your eyes—or where your eyes would be if you weren't essentially off the grid. You are a series of vitals on a screen, a jagged mountain range of heart rate spikes and dips that Oscar is trying desperately to level out.

​Time doesn't exist in here. There’s just the rhythmic hiss-clack of the ventilator, the wet sounds of surgical instruments, and the low, steady murmur of the team. Oscar is a machine. He hasn't moved from his spot in hours, his posture rigid, his hands—those insanely steady, infuriatingly precise hands—dancing through the mess that used to be your brain.

​"BP is dipping again, Dr. Piastri. Forty over twenty," a resident stammers, their voice cracking.

​"Increase the pressors. Keep her MAP above sixty," Oscar barks back, not even looking up. He’s deep in the trenches now, staring into the cavernous opening of your skull, navigating around delicate tissue like he’s threading a needle in a hurricane. "Suction. No, the smaller tip. Watch the bleeders."

​You’re a project, a high-stakes bet he’s playing with, and he’s holding all the cards. Sweat is beading on his forehead, catching in his eyelashes, but he doesn't blink. He can’t afford to. Every time your pressure drops, the room freezes. You can practically feel the oxygen levels in the air thinning out, the way everyone holds their breath, waiting for the monitor to either stabilize or flatline. He’s the anchor. If he slips, you're gone.

​Twelve hours later, the constant beep of the monitor settles into a steady, rhythmic pulse. The sharp, metallic tang of blood finally starts to fade, replaced by the sterile, biting smell of closing sutures.

​"Bleeding is controlled. I've got the hematoma evacuated," Oscar says, his voice raspy, sounding like he’s been shouting for days. He pulls his hands back, finally breaking the trance, his shoulders dropping about three inches. He looks wrecked, honestly, but in that quiet, intense way that makes you think he’d do it all over again without a single complaint.

​Dr. Norris, standing near the head of the bed, lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He wipes his own brow, his eyes crinkling behind his mask as he glances at the monitor. "Nice save, mate. She’s stable."

​Oscar doesn't smile. He doesn't even look like he’s heard the praise. He’s already turning away, starting to peel off the layers of gore-covered plastic and latex. He grabs a fresh gauze pad and begins wiping his brow, his gaze still fixed on the heart monitor as if he’s trying to telepathically command your brain to start firing again.

​"It's not over," Oscar mutters, staring at you—really looking at your unconscious face—with a focus that’s almost terrifying. "She’s not out of the woods until she wakes up. Keep her sedated, monitor the swelling, and if the ICP rises by even a single point, you wake me up. Don't call the resident. Call me."

​He walks toward the scrub sinks, his steps heavy, looking like he’s carried the weight of the world—or at least your life—on his shoulders for the last half-day. You’re just a patient, a collection of variables, yet as he turns the corner out of the room, he keeps glancing back at the monitor, just to make sure the rhythm doesn't break.

— ​✦

Sunlight is aggressively poking through the ICU blinds, turning the room into a weird, dusty orange. You’re somewhere between "nothingness" and "the worst headache of your life."

​Oscar walks in with that same focused energy as before. He’s traded his blood-streaked scrubs for fresh ones, his hair looking slightly more ruffled than yesterday. He leans over the bed, checking the ventilator settings and reading the charts with a frown. He’s efficient, cold, and entirely focused on the data points shifting across your chart.

​"She’s still stable," he says to the nurse, his voice low and devoid of any extra fluff. "If she shows any signs of agitation, adjust the sedation. I’ve got rounds to finish."

​He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t reach out to smooth your hair or check your pulse manually unless he has to. You’re a success story in the making, a patient who didn’t crash, and he’s already moving on to the next one. He turns on his heel and disappears into the corridor.

​Four hours later, things change.

​You’re fighting through a thick, syrupy fog. Your limbs feel like they’re filled with lead, and your chest feels heavy, but your fingers—they’re twitching. A nurse notices it immediately, tapping the call button.

​"Dr. Piastri, please report to the ICU. Patient is waking up," she says, her voice echoing in the small room.

​He’s there before the nurse has even finished hanging up the phone. He’s got that same calm, unbothered expression, stepping to your bedside like he’s just checking the weather. His eyes lock onto yours, and he immediately shines a penlight in them, checking for pupillary response.

​"Can you hear me?" he asks, his tone clinical. "I need you to tell me your name. What’s your name?"

​You blink, the harsh light of the ICU stinging, but when your vision clears, you see him. Him. Your heart does this weird, fluttery thing, like it’s trying to jump out of your ribs. A huge, goofy, incredibly relieved smile stretches across your face, making your cheeks hurt.

​"You stayed," you whisper, your voice sounding like you’ve been swallowing gravel. You reach out, your fingers shaking, and manage to hook your hand around his. "I knew you wouldn't leave."

​The nurse standing by the monitor exchanges a worried look with Oscar. Anesthesia, definitely, she whispers.

​Oscar doesn’t even blink. He gently pries his hand away from yours, placing it back on the railing of the bed with a cool, detached efficiency. "I’m your surgeon," he says, repeating the line like he’s reading a script. "You were in an accident. You’re in the ICU. Can you tell me your name?"

​You let out a laugh, but it turns into a wet cough, so you just settle for shaking your head, your smile widening. "No, you’re not."

​He pauses, just for a second. His brow furrows, that tiny, precise line of annoyance appearing between his eyes. He’s a guy who likes facts, and right now, you’re not giving him any.

​"I’m Dr. Piastri," he says firmly, his voice dropping an octave as he moves to check your reflexes with a reflex hammer. "I operated on you. You need to focus. What is your name?"

​"Stop being so serious, baby," you giggle, ignoring the way he’s tapping at your knees to check your nervous system. You aren't even sure where you are, or why your head feels like it’s been hit by a truck, but you’re certain of one thing: he’s yours. "You look so cute when you’re pretending to be a doctor."

​Oscar stops mid-tap. He looks at you, then at the monitor, then back at you. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t blush. He just sighs, a short, sharp intake of breath, and scribbles something on your chart.

​"She’s disoriented," he says to the nurse, not even looking at you anymore. "Likely post-traumatic confusion mixed with residual anesthesia. Let's run a blood panel. I need to be sure the pressure hasn't spiked again."

​He goes back to poking and prodding, completely ignoring your attempts to grab his sleeve. He’s all business, and he’s clearly not playing your game.

— ​✦

Hours crawl by, each one marked by the rhythmic, soul-crushing drip of IV fluids and the incessant, mechanical chatter of machines that seem to have more to say than you do. You’re floating in a sea of static, your brain feeling like a scrambled radio frequency, trying to tune into a channel that keeps cutting out. Every time a nurse glides in to check your vitals—adjusting the drip, poking at your IV line, or checking the dressing wrapped tight around your skull—you’re searching. Your eyes dart toward the doorway, desperate for that one specific silhouette.

​"Where's my boyfriend?" you ask, your voice raspy and thin. The nurse, a woman with kind eyes and a tired expression, stops mid-task. She looks at you, then at the monitor, then slowly toward the door.

​"Honey, you need to focus on resting," she says softly, smoothing the sheets. "Your brain has been through a lot. Just breathe."

​Before you can protest, a man in a white coat breezes into the room. He’s got an easy, almost breezy confidence about him, his hair perfectly styled, a clipboard tucked under one arm. Dr. Russell. He offers a friendly, practiced smile, stepping toward the foot of your bed.

​"Morning. How are we feeling today?" he asks, reaching for the chart clipped to the railing. "Any headaches? Sensitivity to light? Let's just run through a few simple tests."

​You squint at him, your brow knitting together as you try to reconcile this person with the image currently burned into your retinas—the image of someone much more stoic, someone who looks at you like you’re the most important puzzle he’s ever had to solve.

​"No," you say, pushing his hand away when he reaches for your pupils with a penlight. "Not you."

​George stops, his eyebrows arching in surprise. "Pardon?"

​"I want him," you insist, your voice gaining a bit of impatient edge. "The one who was here. Why did you send him away? He was just here, he was checking on me, and then you just walked in like you own the place. Where is he?"

​The nurse and George exchange a look—one of those silent, professional conversations that feels like a heavy door slamming shut in your face. It’s patronizing, really. You know what you saw. You remember the way he leaned over you, the way his cool fingers felt against your skin, that intense, quiet focus he held you with.

​George clears his throat, his professional mask slipping back into place. "Alright. Let's just try to track my finger, okay? Follow it with your eyes. Don't move your head."

​He does his little dance—tracing circles in the air, asking you to name colors, asking you to count backward from a hundred. You do it, mostly because you’re bored and exhausted, but you don't take your eyes off the door. You’re waiting for Oscar. You’re waiting for the only person in this sterile, echoing building who makes sense.

​Once George is done, he scribbles a few final notes and retreats from the room, looking significantly more grave than when he entered. You hear the muffled murmur of voices in the hallway—George’s quick, rapid-fire tone, and a lower, more clipped response that makes your pulse jump. That’s him. That’s his voice.

​Out in the corridor, George leans against the nurses' station, lowering his voice. "She’s not tracking the logic, Oscar. She’s completely convinced you’re her partner. It’s classic post-op agitation, but the facial recognition is shot to hell. She sees you as her safety anchor because you were the first thing she focused on when she came to."

​Oscar stands there, hands buried deep in the pockets of his lab coat. He’s listening, his head tilted slightly, his face completely unreadable. He’s not laughing, he’s not brushing it off—he’s processing the data. "Is it purely associative?"

​"Seems like it," George replies, gesturing toward your room. "The trauma to the temporal lobe is likely disrupting her ability to categorize people correctly. She’s mapping 'safety' and 'familiarity' directly onto you. It’s a temporary synaptic misfire."

​Oscar stays silent for a long moment, staring through the glass at your prone form. He’s a man of science, a man who relies on the absolute predictability of neural pathways, and the idea that your brain is malfunctioning so spectacularly—and so specifically—seems to irritate him as much as it intrigues him. He doesn't see a "boyfriend." He sees a misfiring neuron, a broken circuit that needs him to bridge the gap.

​"Right," Oscar says finally, his voice clipped. "I’ll handle the next assessment. If she can't distinguish me from a significant other after another twenty-four hours, we'll need to schedule a follow-up MRI to check for secondary swelling."

​He turns back toward your room, his walk steady and purposeful. He knows what’s going on now—the "why" of your weird, desperate attachment—and he’s decided to tackle it with the same clinical, detached precision he used to crack your skull open and fix your brain. He’s not your boyfriend, and he’s clearly determined to remind you of that, one diagnostic question at a time.

—

Plastic tray sits on your bedside table, the hospital-grade porridge looking like sad, grey paste. You stare at it with genuine hostility. A nurse tries to nudge it closer to you, her expression hopeful, but you just cross your arms over your chest and lean back into the pillows, pointedly ignoring the steaming cup of tea.

​"Not happening," you say, your voice firm despite the headache that still pulses behind your temples.

​"You need your strength, honey," the nurse sighs, adjusting the monitor cables near your shoulder. "The doctors need you eating if we're going to get you out of this unit."

​"I'm not eating until he gets here," you reply, keeping your eyes glued to the doorway. "He knows I like my eggs a certain way. If I eat this, he’ll think I’m settling."

​"Who? Dr. Russell?"

​You roll your eyes so hard it makes your head spin. "Don't be dense. You know who. My boyfriend. The guy who saved me. Tell him I’m waiting."

​The nurse bites her lip, looking toward the hallway. She’s dealt with head trauma patients before, but this specific brand of stubborn delusion—paired with your absolute conviction—is making everyone on the floor twitchy. She eventually gives up and slips out into the hall, and you hear her soft, hurried footsteps clicking away toward the main station.

​Five minutes later, she returns, looking slightly frazzled. She picks up the phone on the wall and dials a sequence of numbers, her voice dropping to a near whisper as she explains the situation.

​Across the hospital, in the bustling neuro-trauma lounge, Oscar is currently staring down a wall of monitors. He’s already pushed through rounds for a dozen people, and he’s staring at a daunting list of twenty-three other patients who all need him for something different—a post-op check, a scan review, a shunt adjustment. He rubs the back of his neck, his thumb digging into the muscle, feeling the weight of the day pressing into his shoulders.

​The phone rings, and he snatches it up, his tone already weary. “Piastri.”

​"Dr. Piastri, I’m so sorry to bother you," the nurse starts, her voice tight with apology. "It’s the patient in room 412. The subdural hematoma."

​Oscar’s grip on the phone tightens. "I just saw her four hours ago. Has the pressure spiked? Is she showing signs of neurological decline?"

​"No, nothing like that, she’s physically stable," the nurse says, pausing. "But she’s refusing to eat. She won’t touch a single thing unless you’re here. She says you’re her boyfriend and she’s waiting for you to supervise her meal."

​Oscar lets out a long, slow exhale that sounds more like a growl of frustration than a sigh. He leans against the counter, staring at the list of twenty-three names still waiting for his attention. "You’ve got to be kidding me. I have twenty-three other patients in various stages of critical care, and she’s holding her breakfast hostage for a social visit?"

​"I know, Doctor, I’m sorry," she whispers. "But she’s stubborn. She’s not moving."

​Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a split second as he tries to summon the patience that usually defines him. He’s a surgeon; he deals with trauma, with blood, with the cold, hard reality of biology. He doesn't do "emotional support," and he certainly doesn't do "boyfriend."

​"Fine," he snaps, though there’s a flicker of something else beneath the irritation—maybe a begrudging realization that if you’re stubborn enough to refuse food after a brain bleed, you’re just stubborn enough to cause yourself secondary harm through sheer force of will. "Tell her I’m coming. And for god’s sake, make sure her charts are updated. If she gets dehydrated, that’s on you."

​He slams the phone down, grabs his tablet, and starts walking. He’s not going because he wants to play along. He’s going to make sure your brain doesn’t decide to swell up just because you’re being impossible.

​When he pushes through your door a few minutes later, he looks every bit the busy, annoyed professional. His lab coat is crisp, his stride long and purposeful, and he doesn't even bother with a greeting. He walks straight to the foot of your bed, checks the monitor, and then crosses his arms, looking down at you with a brow arched so high it’s almost mocking.

​"I’m told there’s a hunger strike," he says, his voice flat. "Do you have any idea how much work I have to do right now, or are you just trying to see how much of my time you can waste?"

The grin spreading across your face is wide enough to make your jaw ache, but you don't care. Seeing him standing there—all sharp lines, no-nonsense posture, and that infuriatingly stoic expression—is exactly what you needed to snap out of the fog. You don't see a neurosurgeon with a list of twenty-three other patients; you see the guy who’s supposed to be holding your hand, not a chart.

​"You came," you say, your voice bright and airy, completely ignoring the fact that you’ve got a catheter taped to your arm and your skull feels like it’s being held together by hope and surgical glue. You reach out, fingers splayed, and lean toward him. "You look exhausted, though. Have you been sleeping, baby? Even with those dark circles, your eyes are still ridiculous. Is it part of the job requirement to be this handsome, or are you just showing off for me?"

​Oscar doesn’t even blink. He doesn't soften. He stands there like he’s made of granite, his hands tucked firmly into the pockets of his coat. Behind him, a small cluster of interns—mostly young, eager-looking faces hiding behind clipboards—hover in the doorway. They’re watching you with a mix of morbid curiosity and professional terror.

​"Focus," Oscar says, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register he uses when he’s trying to keep a situation from spiraling. "You are not here to critique my appearance. You are here to demonstrate adequate cognitive recovery, which, so far, you are failing."

​You ignore the lecture, shifting your hand until your fingers catch his sleeve. "I’m focused. I’m focusing on you. I mean, look at you—scrubs, coat, that little furrow in your brow. It’s a lot, honestly. How do you keep it together? Is it hard being the best-looking guy in the entire hospital?"

​You try to drag his hand toward yours, your fingers brushing against his skin, warm and insistent. You want the contact. You need it. It’s the only thing that makes the world feel solid again.

​He reacts instantly, but it’s not the reaction you’re hoping for. He doesn't recoil, he doesn't flinch—he just gently, methodically peels your fingers off his sleeve and places his hands back at his sides, out of your reach. The move is practiced, surgical, and utterly devoid of warmth. It’s the kind of rejection that would hurt if you weren't so convinced he’s just playing hard to get.

​"I’m your doctor," he says, the words clipped and flat. He turns to the intern standing closest to the door, gesturing toward your IV line with a sharp flick of his chin. "Increase the saline drip; she’s bordering on dehydrated. And chart the patient’s continued confusion. She’s still presenting with clear signs of postoperative social disinhibition."

​"Social disinhibition?" you repeat, letting out a laugh that sounds a bit too sharp in the quiet room. You look at the interns, who are staring at the floor with intense interest, and wink at them. "He’s such a tease, right? He gets shy when he’s on the clock. Don't worry, baby, I know you can’t act like this in front of your little students, but we can talk about it later, yeah?"

​One of the interns coughs, a strangled sound that’s clearly an attempt to hide a laugh, and Oscar’s eyes snap toward them. That’s enough to kill the room’s energy instantly. He turns back to you, his face a perfect mask of clinical indifference.

​"Your condition is a result of trauma to the brain, not a romantic comedy," Oscar says, leaning in just enough so that you have to look directly into his eyes. There’s no affection there—just a stark, terrifying level of focus. "You are experiencing a misfire in your emotional processing centers. Your brain is trying to assign 'safety' to the person who performed the surgery, and it’s manifesting as an irrational emotional attachment. It is not real. It is not happening. Now, I need you to lift your left leg. Follow the command, or I will have to increase your sedation."

​He stares at you, waiting. No smile, no softness, no sign that he’s ever even heard the word 'baby' before in his life. He is the picture of professional distance, and as you look at him, you realize he’s going to hold this line until you finally start acting like a patient and not a partner.

​You sigh, dropping your leg back onto the bed, but you still keep that smile fixed on your face. "Fine, keep playing the part. I know the truth."

​"There is no part," he says, pulling his penlight out to check your pupils for the third time that morning. "There is only recovery. Lift your leg."

— ​✦

Physical therapy is a nightmare, mostly because your head feels like it’s being held together by duct tape and sheer willpower. A therapist—some guy named Miller with an infuriatingly cheerful disposition—is standing there with a clipboard, asking you to perform basic balancing exercises that make you feel like a newborn giraffe. You’ve been staring at the wall for twenty minutes, refusing to move a muscle.

​"I’m not doing this," you say, crossing your arms and glaring at the empty hallway.

​"Come on, just a few steps," Miller pleads, his voice thin with exhaustion. "Your motor functions need the stimulation, or we’re going to be looking at a much longer recovery time."

​"He said he’d be here," you mutter, stubborn as hell. "My boyfriend said he’d watch me do the first session. He doesn't like it when I do things without him, and I’m not breaking his heart by doing this while he’s not looking."

​Miller sighs, a long, rattling sound. He looks like he’s ready to toss his clipboard through the window. "I don't have a record of any visitor authorization for a boyfriend. Do you mean Dr. Piastri?"

​"Yes, exactly," you beam, as if Miller finally caught onto the obvious. "Go get him. Tell him I’m waiting, and I’m not taking a single step until he’s in the room to make sure I don't fall."

​He turns to walk out, but he stops dead in his tracks. Oscar is leaning against the doorframe, arms folded tightly across his chest, his eyes unreadable. He’s been standing there for at least five minutes, just watching the stalemate. He doesn't look like he’s enjoying it—he looks like he’s observing a particularly difficult lab specimen.

​"Dr. Piastri," Miller says, sounding relieved. "She won't start."

​Oscar doesn't say a word. He just walks into the center of the room, his presence instantly sucking the air out of the space. He doesn't look at Miller; he keeps his eyes locked directly onto yours. There’s no warmth in his expression, just that familiar, high-stakes intensity.

​"You want me to watch?" Oscar asks, his voice low and raspy. He doesn't offer a hand, doesn't offer a smile. He just stands there, a silent sentinel waiting for a performance.

​You feel a sudden, electric jolt of motivation. You don't know why, but with him standing there, the ache in your head seems to dim. You stand up, your legs wobbling, and start the sequence of exercises. You don't trip. You don't stumble. You finish every single movement with a focus that makes Miller look like he’s forgotten how to breathe. When you’re finally done, you’re breathless, leaning on the railing, looking at Oscar for approval. He gives a single, sharp nod—the bare minimum—and turns on his heel, exiting the room without a word.

​Lunch in the breakroom is a cacophony of clattering trays and low-level gossip, but the mood shifts the second Oscar drops his bowl of salad onto the table. George and Lando are already seated, and they’ve been waiting for him.

​"You’re late," Lando says, grinning around a forkful of pasta. "Must be busy doing your rounds of emotional support, huh?"

​George snorts into his coffee. "Seriously, Oscar. Your girlfriend was asking for you again. She wouldn't move until she had an audience for her PT session. It’s becoming a bit of a legend on the floor."

​Oscar doesn't look up from his salad. He stabs a piece of lettuce with clinical precision. "She’s not my girlfriend."

​"You sure?" Lando asks, his eyebrows dancing in a way that suggests he knows exactly how much this is bothering his friend. "Because I heard she told the entire nursing staff that you promised to supervise her. That sounds like a 'boyfriend' thing to do."

​"She’s suffering from post-traumatic cognitive displacement," Oscar says, his voice flat and perfectly rehearsed, the way he’d explain a diagnosis to a nervous intern. "She’s mapping her survival onto the first person she saw when she woke up. It’s an involuntary neurological response. It has absolutely nothing to do with me personally."

​"You’re very sure about that?" George needles, leaning back in his chair, a smug glint in his eyes. "Because most neurosurgeons don't go to PT sessions just to act as an audience for a patient who thinks they're dating."

​"I was checking on her progress," Oscar replies, his tone icy. "It was a clinical observation. Nothing more."

​He keeps his face perfectly blank, staring at his lunch as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. But he doesn't see the salad. In his mind, he’s replaying the way you stood up—the way your eyes lit up when he walked in, the sheer, irrational trust you placed in him. It’s absurd. It’s medically incorrect. It’s a complete violation of every boundary he’s spent his entire career building.

​As Lando and George launch into a debate about the weekend race results, the conversation drifts away from you. The table goes quiet for a second as someone grabs a napkin. Oscar, thinking he’s shielded by the low light of the corner booth and the chatter of the room, lets his guard drop for just a fraction of a second.

​A small, genuine smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—a brief, soft expression that he quickly hides by taking a sip of his water. It’s a look of secret, begrudging amusement, a flicker of humanity that betrays everything he just told his friends. She’s a disaster, she’s a scientific anomaly, and she’s the most frustrating patient he’s ever had—but for the first time in years, he’s not just thinking about the work. He’s thinking about the way you called him 'baby' in front of the interns, and for a fleeting, impossible moment, he doesn't hate the sound of it at all.

— ​✦

Strolling down the ICU corridor, Oscar catches himself doing it again. It’s supposed to be a random rotation, a methodical check of every bed from 401 to 415, but his boots are already heading for 412 before he even finishes charting the last case. It’s an automated response, like a muscle memory, and it makes him stop dead in his tracks.

​Why are you here first? he thinks, his jaw tightening. You’re not the most critical patient—the guy in 405 has a much higher risk of secondary hemorrhaging—but here he is, staring at your door.

​A small, stupid smile is plastered on his face before he can catch it, and he feels a sharp, hot prick of guilt in his chest. He’s a doctor. He’s a neurosurgeon. He is not supposed to be looking forward to these sessions like a schoolboy. He immediately wipes his expression clean, scrubbing the amusement away until his face is just a blank, clinical slate. He takes a breath, checks his watch to remind himself of the clinical reality, and pushes the door open.

​You’re sitting up, looking much more alert than yesterday, and the second you see him, that signature grin of yours lights up the room.

​"Hey, handsome," you chirp, not missing a beat. You don’t even wait for a greeting. "I was starting to think you forgot about me. What took you so long? Did those other patients hold you hostage with their boring medical problems?"

​Oscar keeps his eyes firmly fixed on your IV bag, walking past you to check the monitor settings. "I was busy, as I have been all morning. We have a lot to cover today. How’s the headache level? One to ten."

​"Zero, as long as you're in the room," you say, batting your eyelashes at him. You’re watching his every movement, your eyes tracking the way he leans over the bedside table. "Seriously, though, have you eaten? You look like you need a break. Why don't you pull up a chair and tell me something about yourself? Like, do you have a favorite color? Does it match your scrubs?"

​He reaches for his penlight, his movements sharp and efficient. "Eyes on me, please. I need to check your pupils."

​You lean in, way closer than is professional, and he has to consciously pull back to maintain the barrier. You aren't making this easy. You never make it easy.

​"I have a favorite color," you tease, ignoring his request and staring right at his lips instead of the penlight. "It’s whatever color your eyes are when you’re looking at me. They’re kind of intense right now, don't you think? Is it the job? Or are you just happy to see me?"

​"Pupils," he says, his voice flat, not giving you an inch. He shines the light, watching the way they contract. Everything is perfect—too perfect. His medical assessment confirms you are physically recovering, but your social radar is still completely haywire. "Your tracking is sluggish. Stop the chatter and follow the light."

​"I am following it," you whisper, your voice dropping to a playful, intimate register that has no business being in a hospital room. "I’m following you everywhere you go. You know, you’re really bad at hiding how much you like this, Dr. Piastri. You’re doing such a good job at being the stoic, serious surgeon, but I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention."

​Oscar clicks the penlight off with a sharp snap. He records the result on your chart, his hand steady even though the heat in the room feels like it’s spiked. "You are not seeing anything, because there is nothing to see. You are a patient, and I am the one managing your recovery. That is the beginning and the end of our dynamic."

​He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a second, he’s not just a doctor. He’s a guy trying to keep his composure while you try your hardest to dismantle it. "Don't mistake clinical concern for anything else. Keep your focus on the recovery exercises, or I’ll have to move you to a room closer to the nursing station where you can have 'supervision' twenty-four-seven."

​"Is that a threat?" you giggle, undeterred, reaching out to pat his hand. "Because it sounds like you just want me closer to you. I’d love that."

​He pulls his hand away before you can make contact, tucking it back into his pocket. He is a wall. He is a fortress. He is the best neurosurgeon in Australia. But as he turns toward the door to check on the next patient, he feels that tiny, annoying smile threatening to break through his defenses all over again.

"Tell me something that isn't about my brain," you say, propping your chin on your hand as he finishes jotting down the day’s final neurological findings. "I’m sick of talking about hematomas and cranial pressure. What do you actually do when you aren't busy being a genius with a scalpel?"

​Oscar pauses, his pen hovering over the chart. He looks up, clearly surprised that you’ve managed to shift gears from romantic delusion to actual conversation. He’s tired—you can see it in the way his shoulders slump, just a fraction—but he doesn't immediately shut you down this time.

​"I don't really have a 'when'," he admits, his voice dropping that clinical edge for something a little more human. "My schedule is… well, it’s basically an impossibility. Between the surgeries, the rounds, and the emergency call-outs, most of my 'hobbies' are just trying to find enough time to sleep or catch the Formula 1 highlights."

​"F1? Really?" You sit up straighter, your eyes widening. "Don't tell me you're one of those people who spends their Sunday nights obsessing over tire degradation and team radio drama. Because if you are, I might actually have to forgive you for being such a stick-in-the-mud."

​A ghost of a smirk actually touches his face. "Maybe. It’s hard to watch live, obviously, but I keep up. I like the engineering side of it. The precision. It’s not that different from what I do, really."

​"Except you get to save lives instead of just chasing a championship trophy," you counter, grinning. "So, what’s your favorite food, then? And don't say hospital cafeteria salad. I know you're better than that."

​"Pizza," he says, almost too quickly, then seems to realize he’s revealed something personal. "Simple. Reliable. Doesn't require much thought after a fourteen-hour shift."

​"See? That wasn't so hard," you tease. "We’re practically compatible already. If we weren't dating, we’d have to invent a reason to start."

​Oscar’s face instantly hardens, that professional wall slamming back into place like a steel shutter. "We’re not dating. We have never been dating. And we are not going to start."

​You burst out laughing, the sound ringing through the sterile room, making him blink in genuine confusion. "You’ve said that so many times now, Oscar. It’s like you’re trying to convince yourself more than me. I just like seeing you blush—you’ve got this weird, patchy color that creeps up your neck whenever I get under your skin. It’s actually kind of adorable."

​He flushes a deep, frustrated crimson, his jaw tightening so hard you can see the muscle jump. He snaps your chart shut, his eyes flashing with a mix of annoyance and something he refuses to name. "Assessment is over. Eat your dinner, keep your head elevated, and try to get some actual sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow."

​He turns on his heel and marches out of the room, his stride a little less controlled than usual.

— ​✦

Oscar is walking toward his car, keys already in his hand, when George falls into step beside him. George looks like he’s just finished a grueling shift, but his eyes are sharp and far too observant.

​"You’re playing a dangerous game, mate," George says, his voice low as they navigate between rows of parked vehicles. "I’ve seen the way you talk about her. And I’ve seen the way you act when you think no one is watching. You’re starting to get too invested."

​Oscar doesn't even look at him. He just keeps walking, his eyes fixed on the taillights of his car. "I know, George. I’m a neurosurgeon. I know exactly what I’m doing. It’s a patient-doctor dynamic, and I’m maintaining the necessary distance."

​"Are you?" George asks, stopping by the driver’s side door. "Because you're coming in on your days off, Oscar. That’s not 'maintaining distance.' That’s choosing to be there."

​Oscar just opens his car door, his expression an absolute mask of deadpan indifference. "It’s called monitoring a recovery. I’m thorough."

​Before George can respond, a frantic, high-pitched thud-thud-thud of running footsteps echoes through the lot. Lando Norris comes sprinting around the corner, his stethoscope swinging wildly around his neck and his lab coat flapping in the wind. He catches up to them, doubled over, panting, with a massive, shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

​"Wait… for… me!" Lando gasps, slapping a hand onto the roof of Oscar’s car. He looks up at Oscar, his eyes dancing with pure, unadulterated mischief. "I just walked past the nurse’s station, and I heard something interesting. Something about a certain neurosurgeon who’s supposedly 'just doing rounds' but is actually spending forty minutes debating the merits of thin-crust pizza with a patient."

​Oscar stares at him, his face completely unreadable. "It was a clinical discussion about dietary recovery."

​"Oh, 'clinical discussion', is it?" Lando laughs, elbowing him in the ribs. "Since when does clinical mean you’re checking if she likes pepperoni? You’re cooked, Oscar. You’re absolutely, completely cooked."

​Oscar doesn't even bother to deny it anymore. He just gets into his car, tosses his bag onto the passenger seat, and rolls the window down just enough to look at his friends. "I’m going home. If either of you mentions this again, I’m putting you on the emergency trauma roster for the rest of the month."

​"Yeah, yeah, see you tomorrow, lover boy!" Lando shouts as the engine turns over.

​Oscar pulls away, his car lights cutting through the darkness, but as he checks his rearview mirror, that small, impossible smile finds its way back onto his face. It’s quiet, it’s secret, and it’s entirely yours.

— ​✦

Days start blurring together, a repetitive cycle of vitals, medication, and the slow, agonizing process of remembering who you are. The fog in your head is finally lifting, dissipating like steam off a mirror. You’re starting to recognize the faces that drift in and out of your life, the blurry shapes turning into distinct, familiar features.

​Your mom and sister walk into the room one afternoon, their arrival marked by the scent of fresh flowers and that specific, overwhelming sense of "home" that makes you want to cry. They hover over you, touching your hair, asking a thousand questions about your recovery. It’s comforting, solid, real. You remember them. You know their names, their voices, the way your mom laughs when she’s nervous. It’s a massive win, a sign that the worst is truly behind you.

​But then, the door hinges creak, and the air in the room shifts instantly. Oscar walks in. He looks exhausted, his tie loosened, a stray lock of hair falling over his forehead, and your heart does that familiar, traitorous flip-flop.

​"Dr. Piastri!" you chirp, your face lighting up as if he’s brought the sun with him. You turn to your mom, your eyes bright with pride. "Mom, meet Oscar. He’s my boyfriend, and he’s basically a hero. He saved me, literally."

​Your mom glances at him, her face full of genuine gratitude. She steps forward, her hand reaching out to squeeze his arm. "Dr. Piastri, I don't know how to thank you. We’ve heard everything—about the surgery, the long hours, how you wouldn't leave her side. You’ve given us our daughter back. Truly, we are so, so grateful."

​Oscar stands there, stiff as a board. He doesn't look at you, and he doesn't look at your mom. He keeps his gaze fixed on a point somewhere just past her shoulder, his expression a masterpiece of professional restraint. "It was my job, ma'am. I’m just glad she’s recovering so well."

​"He’s so humble," you add, beaming at him. You reach out, your fingers sliding into his, your grip firm and possessive. "He’s been taking care of me every single day. I don't know what I’d do without him."

​He doesn't pull away this time—maybe because your mom is right there, maybe because he’s too tired to fight the battle—but he doesn't squeeze your hand back, either. He just stands there, a hollow shell of a man playing the part of a saint, while you look at him with a devotion that’s equal parts sweet and heartbreaking.

​Later that evening, when the room is quiet and the visitors have left, he returns to check your neurological status one last time. You’re tired, your eyelids heavy, but you still smile when you see him.

​"They seem nice," he says quietly, his voice lacking its usual clinical edge. He’s looking at your chart, not at you.

​"They are," you agree, shifting in the bed. "They love you, too. My mom said you’re 'very impressive.' I told her that was an understatement."

​He finally looks at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. He’s spent weeks fighting this, weeks telling everyone who would listen that you were confused, that your brain was misfiring, that it was all just a symptom. Now, as your memory returns and you start to piece the world back together, he realizes that the "symptom" is fading. Soon, you’ll look at him and see just a doctor—a guy in a white coat who did his job and moved on to the next patient.

​He should be relieved. This is the medical goal. This is the success story. But looking at you now, with the memory of your mom thanking him for being your 'boyfriend' still ringing in his ears, he feels a cold, sinking sensation in his gut.

​"Is the headache getting better?" he asks, though he sounds like he’s forcing the words out.

​"Yeah," you say, your voice soft. "Everything’s getting clearer. I think I’m almost back to normal."

​He nods slowly, his hand clenching at his side. "That’s… that’s good. That’s what we want."

​He turns to leave, his movements heavy and uncharacteristically sluggish. He reaches the door and stops, his hand lingering on the frame for a heartbeat too long. He’s terrified. He’s a man who has mastered life-or-death scenarios, who can slice into the human brain without a tremor, yet the idea that you might wake up tomorrow and look at him with simple, clinical indifference scares him more than anything he’s ever faced in the OR.

​He doesn't want you to be 'normal' if 'normal' means you stop looking at him like he’s the only person in the world who matters. He’s supposed to be the one who saves you, but as he steps out into the hallway, he realizes you’ve managed to do something far more dangerous: you’ve made him hope that he isn't just your surgeon. And that, he knows, is a problem he can't fix with a scalpel.

— ​✦

"So, here’s the plan," Oscar says, his voice is professional as he taps the tablet in his hand. He’s standing at the foot of your bed, not leaning, not lingering, just delivering the data like he’s reading a report on a standard post-op recovery. "Your vitals have remained consistent for seventy-two hours. Neurological markers are within the normal threshold. Assuming your CT scan tomorrow shows no unexpected shifts in the tissue, we’re looking at discharge in about two days."

​He looks up, expecting you to start with the usual banter, maybe a comment about his appearance or a playful jab about him 'forgetting' to bring you something from the canteen. But you’re silent. You’re really looking at him—not through the haze of medication, not through the lens of that weird, desperate feeling of safety you’ve been clinging to, but with actual, objective clarity. You look at the sharp line of his jaw, the slight exhaustion in his eyes, the sterile blue of his scrubs, and then you look around the room.

​White walls. The relentless, rhythmic beep of the monitor. The tray of sad, congealed food. The IV stand. The reality of it hits you like a physical force, cold and jarring.

​"...Wait," you whisper, the word barely escaping your throat.

​Your mind starts to race, the connections sparking in your brain like short-circuited wiring. You think about the way you’ve been acting, the way you’ve been talking to him—the way you’ve been possessing him. The memories slam back into you in a chaotic, Technicolor montage.

​There you are, calling him 'baby' in front of a group of terrified-looking interns who were just trying to take your blood pressure. You recall yourself leaning over the side of the bed, trying to kiss his cheek while he was holding a reflex hammer, acting like it was a casual, everyday occurrence for you to flirt with the man who had just finished performing invasive brain surgery on you. You picture yourself introducing him to your mother—your own mother—as your boyfriend, seeing the way he stood there, frozen and stoic, trying to balance his professional duty with the absolute absurdity of your claims.

​It all comes rushing back: the hunger strikes because he wasn't there, the refusal to do physical therapy unless he was watching, the way you’d grab his hand and hold onto it like he was a lifeline you were afraid to lose. It wasn't love. It wasn't destiny. It was a massive, humiliating, high-speed collision of post-operative confusion and a desperate, misdirected need for comfort.

​You feel the heat rising up your neck, a wave of mortification so intense it makes your skin prickle. You can’t even hold his gaze anymore. You look down at your hands, then at the sheets, then at the pillow. You can’t handle the weight of the realization.

​Without a word, you lunge forward, grabbing the closest pillow and burying your face into it, muffling a groan that comes from the very bottom of your soul. You press your forehead into the soft fabric, wishing you could just burrow into the mattress and vanish into the hospital floor.

​"Oh my God," you wail, the sound distorted by the pillow. "Oh my God, no."

​Oscar stops. His tapping on the tablet halts abruptly. He stands there, his posture shifting from rigid to slightly baffled. He’s spent weeks bracing himself for your antics, for the next bizarre comment, the next attempt to hold his hand or pull him into a 'date.' This reaction? This genuine, soul-crushing wave of embarrassment? This wasn't in the manual.

​"Hey," he says, his voice dropping into a much softer, more tentative register. "What happened? Are you feeling dizzy? Is the pressure spiking again? Talk to me—I need you to tell me what’s wrong."

​"I did it," you mumble into the pillow, your voice thick with shame. "I literally… I called you baby. In front of the interns. I told my mom we were dating. I refused to eat my porridge like a toddler."

​You roll onto your back, finally pulling the pillow down to your chest, clutching it like a shield. Your face is probably as red as a fire engine, and you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes.

​"I am so sorry," you breathe out, staring at the ceiling. "I was… I don't even know what I was. I was out of it. And you just—you just stood there. You let me do all of that, and you didn't even stop me. You must think I’m the most insane person you’ve ever had to treat."

​Oscar stays where he is, his hands still holding the tablet, but his thumbs have stopped moving. He looks at you, and for the first time in weeks, his guard isn't just lowered—it’s completely dismantled. He isn't the stoic, impenetrable surgeon anymore. He looks almost… relieved.

​"You're not insane," he says, and there’s a flicker of something in his voice—not pity, not irritation, but a strange, quiet warmth. "You were dealing with a severe brain injury, and your brain was trying to figure out how to make sense of the situation. It was a neurological response, not a personality flaw."

​"Still," you insist, letting out a sharp, self-deprecating laugh. "It’s beyond humiliating. I’m so sorry, Oscar. Truly. You’ve been trying to do your job this whole time and I’ve been treating you like… like I was writing a fanfiction about you in real-time."

​Oscar lets out a low chuckle, a sound so rare and genuine that you find yourself turning your head to look at him properly. He looks less like a doctor and more like a guy who’s just been let out of a very long, very exhausting cage.

​"It was," he says, pausing to find the right word, "certainly an unconventional recovery, I’ll give you that."

​"Are you ever going to let me live this down?" you ask, finally managing a weak, shy smile.

​Oscar watches you, and that familiar, secret smile starts to tug at the corner of his mouth again—the one he usually hides when he thinks you aren't looking. He doesn't look away this time.

​"Well," he says, his voice soft, "you're being discharged in two days. Maybe I’ll start by forgetting most of it. But don't count on me forgetting the bit about the porridge."

— ​✦

Sunlight is streaming in, but you’d honestly prefer to be buried under the covers like an ostrich. You stare intently at your fingernails, studying your cuticles like they hold the secrets to the universe, anything to avoid looking at the man standing at the end of your bed.

​Oscar is checking your charts, his movements precise and familiar. Click, scribble, pause. It’s the same routine as always, but today, it feels like he’s performing an autopsy on your dignity.

​"I’m so sorry," you mutter for the tenth time since he walked in, your voice small and tight. "Seriously. It’s never going to happen again. I’ve reached peak levels of cringeworthy, and I’m genuinely mortified."

​Oscar doesn't look up from the clipboard. He just keeps reading, his expression unreadable. "You don't need to apologize. I’ve told you, it was a medical side effect. It’s not something you had control over."

​"I absolutely do need to apologize," you counter, finally glancing up—but only to his chin, because meeting his eyes is still a bridge too far. "You’re a world-class neurosurgeon, and I spent a week treating you like a character in a bad soap opera. I’ve been far more embarrassed than this, but I think this officially takes the gold medal."

​He stops reading. He sighs, a sound that isn't quite annoyed but definitely sounds weary. He finally meets your gaze, and his expression is unyielding—the same professional mask he’s worn since the first day.

​"If we’re going to discuss this, let’s get it out of the way so we can focus on your actual health," he says, his voice steady. "Yes, the behavior was unconventional. But in the context of what you went through? It’s completely irrelevant. My focus is, and has always been, on your recovery. The rest of it… it’s just background noise."

​It’s the most "doctor" thing he could possibly say. It’s meant to be reassuring, but it feels like a bucket of ice water. Of course, it’s background noise to him. He’s the professional. You’re just the patient who had a public breakdown.

​"Right," you say, forcing a nod. "Background noise. Got it. I’ll keep it professional from here on out."

​He gives a curt, sharp nod, his face going completely blank. There’s no hint of that secret, fleeting smile from yesterday. He’s back to being Dr. Piastri, the man who saves brains and doesn't have time for social misfires.

​"I’m going to have the nurses continue monitoring your vitals throughout the day," he says, already backing toward the door. "We’ll do one final neuro assessment tomorrow morning. If everything is clear, you’re cleared for discharge."

​"Sounds good," you manage, your voice sounding hollow even to your own ears.

​He turns on his heel, his white coat fluttering slightly as he exits without a backward glance. He’s gone, and the room feels instantly, aggressively empty. You sink back into the pillows, feeling like you’ve successfully purged the "crazy," but for some reason, you’ve never felt more like an idiot in your entire life.

— ​✦

Discharge day is a weird mix of excitement and absolute dread. You’ve spent two weeks staring at the same four walls, and the idea of actual sunlight without fluorescent hum is almost overwhelming. You’ve packed your single bag—mostly just the clothes you arrived in, now feeling a bit too big, and a stack of paperwork that looks like a legal dissertation.

​You make a point to stop by every desk, every station, and every nurse that had to deal with your post-op delirium. You shake hands, offer awkward but sincere thank-yous, and apologize for the hundredth time for the whole "I think you’re my boyfriend" fiasco. By the time you reach the end of the hall, your heart is thumping against your ribs like a trapped bird. You know he’s going to be there. You know he’s the one who has to sign the final release.

​He’s standing near the main ICU bay, reviewing a stack of files with that same intense, unbothered posture. He’s in a crisp white shirt today, sleeves rolled up, revealing the veins in his forearms—a detail you definitely don't need to be noticing right now, but you do anyway.

​You walk up, trying to keep your steps steady, even though your brain feels like it’s vibrating. "So," you say, stopping a few feet away. "This is it. The end of the road."

​Oscar looks up, his expression guarded. He checks the clipboard, nods to himself, and hands you the final discharge slip. "Everything looks perfect. The swelling has subsided, your motor skills are back to baseline, and your cognitive tests are solid. You're clear to go."

​You take the paper, your fingers brushing his—an accident, you tell yourself, even if it feels electric. You look at him, really look at him, and you realize that all that embarrassment from yesterday is still sitting in your chest like a stone, but something else is there, too. A bit of courage you didn't know you had.

​You swallow hard, your voice dropping. "I know you have to say no to this. I know the ethics board, the hospital policy, the whole 'doctor-patient' boundary thing. I know exactly what you’re going to say."

​Oscar goes still. He sets the clipboard down, his hands folding neatly behind his back. He’s already bracing himself, his face shifting into that familiar, unreadable mask.

​"But," you continue, refusing to look away, "can I ask anyway?"

​He doesn't interrupt, but he doesn't encourage you either. He just waits, his eyes narrowing slightly, those sharp, brown irises cutting right through the space between you.

​"Dinner?" you say, the word feeling small and heavy in the sterile hall. "Just dinner. Not a date. Just... food. Once I'm officially not on your patient roster anymore. I just want to thank you properly, for, you know, not letting me die."

​Oscar’s mouth twitches. For a fleeting second, the professional mask slips, replaced by a soft, almost imperceptible smile. It’s not the cold, clinical one, and it’s not the dismissive one. It’s proud—genuinely proud. He looks at you, and you can tell he sees the progress you’ve made, the way you’ve pulled yourself back from the edge of that dark, confusing place. He looks like he’s watching a race car cross the finish line, satisfied that the machine held together.

​"No," he says, his voice low, firm, and completely devoid of wiggle room.

​You let out a long, dramatic sigh, slumping your shoulders. "Knew it. Absolute classic. I thought I’d try my luck, but honestly, I expected that."

​"You’re still officially my patient," Oscar says, his tone softening just a fraction as he gestures toward your chart. "You have follow-up checkups scheduled for the next six months. You’re not out of the woods just because you’re walking out those doors today. My duty of care remains until I sign off on your final neurological clearance."

​You feel a little sting, but you don't let it knock you down. You’ve been through a literal brain injury; a simple rejection from a neurosurgeon is small potatoes. You lean against the counter, crossing your arms, and that old, familiar spark of confidence—the one that made you flirt with him while you were still high on anesthesia—starts to flicker back to life.

​"Okay," you say, grinning up at him. You turn to walk away, the discharge papers tucked firmly under your arm, but you pause and look back over your shoulder, winking. "I'll ask again."

​Oscar watches you go, his jaw tightening just enough to betray how much that simple, playful challenge is bothering him. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't go back to his files either. He just stands there, watching you walk toward the elevator, his eyes tracking your every move until the doors slide shut and the world—at least for today—finally goes quiet.

— ​✦

Steam rises off a massive plate of pasta, but Oscar is mostly just moving it around with his fork. His brain is still stuck on the sterile hum of the hospital, even though he’s miles away in a restaurant that doesn't smell like antiseptic. Lando is currently mid-story, waving a breadstick around like a conductor’s baton, complaining about a patient who woke up from surgery convinced they were a professional race car driver.

​"So there I am," Lando says, practically vibrating in his chair, "trying to explain that, no, you are not in the paddock at Silverstone, and you certainly cannot reach the pedals from a surgical bed. The guy was trying to 'downshift' the IV pole. Absolute chaos."

​George laughs, leaning back in his chair with a beer in hand. "Better than the lady who tried to convince me that my stethoscope was a magical listening device for her future. Neuro is weird, man. It’s all brain trauma, all the time. Right, Oscar? You’ve been dealing with that, uh, 'special' case in 412 for the last two weeks. How’s that going?"

​Oscar takes a sip of water, keeping his face intentionally blank. "She’s been discharged. Went home this afternoon."

​He expects that to be the end of it. It’s a factual statement, a tidy little conclusion to a clinical case. He puts his fork down, clearly signaling that he’s ready to move on to literally any other topic—Formula 1, the weather, the miserable state of the hospital cafeteria coffee.

​Lando, however, has no intention of letting this slide. He stops mid-chew, his eyes widening with mock shock. "Oh, is that all? Just, 'she’s discharged'? Nothing else to add? Like, say, the part where she tried to ask out her neurosurgeon?"

​George smirks, the look of a man who has been waiting all day to pounce. "Oh, we heard, Oscar. The nurses’ station is basically a gossip column with scrubs. Apparently, she pulled a total power move. Asked you to dinner right in the middle of the ward. Bold. I’m impressed."

​Oscar feels the familiar, annoying heat creeping up his collar. He hates that they know. He hates that your little moment of bravery—the one that made his heart stutter for reasons he still hasn't fully unpacked—has become public record. "It was an inappropriate request made during a clinical sign-off. I handled it. End of story."

​"You 'handled it'?" Lando mimics, leaning in close, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "I bet you got all awkward and started talking about the 'ethics of doctor-patient dynamics' while your face turned three different shades of red. Did you stutter? Tell me you stuttered."

​"I did not stutter," Oscar bites back, his voice low and sharp. "I informed her that she is still under my care for follow-ups and that the request was, and will remain, denied."

​George chuckles, clinking his beer glass against Oscar's water. "Denial is a funny thing, mate. You sound like a guy who’s protesting a little too much. Look at you—you’re twitchy. Usually, when a patient crosses a line, you’re the first one to file a report or have them moved to a different unit. But here you are, two weeks later, and you’re still looking like you’ve just run a marathon."

​"I’m tired, George," Oscar snaps, though there’s no real bite in it. "It was a complex recovery. Subdural hematomas are tricky. You know that better than anyone."

​"Yeah, yeah, complex recovery," Lando teases, stabbing his pasta again. "And totally unrelated to the fact that she’s got a personality that could charm the paint off a wall. Come on, don't play the 'cold, detached surgeon' card with us. We’ve known you since residency. You haven't looked this rattled since you tripped on stage at graduation."

​Oscar glares at them, but it’s a losing battle. He knows exactly what they’re thinking. He knows that they’ve clocked every single extra minute he spent in your room, every time he checked the charts before he had to, and every time he looked just a little bit too happy after finishing your rounds.

​"She’s a former patient," Oscar says, his voice final, though he can't quite scrub the tension out of his shoulders. "That is the boundary. That is the rule. We are not talking about this anymore."

​"Fine, fine," Lando says, holding his hands up in mock surrender, though he’s still grinning. "But for the record? I saw the way you looked at her during the last round. If you didn't have that stupid 'do not touch' sign tattooed on your forehead, I’d bet money she’d have had you at that dinner."

​Oscar just sighs, looking down at his plate. He doesn't say that he wanted to say yes. He doesn't say that the image of you, walking out of that room with your bag over your shoulder and that defiant, playful look in your eyes, has been playing on a loop in his mind for hours. He just eats his pasta, ignores the teasing, and pretends he’s completely unaffected—even though every time he thinks of your invitation, he feels a pull that no amount of professional distance can fix.

— ​✦

Follow-up appointments became a rhythmic, slightly annoying part of your life. You’d trek back into the hospital every few weeks, navigating the labyrinthine corridors that still smelled like that specific, sharp blend of sanitizer and floor wax. You’d sit in the waiting room, leafing through outdated magazines, watching the clock tick, and every single time, you’d steel yourself to ask him one more time. You’d rehearse it in your head—Hey, Oscar, how about that drink now that you aren't legally bound to keep me alive?—but every time he walked in, clipboard in hand, face set in that infuriatingly professional mask, the words died in your throat. He was always so efficient, so focused on the scan results and the reflexes, that the gap between you seemed to widen with every visit.

​Eventually, the novelty of the crush just… eroded. It was like a pair of shoes that looked great in the store but gave you blisters every time you wore them. You stopped checking the hallway to see if he was around. You stopped lingering by the nurses' station after your appointments. The "what-ifs" quieted down, replaced by the mundane reality of getting back to your own job, your own stress, and your own life.

​Six months post-op, you sat in his office for the final time. Oscar was staring at your latest MRI on the lightbox, his brows furrowed in that familiar, studious line. He looked tired—that deep, bone-weary fatigue that seemed to be a permanent fixture in his life—but he was as precise as ever.

​"Everything looks perfect," he said, turning to face you. He didn't smile, but his voice was lighter than usual. "The tissue has healed, the pressure is stable, and there’s absolutely no sign of secondary complications. You’re effectively a clean slate. You don't need to come back here anymore."

​You blinked, surprised by how final it sounded. "So… that’s it? No more penlights? No more reflex hammers?"

​"That’s it," he confirmed, closing your file with a decisive thud. "You’re done."

​"Well," you said, standing up and smoothing down your skirt, suddenly feeling very strange. "Thanks, Dr. Piastri. For everything. Seriously."

​"You’re welcome," he replied, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else, but the beeper on his belt vibrated, cutting the moment short. He glanced at it, sighed, and shifted back into 'on-call' mode. "Take care of yourself out there."

​You left the office, walking out into the bright, unfiltered afternoon sun, feeling the weight of the last six months slip off your shoulders. You didn't look back. You didn't wonder if he was watching. You just started walking toward the parking lot, already thinking about what you were going to have for dinner.

​Inside the hospital, Oscar watched you go. He was already pulling up the file for his next patient, a young man with a complex spinal injury, and by the time he’d reached the end of the first page, your name had already started to drift into the background. His brain was a sieve of medical emergencies and high-stakes surgeries, and you were just another success story filed away in the cabinet. He didn't think about the dinner invitation, or the "baby" jokes, or the way you’d looked at him those first few days in the ICU. He had twenty patients to stabilize, two surgeries to prep for, and a life that didn't leave room for lingering thoughts. He turned to the door, his mind already shifting gears, and by the time he reached the nurses' station, the memory of you was just a blurred line in a sea of data.

— ​✦

Blue badge clipped to your shirt feels a little heavy, but it’s a good kind of weight. Volunteering in the rehab ward is harder than you expected, but seeing the look on someone’s face when they realize they can lift their own arm again—that’s the kind of high you can’t get anywhere else. You spend your days listening to the same fears you once had, translating the terrifying medical jargon for patients who are too exhausted to process it, and generally just being the person you wished you’d had around when you were staring at the ceiling in room 412.

​One afternoon, your legs are screaming for a break, so you duck into the café. It’s a cramped, noisy disaster of a room, smells like burnt espresso and desperation. You’re weaving through the tables, intent on grabbing a tea, when you turn a corner too fast and slam directly into a solid wall of starched white cotton.

​Coffee sloshes violently over the rim of a paper cup. You reach out to steady the person you bumped into, and your hand makes contact with a forearm that’s lean, firm, and familiar.

​"Whoa, easy there," you mutter, looking up.

​It’s Oscar. He’s standing there, his lab coat slightly rumpled, looking like he’s been awake for forty-eight hours straight. He’s managed to keep the coffee from spilling, but he’s staring at you with a look of pure, unadulterated shock. For a second, he just stands there, frozen, his eyes scanning your face as if he’s trying to verify your medical history in real-time.

​"Oh," he says, his voice a bit rusty. "It’s you. I almost wore that for you, by the way. Very generous of me."

​You look down at his sleeve, where a dark brown stain is already beginning to seep into the white fabric. You start to laugh, a genuine, bubbling sound that makes the tension in his shoulders drop about an inch.

​"I’m sorry, I’m a menace," you say, grabbing a napkin from a nearby table and dabbing at his sleeve. "I guess I haven't lost my knack for causing trouble in this building."

​Oscar watches you work, his expression shifting from startled to that low-key, amused look you haven't seen in months. He steps back, clearing his throat and tucking his coffee cup safely against his chest.

​"No apology necessary," he says, his eyes tracing the line of your face. He looks at your volunteer badge, then back at your eyes. "I didn't know you were back. I thought you were done with this place—for good."

​"I missed the ambiance," you joke, gesturing vaguely at the fluorescent lights and the general clinical chaos. "No, seriously, I wanted to help out. Being a patient here is a hell of a learning curve. I figured I could make it a little less terrifying for the next person."

​Oscar stares at you for a long beat, his gaze thoughtful. "That’s… actually quite admirable. Most people run as far away from here as they can once they get their discharge papers."

​"Yeah, well, I like to do things differently," you say, a playful glint entering your eyes.

​He cracks a small, genuine smile—not the professional, doctor-in-the-hallway version, but a real, crooked one that lights up his entire face. He looks like he’s fighting off a joke, his head tilting slightly as he leans against the counter.

​"So," he says, his voice dropping into a teasing register that catches you completely off guard. "No neurological confusion this time? You’re sure you know exactly who you’re talking to?"

​You feel a heat rise up your neck, but this time, it’s not out of mortification. It’s a warm, comfortable sort of recognition. You look him dead in the eye, squaring your shoulders.

​"None whatsoever," you say, your voice steady. "Though, I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed. I was planning on being a bit more chaotic today, but you’ve ruined my schedule."

​"Is that so?" he asks, his eyebrows arching in that familiar, challenging way.

​"Yep," you reply, feeling that familiar spark of chemistry flare up, but this time it’s grounded in reality—no anesthesia, no brain fog, just you and a guy who happens to be a neurosurgeon. "Unfortunately, I remember everything. Every single ridiculous thing I said. Every time I tried to hold your hand. Every 'baby' I dropped in front of your poor, traumatized interns."

​Oscar actually laughs out loud. It’s a bright, sharp sound that makes a few people in the café turn to look, but he doesn't seem to care. He runs a hand through his hair, looking at you with a mix of disbelief and something much warmer.

​"I remember," he says, his voice dropping to a low, intimate hum. "And for the record, the interns still bring it up in rounds. You’re a legend in the neuro department. They’re still wondering if you were faking the amnesia just to mess with me."

​"And were you?" you ask, leaning in, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. "Did you think I was faking it?"

​He looks at you, his eyes locking onto yours with a level of focus that makes your stomach do a series of flips. He doesn't pull away. He doesn't make a joke about doctor-patient boundaries. He just stands there, holding his coffee cup, looking at you like you’re the most interesting puzzle he’s had to solve in years.

​"I stopped thinking a long time ago," he admits, his voice so soft you barely hear it over the roar of the café. "I just started wondering if you were going to ask me again."

— ​✦

Hallway encounters stop being coincidental and start feeling like an unspoken appointment. You’re always somewhere on the fourth floor, usually lugging a stack of paperbacks toward the neurology ward, and he’s always—inevitably—striding out of a consult or rushing toward an OR. Every time you see his lanky frame moving through the sea of scrub-clad staff, your pulse does this annoying, predictable kick.

​"Third book this week, Piastri," you call out, adjusting the heavy stack in your arms as he brushes past you. "I’m starting to think you just like hearing me talk about the plot twists."

​He stops, pivots on his heel, and waits for you to catch up. The exhaustion that usually clings to his features has softened just enough for him to look human, and he takes the top two books from your pile without asking, lightening your load.

​"I don't have time to read," he says, his voice a low rumble. "I just like making sure you don't drop these on your foot. You’re a liability, remember? I operated on you. I have a vested interest in your continued physical stability."

​"Right, the 'vested interest,'" you tease, matching his pace. "Is that what they’re calling it now? I thought it was because you were craving that burnt-tasting sludge from the vending machine down the hall."

​He glances down at the lukewarm paper cup in his hand, grimacing. "It’s not sludge. It’s… efficient fuel. I don't have a thirty-minute window to walk to the local café, get an actual barista-made flat white, and walk back. This stuff at least keeps the brain firing."

​"It’s an insult to coffee, Oscar. Honestly, it’s a health violation." You stop at a patient's room, hand him back the books, and lean against the wall. "How many have you had today? Be honest."

​He sighs, looking at the cup like it’s a clinical failure. "Four. Maybe five."

​"You’re going to vibrate out of your skin," you laugh, shaking your head. "I’m telling you, if you didn't spend all your time trying to be the hospital's most stoic martyr, you’d realize that life exists outside these sliding glass doors. There’s decent espresso three blocks over. I know because I walk there every morning before my shift."

​He looks at you then, and the playfulness in his eyes is replaced by something heavier, more contemplative. He’s standing close enough that you can smell the faint, clean scent of antiseptic and the sharper, more grounding scent of his cologne. It’s a sensory detail that’s become way too familiar over the last month.

​"I don't get 'three blocks over' time," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "I get fifteen-minute windows between consults and the occasional three hours of sleep. It’s not exactly a life that leaves room for… external activities."

​"Sounds miserable," you say, but there’s no judgment in it, just a quiet invitation.

​"It’s not miserable," he retorts, though he doesn't sound entirely convinced. "It’s just… work. It’s what I signed up for."

​You watch the way his gaze lingers on your face, drifting down to your lips for a heartbeat before snapping back up to your eyes. It’s a tell. He’s tired, he’s stressed, and he’s clearly overworked, but he’s also clearly not in a rush to leave this hallway.

​"You know," you say, your voice dropping, "I’m not a patient anymore. I’m a volunteer. Technically, that means we’re colleagues. And colleagues have to go to lunch sometimes, right?"

​You hold your breath, the air in the hallway suddenly feeling incredibly thin. You’ve been dancing around this for weeks, and you’re tired of the choreography.

​Oscar doesn't answer immediately. He shifts the books in his arms, his knuckles whitening slightly. He’s thinking about the ethics, the hierarchy, the ridiculous, stubborn lines he’s drawn for himself, and the way your existence has managed to blur every single one of them. He’s been waiting for you to say it again—praying you would, even if he didn't want to admit it to himself. Every time you walk away after a conversation, he finds himself feeling a sharp, cold sting of regret that he didn't just reach out and stop you.

​"Colleagues," he repeats, the word tasting strange on his tongue.

​"Yep. Colleagues. Which involves eating actual, non-vending-machine food." You take a half-step closer. "I’m off shift in twenty minutes. The café three blocks away closes at five. If you can manage to escape the neuro-trauma siren for an hour, I’ll buy you a coffee that actually tastes like coffee."

​He looks at his beeper, then at the empty hallway, then back at you. The internal struggle is visible—the meticulous, rule-abiding surgeon fighting against the man who’s been secretly hoping you’d stop being so polite.

​"Twenty minutes?" he asks, his voice barely audible.

​"Twenty minutes," you confirm, your heart hammering against your ribs.

​"I’ll see if I can clear my desk," he says, his voice thick with a sudden, intense focus. He starts to turn away, then pauses, looking back over his shoulder. That soft, proud, secret smile is back, and this time, it’s unmistakably expectant. "Don't leave without me. I’m serious. If you walk out that door before I get there, I’m putting you on the 'permanent nuisance' list."

​"Wouldn't dream of it, Doctor," you grin, watching him stride away with a little more speed in his step than he had a moment ago.

​He’s finally going to say yes. You can see it in the way he walks, in the way he’s already checking his watch to see how he can condense his paperwork. You’ve spent months thinking you’d gotten over this, that you were just a person who’d moved on, but as you stand there in the quiet of the hallway, you realize you haven't moved on at all. You were just waiting for him to catch up.

Twenty minutes felt like an eternity of pacing, but you managed to keep your cool, hovering near the main lobby entrance. When Oscar finally appeared, he’d ditched the white coat, opting for a dark, fitted sweater that made him look less like a looming authority figure and more like a normal, incredibly handsome man who just happened to be chronically sleep-deprived. He was moving with purpose, his phone tucked into his back pocket, and the moment his eyes landed on you, he slowed his pace just enough to let you know he wasn't running away.

​He didn't make it five feet before Lando and George intercepted him. They were coming down the opposite corridor, probably heading out to grab their own post-shift meal, and when they saw Oscar walking toward you, their collective stride hitched. George stopped dead, his eyebrows practically reaching his hairline, while Lando did a dramatic, slow-motion pivot, his jaw dropping in a way that would have been hilarious if it didn't make your face burn.

​"Well, well," George drawled, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, a look of pure, unadulterated mischief on his face. "Look who finally decided to prioritize something other than a shunt replacement."

​Lando didn't even try to hide his grin. He looked from Oscar to you, his eyes darting back and forth like he was watching a tennis match, his face twisted into an expression of absolute glee. "Is that a jacket? And you’re leaving the building? Before midnight? What kind of black magic is this?"

​Oscar didn't even blink, though he did offer them a faint, resigned smile that suggested he’d already accepted his fate—namely, that he’d be hearing about this for the next decade. He didn't offer an excuse, didn't stammer, and certainly didn't try to play it off as a clinical meeting. He just tucked his hands into his pockets, shifted his weight, and looked at his friends with a look that essentially told them to get lost.

​"We have plans," Oscar said, his voice level and entirely unbothered.

​Lando shot you a wink—a quick, cheeky flick of his eyes that made you want to dive behind the nearest plant—before clapping Oscar on the shoulder with a little too much enthusiasm. "Plans. Right. Go on then, Romeo. Don't worry, George and I will keep your patients alive. Or, you know, we’ll just tell everyone in the cafeteria you’re off having a secret tryst."

​"Get out of here," Oscar deadpanned, though his smile deepened just a fraction. He didn't wait for them to finish their teasing. He reached out, gently cupping your elbow to steer you toward the revolving doors, his touch brief but warm.

— ​✦

​The cafe was small, a quiet, dimly lit place with mismatched chairs and the smell of roasting beans. It was blissfully free of monitors, sirens, and that underlying hum of human suffering that seemed to permeate every wall of the hospital. You took a seat by the window, watching the city lights blur as the sun finally dipped below the horizon. When the waiter brought over a pot of steaming black coffee and a small plate of pastries, Oscar actually exhaled—a long, shuddering breath that seemed to dump months of stress into the floorboards.

​"You look like you might actually sleep for a full hour tonight," you joked, sliding the sugar toward him.

​"Only if the pager stays quiet," he muttered, finally letting his shoulders drop. He took a sip of the coffee, closing his eyes for a second as if he were drinking nectar of the gods. "You were right. This is infinitely better than that vending machine disaster."

​"I’m always right," you said, leaning back. "It’s a personality trait. You’ll have to get used to it if you’re going to be my colleague."

​He chuckled, a low, easy sound that made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with brain injury. "I’m learning. It’s a steep curve, but I think I’m adjusting."

​The conversation drifted away from the hospital, peeling back layers of the rigid, clinical exterior he wore like armor. You discovered that he had a dry, sarcastic wit that he usually kept under lock and key—the kind of humor that slipped out in deadpan observations about bad movies or the sheer absurdity of hospital politics. It was intoxicating. You spent an hour debating the merits of different travel destinations, realizing that beneath the man who could perform a craniotomy in his sleep was someone who actually liked to hike, hated mornings, and had a surprisingly deep appreciation for bad 80s pop music.

​"You know," he said, staring at his coffee cup as he swirled the liquid, "I spent most of that month after your surgery wondering if I’d lost my mind. I’m used to patients who follow a script. Wake up, stabilize, rehab, discharge. You… you kind of threw the script into the fire."

​"I was a bit much, wasn't I?" You looked down, picking at the napkin. "I still cringe whenever I think about it. I flirted with you in front of half the hospital, Oscar. I don't know how you didn't have me moved to a psych ward."

​He looked up, his gaze catching yours. There was no mockery there, just a strange, intense sincerity. "I’m aware. And I didn't want you moved. To be completely honest, that month was brutal. We had a string of cases that didn't go well—losses that stay with you—and every time I walked into room 412, it was like the only part of my day that wasn't grey."

​Your heart skipped a beat, the air in the small room feeling suddenly charged. "Really?"

​"Really," he said, his voice dropping. "You were a disaster, and it was the best part of my schedule."

​You were just about to respond, to say something brilliant and flirtatious, when his phone screeched—a sharp, shrill vibration that jarred the table. He didn't reach for it immediately. He looked at it, then at you, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his face before he sighed and pulled it from his pocket.

​The screen lit up with a name that made his jaw tighten. He glanced at the display, the surgeon in him instantly overriding the man having a coffee.

​"I have to take this," he said, his eyes darkening as he stood up. "It’s the trauma unit. They’ve got a head-on collision coming into the bay in ten minutes. I'm sorry."

​"Go," you said, standing up with him, your voice steady even as a wave of disappointment hit you. "I know how this works. Go save them."

​He looked like he wanted to say more, to reach out, but the siren was already wailing in his mind, pulling him back to the world of life and death. He grabbed his coat, gave you a quick, searching look, and was already moving toward the door before the phone had even stopped ringing. "I’ll text you," he promised, his tone tight with regret.

​"Go, Dr. Piastri!" you called out, smiling despite yourself. He was already out the door, disappearing into the night, but for the first time in your life, you weren't waiting for him to check your reflexes. You were just waiting for him to come back.

— ​✦

Midnight quiet of the hospital parking lot has become your second home. You’re sitting in the driver’s seat of your car, engine off, dashboard lights casting a soft, amber glow against your face while you scroll through your phone. You’re waiting for the double-set of glass doors to slide open. You’ve got a greasy paper bag from that late-night burger joint sitting on the passenger seat—the one with the decent fries that Oscar actually likes—and you’re listening to the muffled static of a podcast, counting the minutes.

​When he finally emerges, he’s a wreck. His scrubs are rumpled, his hair is a chaotic mess, and he’s moving with that heavy, robotic gait that tells you he’s been on his feet for eighteen hours straight. He doesn't see you at first, just walks toward his own car like he’s sleepwalking, but when you tap your horn—a soft, singular beep—he stops. He looks over, his eyes squinting into the darkness, and then his shoulders drop. That stiff, defensive posture he wears in the hallways just melts away.

​He walks over to your car, drops his bag into the backseat, and collapses into the passenger seat with a groan that sounds like it’s vibrating from his soul.

​"I have reached the point," he mumbles, his head leaning back against the headrest, eyes closing instantly, "where I am fairly certain I have forgotten how to sit on a chair. I feel like I’ve been vibrating for a decade."

​"Here," you say, pushing the paper bag toward him. "Eat. If you don't consume at least three hundred calories of processed beef, I’m going to personally file a complaint with the hospital board for your lack of self-preservation."

​He chuckles, a dry, raspy sound, and starts tearing into the bag. He doesn't even use a napkin, just takes a massive bite of the burger like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Watching him eat, even in this exhausted, messy state, gives you a jolt of warmth that’s hard to describe. You’ve moved past the "patient" phase, past the "crush" phase, into something that feels steady and lived-in. It’s quiet. It’s comfortable.

​"You’re a lifesaver," he says, mouth half-full. "Not even kidding. I think I would have started eating the charts if you hadn't shown up."

​"Good to know I’m more important than your medical records," you tease, reaching out to brush a stray crumb off his sweater. He leans into your touch instinctively, his eyes fluttering shut again. "Movie night tonight? Or are you planning on passing out the moment we hit my couch?"

​"Movie night," he insists, though he sounds like he’s talking through a thick blanket. "I promised. I want to see how that thriller ends, even if I only get to see the first ten minutes before I lose consciousness."

​That’s how it goes. You get to your place, and he’s asleep before the opening credits of whatever suspense-filled mystery you’ve picked out even finish rolling. He’s slumped against you, his breathing deep and rhythmic, the weight of him pressing against your shoulder a grounding, heavy reality. You don't move. You just sit there, watching the screen, letting his exhaustion bleed into your own peacefulness, thinking about how strange it is that this man, who holds people's lives in his hands every single day, just wants to be a person when he’s with you.

​The next morning, while he’s rushing through the kitchen grabbing his gear for another 30-hour block, you slide a bright yellow sticky note into his lunchbox. It’s a silly little thing—a crude drawing of a stick figure with a stethoscope and a caption that reads, Don't be a hero today, drink water, you idiot. You don't tell him you put it there, and he doesn't say anything when he finds it, but days later, when you’re helping him organize some paperwork in his home office, you open his top desk drawer to look for a pen.

​They’re all there. Every single one. A rainbow stack of neon paper, each one with a note about his coffee intake, his sleep schedule, or just a reminder that he’s better than the hospital politics. He’s kept them all. He catches you looking, and for a second, he looks almost embarrassed, his ears turning that familiar, endearing shade of pink. He just clears his throat and says, "They’re for… diagnostic reference. To track your recurring harassment."

​You laugh, and he smiles that genuine, soft smile that only you get to see.

​Of course, the pack never lets you get away with it. Lando and George have fully adopted you into their orbit, mostly because they’ve realized that you’re the only person in the hospital who can actually force Oscar to stop and eat a vegetable. You’re always showing up in the breakroom with an extra sandwich, or cornering Lando to make sure he’s had a lunch break that lasted longer than five minutes.

​"You’re doing the lord’s work," George says one afternoon, watching as you forcefully hand Oscar a container of actual, home-cooked pasta instead of the cafeteria slop. "I don't know how you do it. He’s stubborn as a mule, but he folds the second you look at him with that 'I’m disappointed in your blood sugar' face."

​"It’s about persistence," you say, grabbing Oscar’s hand and giving it a squeeze. "He thinks because he’s a genius, he doesn't need to eat. He’s wrong."

​"She’s right," Oscar admits, taking the container and actually opening it, much to Lando’s shock.

​"See? The beast is tamed!" Lando crows, leaning back in his chair. "Next thing you know, he’ll be taking a whole hour for lunch and actually joining us for a weekend out."

​Oscar just shakes his head, though he’s looking at you with a look of quiet, profound gratitude. "Don't push your luck, Norris. We’ve got an emergency neuro-trauma call in twenty minutes."

​It’s the life, though. You know the reality. There are days—hell, weeks—where the hospital eats him whole. You’ll be in the middle of a text conversation and he’ll vanish for six hours because someone’s ICP went haywire in the middle of the night. You’ve learned not to take it personally. You’ve learned that when he comes back to you, even if he’s hollowed out by the weight of a surgery that didn't go his way, he’s yours. You’re the one who keeps him tethered.

​"You look tired," you say one night, leaning against the door of his office after a brutal shift.

​"I am tired," he says, rubbing his eyes. He looks like he’s aged ten years in a day. He stands up, his movements stiff, and walks over to you. He doesn't say a word, just pulls you into a hug that feels like he’s trying to disappear into you. You hold him, feeling the sharp edges of his exhaustion, and you know he doesn't need a snack, or a note, or a movie. He just needs to know that when he steps out of that hospital, there’s a world that doesn't demand perfection from him.

​"I’m here," you whisper into his sweater.

​"I know," he mumbles, his voice barely audible against your hair. "I know. Thank you for… everything."

​He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours, that intense, surgical focus now entirely aimed at you. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that makes sense in a room full of chaos. "I couldn't do this without you. Seriously. It’s just too much on my own."

​You don't need him to say more. You take his hand, the same hand you once tried to grab when you were high on anesthesia and confused, and you lead him out of the hospital, away from the sirens, and into the quiet of the night. You’re not his patient anymore, and he’s not just a doctor, and even if tomorrow brings another thirty-hour shift, tonight, it’s just the two of you, navigating the world one step at a time.

— ​✦

Saturday afternoon sun is streaming through the living room blinds, casting long, dusty stripes across your laptop screen. You’re deep in the weeds of a quarterly report, juggling spreadsheets and half-finished emails, when the sound of a key turning in the lock makes you stop. It’s a familiar sound, a slow, metallic click followed by the heavy, weary thud of a man who has been carrying the weight of the world for thirty-six hours straight.

​Oscar doesn't call out. He doesn't announce his presence because he doesn't have the energy to spare. He just drifts into the room, his tie already long gone, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that are tensed with residual stress. He looks like he’s aged five years since he left this morning, his eyes rimmed with red and his movements uncharacteristically sluggish. He drops his bag near the door with a dull thud and stares at the floor as if he’s trying to decide if he has the physical capacity to walk the remaining ten feet to the couch.

​"Rough day?" you ask softly, closing your laptop and abandoning the report without a second thought.

​He looks up, his gaze unfocused, drifting over your face for a second before he sighs. It’s a sound that seems to deflate his entire frame. He looks so raw, so stripped of that invincible, calm persona he projects in the OR, that it makes your chest ache. He’s spent the last few months living in this apartment in every way that counts; his toothbrush is in your bathroom, his favorite oversized hoodie is perpetually draped over your armchair, and he’s long since stopped remembering the last time he stepped foot in his own sterile, lonely condo. He’s here, he’s yours, and right now, he’s absolutely spent.

​You don't wait for him to answer. You get up, crossing the room in a few quick strides, and open your arms. He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't try to maintain his composure or play the stoic surgeon. He just walks into your embrace and drops his head onto your shoulder, his entire body going limp. He’s trembling, just a fraction, the kind of micro-tremors that only come after a day of life-or-death decisions and standing over an operating table for hours on end.

​"I can't," he whispers, his voice so thin it’s almost lost in the room. He breathes in against the crook of your neck, his hands gripping the back of your sweater like he’s trying to anchor himself to reality. "I’m done, I’m just… I’m so done, everything is just… noise."

​You tighten your hold, running a hand up his back, feeling the tension locked tight in his shoulder blades. You’ve let the relationship move at its own pace, a slow, careful dance around his impossibly demanding schedule, figuring out how to love a man who is often married to his work. You haven't rushed anything, but in this quiet moment, the air feels heavy, charged with all the things you’ve been feeling but haven't quite found the right space to articulate.

​He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. There’s no professional distance left, no masks, no medical terminology—just a man who has spent all his reserves saving others and now has nothing left for himself but you. His hand comes up, his fingertips tracing the line of your jaw with a gentle, shaky reverence.

​"I love you," he whispers.

​The words land in the silence of the room, simple and absolute. It’s the first time, a secret you’ve both been holding onto, afraid that saying it out loud might somehow break the fragile rhythm you’ve built around his career.

​"I love you too," you say, and the weight of it feels like a promise, like the only solid thing in a world that is otherwise constantly shifting.

​He lets out a shuddering breath, the tension finally leaving his face, replaced by an expression of pure, relieved vulnerability. He leans his forehead against yours, his eyes closing, and for the first time in a long time, the hospital feels like a thousand miles away.

​"I don't think I could do this without you," he murmurs, his voice barely audible. "I go into that building, I deal with the chaos, and the only reason I’m still standing at the end of the day is knowing I’m coming back here. To you."

​"You don't have to do it alone," you tell him, pulling him back down toward the couch. "Not anymore."

​He doesn't argue. He just sinks into the cushions, pulling you down with him, his head finding its usual spot on your shoulder. He’s asleep within minutes, his breathing evening out into the deep, heavy rhythm of a man finally allowed to let go. You sit there, listening to the quiet of the apartment, watching the light fade from the window, and you realize that this—this messy, tired, quiet love—is the most important thing you’ve ever had to work for. You reach over, covering him with the throw blanket from the end of the couch, and just hold him, knowing that when he wakes up, you’ll be there to help him face the week all over again.

— ​✦

Sunlight is already hitting the edge of the curtains when you stir, but you don't open your eyes just yet. You feel the heavy, familiar warmth of a body pressed against your back—a solid, grounding weight that makes your heart do that stupid, happy flutter even when you’re half-asleep. Oscar is still dead to the world, but he’s shifted enough to press his chest against your shoulder, his arm draped possessively over your waist.

​You’re still wearing your pajamas, but he’s still in the wrinkled, grey undershirt he passed out in last night after you managed to drag him into the bedroom. You remember the chaotic, semi-conscious shuffle, him mumbling something about neuro-pathways while you practically carried him to bed.

​He moves, the bed frame creaking, and you feel the weight shift as he sits up. He’s quiet—always quiet—and you hear him sliding out of the room, his footsteps muffled against the floorboards. You drift back into a light, lazy sleep for another twenty minutes before you hear the hum of the shower, then the soft, rhythmic clicking of his toothbrush.

​A few minutes later, you feel the mattress dip again. The air smells like his cedarwood body wash and a hint of the coffee he must have just started brewing. You don't turn around, just wait for him to close the distance.

​He leans over, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, then tracking down the line of your neck. It’s a slow, deliberate wake-up call. "Morning," he murmurs, his voice gravelly and low.

​You shift, turning around to face him, and see he’s finally ditched the work clothes for a pair of sweatpants. He looks like a completely different person when he’s not vibrating with stress or clutching a hospital pager. He looks relaxed, his hair a mess, his eyes clear and focused entirely on you.

​"Morning," you whisper back, pulling him down by the neck of his shirt. He kisses you, a soft, lingering thing that tastes like toothpaste and that specific kind of calm that only exists on a Saturday morning with nowhere to be.

​"Did you sleep?" you ask, running your hands up his arms.

​"Best sleep I’ve had in months," he says, resting his forehead against yours. He’s smiling—a real, lazy grin that makes him look ten years younger. "And guess what? No beeps. No emergency pages. No trauma calls. I checked the schedule three times just to be sure—I’m actually, properly off."

​"No way," you say, propping yourself up on one elbow. "The great Dr. Piastri is off-duty on a Saturday? Does the hospital know? Will the city collapse without you?"

​"I’ve already accepted that the world might end today," he jokes, nudging your nose with his. "But I’ve decided I’m okay with that. I’m planning on spending the entire day not thinking about craniotomies."

​"What’s the plan, then?"

​He pulls back, looking at you with that boyish excitement that he usually keeps hidden behind his professional exterior. "Camping. I know you’ve been saying you needed a break from the city, and I found a spot a few hours out. I’ve already done a sweep of the gear. I’ve got the tent, the stove, the sleeping bags—it’s all in the car."

​"You did all that while I was sleeping?" You laugh, reaching up to mess with his hair. "You really are an overachiever."

​"I just wanted to make sure we actually made it out the door," he says, kissing your temple. "You stay in bed, get another half-hour. I’m going to finish packing the cooler. I’ll make pancakes, then we’re leaving."

​"You’re making pancakes?"

​"I’m making pancakes," he confirms, standing up and heading for the door. He pauses, looking back at you one last time, his eyes bright with a rare, unfiltered happiness. "Stay put. Don't go anywhere. I’m not letting you spend this day doing reports."

​You watch him walk out, feeling a wave of genuine disbelief. A whole day of camping, with no hospital in sight, and the man you love is currently downstairs trying to master the art of breakfast. You sink back into your pillows, listening to the clatter of pots and pans and the muffled sound of him humming a song under his breath. It’s perfect. It’s better than perfect. It’s real.

— ​✦

Road winds through the pine trees, tires crunching over loose gravel as the city finally dissolves into the rearview mirror. You’re watching Oscar drive, one hand draped over the wheel, the other tapping a rhythm against his thigh. He looks like a completely different person in cargo shorts and a faded vintage t-shirt, completely detached from the clinical sterility he usually inhabits. When he pulls into the campsite—a secluded spot tucked behind a dense thicket of spruce—he’s out of the car and moving before the engine even stops ticking.

​You lean against the trunk, sipping a lukewarm coffee, watching him navigate the site. He works with an unnerving, practiced efficiency. He doesn't just put up a tent; he engineers it. He hammers stakes into the ground with surgical precision, measuring the tension on the guy lines as if he’s calibrating a piece of hospital equipment.

​"You know, you’re allowed to just hammer it in," you call out, watching him adjust a corner for the third time. "It doesn't have to be anatomically perfect."

​He laughs, wiping a smudge of dirt off his forehead with the back of his hand. "Habit. If I don't set it up right, it’ll be a disaster in a windstorm. Everything has a structural integrity, you know."

​"Yeah, yeah, Mr. Neurosurgeon," you tease, walking over to help him unfurl the tarp. "I’ve been meaning to ask, though—how did you even end up here? Did you wake up one day and decide you wanted to spend your life staring at gray matter, or was there some sort of traumatic incident involving a toy microscope?"

​He stops, glancing at you with a wry expression before going back to the tent poles. "Nothing that dramatic, honestly. I was never the kid who wanted to play doctor. I played piano, did a lot of woodworking, tinkered with old watches—my dad taught me how to handle the gears without stripping the threads. One day, a mentor of his watched me setting a microscopic balance wheel and joked that I should look into surgery because my hands didn't shake. I laughed it off, but the thought just… stuck. By the time I hit med school, I was already looking for something that required that kind of fine-motor control."

​"So, you’re basically a glorified watch repairman, but for brains?"

​"Basically," he grins, sliding a pole through the canvas sleeve. "Although, brains are significantly harder to source parts for."

​You sit down on a folding chair, watching him work, the ease of the conversation smoothing out the edges of the day. "Was it hard? At the beginning?"

​His face loses a bit of that lightheartedness, his expression turning distant as he focuses on the tent frame. "The first time I lost someone? It was hell. I was a junior resident, and I had done everything by the book. Perfect prep, perfect incision, textbook closure. But the patient just didn't wake up. I spent weeks replaying every second of that surgery, convinced that if I had just moved a millimeter to the left or been a second faster, they’d still be here. I didn't understand how someone could be so physically sound and yet just… gone."

​"That sounds soul-crushing," you say softly.

​"It was," he admits, pausing to hammer the final stake into the ground. "But you keep losing people. You realize that sometimes, you’re just playing the hand you’re dealt, and nature doesn't always care about your best intentions. You stop trying to play God and start trying to be the best possible mechanic for a failing system. It’s a harsh lesson, but you have to learn it or you won't survive the specialty."

​"So, why neuro? Why the most unforgiving, high-stress, 'impossible' specialty in the hospital?"

​He stands up, brushing the dirt off his hands and looking at you with a sharp, competitive glint in his eyes that you recognize all too well. "I’ve always been competitive. When I was starting out, people told me it was the hardest, the most exclusive. That was all the motivation I needed. I wanted the hardest cases, the ones that everyone else said were 'inoperable.' I thrive on that pressure—the adrenaline, the clock, the razor-thin margin between a complete recovery and a catastrophic outcome. I wanted to be the best because, at the time, I thought being the best meant proving I was the smartest person in the room."

​"And now?"

​He walks over, leaning against the tree beside your chair, his posture relaxing as he looks out into the trees. "Now? I know that medicine isn't a competition. It’s a service. The 'impossible' cases are just people who deserve one more shot. The board of directors keeps trying to push me toward a professorship, wanting me to teach the next generation, but I don't have the patience for it. I’m not built to stand at a podium and lecture. I’d rather be in the OR where things are tangible."

​You let out a loud, incredulous laugh, shaking your head. "You don't have the patience? Are you kidding me? You spent weeks handling me while I was literally hallucinating that you were my boyfriend. If that doesn't qualify as 'having patience,' I don't know what does."

​He chuckles, a low, melodic sound that warms the cool air around you. He reaches down, taking your hand and pulling you up from the chair. "That was different. You were a unique clinical anomaly. Besides, you weren't an intern asking me a thousand questions about the anatomy of the thalamus for the fifth time in a row. You were just… you."

​"A unique clinical anomaly, huh? Is that what I was?"

​"You were the only thing that kept me sane during the one of my worst month," he admits, his voice dropping as he draws you closer, his eyes focused entirely on yours. "And you still are."

​He pulls you into the shelter of the tent, the nylon flapping gently in the breeze. The competitive, high-stakes surgeon is gone, replaced by the man who just wanted a Saturday off with the person he loves. He reaches into his pack, pulling out a small, compact stove, his movements steady and calm.

​"I’m starving," he says, shifting the subject, clearly feeling he’s revealed enough for one day. "How do you feel about dehydrated camping stew? It’s not exactly a five-course meal, but it’s warm."

​"It sounds like a five-star experience if you’re the one cooking," you laugh, sitting back on your sleeping bag and watching him prep the meal.

​He smiles, that quiet, secret smile you’ve come to crave, and you realize that even if he never stops being the best neurosurgeon in Australia, he’s happy just being here, with you, in a tent in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to save but a pot of stew.

"Eat up," Oscar says, sliding a steaming plastic bowl toward you. "It’s a gourmet blend of dehydrated carrots and what I am fairly certain is mystery protein, but the chef—that’s me—highly recommends it."

​You dig in, the warmth of the food hitting your stomach like a reset button. "You know, for a man who spends his life working with microscopic precision, your cooking is surprisingly… rustic."

​"Rustic is code for 'I forgot to measure the water,'" he admits, grinning as he sits cross-legged across from you. He’s got that relaxed look again, his hair wind-tousled and his shirt collar unbuttoned. He looks more like a college student than a man who holds people's lives in his hands for a living.

​"So, tell me," you ask, leaning back against a folded blanket, "how on earth do you, Lando, and George actually function as a trio? It’s like watching a chaotic sitcom. Lando is basically a golden retriever in scrubs, George is… well, George is George, and you’re just the silent, brooding professional. It defies all logic."

​Oscar laughs, a genuine, unguarded sound. "It started in residency, honestly. Lando was the only one who could make me laugh when I was three days deep into a rotation, and George… George is just as obsessive as I am, but in a completely different direction. We’re a disaster, really. Lando is constantly trying to sneak pranks into the OR, and George is always trying to debate the best way to organize a tool tray. It’s loud, it’s annoying, and I think it’s the only reason I didn't lose my mind back in my third year."

​"I can picture it," you tease. "Lando trying to play music in the theater, and you just staring at him until he stops."

​"Exactly," he agrees, taking a sip of his lukewarm tea. "But when things go sideways, there isn't another group of people I’d want in the room. We trust each other. That’s the only thing that matters in that environment."

​"You guys have saved so many lives, Oscar. Does it ever stop feeling heavy?"

​He’s quiet for a moment, looking out at the tree line. "It never stops feeling heavy. You just get better at carrying it. And honestly? Having people like Lando and George—and having you—makes the weight feel like something I can actually manage."

​You reach out, resting your hand on his knee, feeling the solid, familiar heat of him. "I'm glad you have them. And I'm glad you have this."

​"I am too," he says, his voice dropping into that soft, low register that always makes your pulse skip. "I really am."

​You’re just about to crack a joke about how he needs to thank Lando for setting the bar so low that he looks like a genius by comparison, when a sharp, white-hot pulse of pain slams into the back of your skull. It’s not just a headache; it’s a sudden, blinding spike that makes the world tilt. You gasp, your hand instinctively flying to your temple, your vision blurring at the edges.

​Oscar is on his feet in a second, the playfulness gone, replaced instantly by the rigid, clinical focus of a surgeon. "What? What is it? Did you hit your head? Tell me, are you dizzy? Is it radiating?"

​He’s already moving closer, his hands framing your face, his thumbs checking your pupils with the speed of an expert. He’s panicked—you can see it in the way his jaw is tight and his eyes are scanning for signs of a hemorrhage or a seizure. He’s not Oscar the camper anymore; he’s Dr. Piastri, and he’s terrified.

​"Oscar, stop, seriously," you manage to choke out, forcing a weak smile despite the throbbing in your head. You reach up, grabbing his wrists to stop him from doing a full neurological workup on you right there in the dirt. "It’s not a hematoma. It’s just a tension headache. I’ve been putting in ridiculous hours at the rehab unit lately, and I haven't been sleeping enough."

​"Are you sure?" he demands, his voice still vibrating with anxiety. "You’re pale. You’re sweating. We should go back. I have my kit in the car, I can—"

​"You can do nothing but sit down," you interrupt, reaching into your bag and pulling out a bottle of painkillers. You shake two out into your palm and swallow them with a gulp of tea. "It happens every time I work back-to-back shifts. The noise in the rehab ward is non-stop, and I haven't been drinking enough water. It’s a classic tension headache. My blood pressure is fine, my vision is clearing, and I definitely don't need to be rushed to the ER, especially not by my own boyfriend."

​He stares at you, his eyes searching yours for a lie. He’s spent months treating actual brain injuries, and he’s clearly struggling to switch off the part of his brain that’s trained to see danger everywhere.

​"I know it looks like an emergency to you," you say softly, tugging on his hand until he sits back down, "but it’s not. I’m fine, Oscar. Truly. It’s just work. Everyone gets headaches, even the people who spend their lives fixing brains."

​He lets out a long, ragged breath, his shoulders finally dropping as the panic begins to ebb. "You scared the hell out of me. You know that, right?"

​"I know," you say, leaning your head on his shoulder as the medication begins to dull the worst of the ache. "But look at me. I'm breathing, I'm talking, and I'm definitely not having a neurological episode. I’m just a tired human who needs a nap."

​"You’re a pain in my neck," he mutters, though he wraps an arm around you and pulls you close, his fingers brushing the hair away from your forehead. "And a massive health hazard."

​"You love me anyway," you murmur, closing your eyes.

​"Yeah," he sighs, his voice barely a whisper. "I really, really do."

— ​✦

Moving into that new apartment was less of a grand gesture and more of a quiet, necessary evolution. It’s got floor-to-ceiling windows that catch the afternoon sun, a kitchen big enough for both of you to dance around in, and a bedroom that, for the first time in years, doesn't smell like antiseptic or sound like an ICU paging system. You’ve settled into a rhythm that feels less like a clinical observation and more like a real life.

​Living with a neurosurgeon means you’ve become an expert in reading the room before you even walk into it. You know exactly what kind of day he’s had the second the door clicks shut behind him. If he’s silent—not just quiet, but still—it means he’s spent six hours navigating a cavernoma or a tumor near the brainstem, and he needs space to decompress. You don't ask questions; you just hand him a glass of water, turn down the lights, and let the silence sit there until he’s ready to talk. On those nights, you’re his anchor, and he’s yours.

​He’s just as sharp about your moods. He knows your boss is breathing down your neck before you’ve even said a word, just by the way you’re stabbing at your laptop keys or the way your eyebrows knot together when you’re trying to finish a report. He’s the one who’ll walk by, drop a steaming mug of tea on the desk, and quietly close your laptop before pulling you toward the couch. He even keeps track of your cycle, which is both incredibly sweet and mildly terrifying, regularly restocking the bathroom cabinet with chocolate and heating pads before you’ve even realized you’re on edge.

​Ordinary happiness is everywhere. It’s in the mundane, boring, wonderful stuff—arguing over who left the laundry in the dryer for too long, deciding which grocery store has the better produce, or cooking dinner on a Tuesday night while he tries to explain the difference between a subarachnoid hemorrhage and a subdural hematoma using nothing but pasta noodles and a bowl of salad.

​"You're using the penne as the cranial vault, but that doesn't make any sense, Oscar," you laugh, swiping at a rogue piece of lettuce.

​"It’s a functional model!" he protests, eyes bright with that playful, competitive spark he usually saves for Lando and George. "If you’d just let me explain the pressure differential—"

​"I am not learning neurosurgery via Italian cuisine. Help me with the dishes."

​Then comes the weekend you decide to introduce him to your parents. You’ve been dreading it, mostly because your mom and sister have never quite let go of the "brain injury romance" narrative. You pull up to your childhood home, and Oscar’s hands are actually gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.

​"You okay?" you ask, reaching over to pat his arm. "They’re just people. My mom isn't going to perform a neuro-assessment on you."

​"I’m fine," he mutters, though he looks like he’d rather be back in the OR. "It’s just… usually I’m the one on the other side of this. I’m the doctor, they’re the family. Being the guest? It’s unnerving."

​Before he can even fully step out of the car, your mom is on the front porch, beaming. She doesn't wait for introductions; she marches right up and pulls him into a hug that he clearly isn't prepared for.

​"Dr. Piastri!" she exclaims, pulling back to beam at him. "We are so thrilled to finally have you over. Thank you, again, for everything. I still tell everyone at the garden club that we had a saint looking after our daughter."

​Oscar goes stiff, offering an awkward, polite smile. "It was my privilege, really. I’m just glad she’s here."

​Your sister, naturally, can’t help herself. She leans against the doorframe, a wicked grin on her face. "A saint? Mom, please. We all know how this started. We’ve seen the charts. She was practically sedated, calling him 'baby' and trying to propose to him between scans. Honestly, it’s a miracle they’re actually together. She basically manifested him into existence."

​You feel the blood rush to your ears. "I did not manifest him, and I was not trying to propose, I was delirious!"

​"Keep telling yourself that," your sister laughs, ushering you all inside.

​Dinner is a whirlwind of questions and barely suppressed teasing. You’re trying to navigate the conversation toward safe topics—the weather, your new job, the traffic—but your parents are laser-focused on the legend of "The Handsome Neurosurgeon." Oscar handles it like a professional, though his ears are steadily turning a shade of pink that matches the tablecloth.

​As you’re helping your dad with the dishes later, he leans in close, lowering his voice with a twinkle in his eye. "You know, when you told us you’d met someone in the hospital, we were worried you were just being dramatic. But... he’s a good man, honey. And he’s definitely as handsome as you kept saying. I guess you weren't lying about the 'handsome doctor' thing after all."

​You nearly drop a plate, the heat in your face so intense it might as well be a fever. "Dad! Please! Can we just talk about the lawnmower? Anything else?"

​He just chuckles, patting your shoulder. "Relax. I like him. He’s got enough patience to put up with you, and that’s the most important thing."

​You walk back into the living room, feeling like you might spontaneously combust from pure, unadulterated mortification. Oscar is sitting on the couch, laughing at something your mom is saying, looking completely at ease. He catches your eye, and for a split second, that secret, crooked smile—the one that exists just for you—appears. It doesn't matter what your parents think or how much they tease; in that moment, seeing him there, fitting into your life, you know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

—

Headaches are becoming a permanent resident in your skull, a dull, throbbing bassline that pulses right behind your left eye. You’re sitting at your desk, staring at a spreadsheet that’s starting to swim, and you press the heels of your hands against your temples, hard.

​"God, I hate this job," you mutter, typing out a quick text to Oscar. Boss is officially trying to kill me with this workload. If I collapse at my desk, tell them to charge my funeral to the company budget.

​You laugh to yourself, but the sound feels thin. A few minutes later, you stand up to grab your coat and head out, but you freeze. Where are your keys? You check your pockets. You check the desk drawer. You check the edge of the printer. Nothing. You spend ten minutes doing a frantic sweep of the cubicle before finding them sitting on top of the copier, right where you had been standing twenty minutes ago.

​Weird, you think, your pulse jumping a little. I definitely picked them up from the desk.

​When you get home, Oscar is already there, leaning against the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when you walk in, his expression unreadable. You drop your keys on the counter—you’re sure you put them there—and kiss him on the cheek.

​"Hey," he says, his voice quiet. "How was the day?"

​"Brutal," you say, flopping onto the couch. "My boss is actually delusional. I think I had a conversation with Clara about the quarterly report, but honestly, my brain is fried. I can't even remember if we talked today or yesterday."

​Oscar doesn't respond right away. He walks over, handing you a glass of water, his fingers lingering on yours for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. He’s watching you. You can feel his gaze, the clinical, observant stare he usually reserves for patients in the ICU. It makes you feel slightly exposed, but you shrug it off.

​"You should sleep," he says, his tone perfectly neutral. "You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. It’s affecting your cognitive baseline."

​"My 'cognitive baseline' is fine, Doc," you tease, taking a sip of water. "I’m just overworked and under-caffeinated. My boss is trying to squeeze blood from a stone, and I’m the stone."

​He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He looks down at his phone, then back at you, his thumb tracing the rim of his own glass. You don't see the way his jaw tightens or the way he silently counts the times you’ve misplaced things this week. You don't see him logging your memory lapses in his head, matching them against the timeline of your recovery.

​He’s terrified. He knows exactly what those headaches mean, and he knows exactly what the memory slips imply, but he’s holding his breath, waiting for the right moment. He knows you’ll just fight him on it, calling him a paranoid surgeon who’s projecting his work trauma onto his girlfriend.

​"Yeah," he says finally, his voice soft. "I guess it’s just stress. You’re probably right."

​You look at him, feeling a sudden, strange flicker of unease. He’s usually the first one to crack a joke or push back, but tonight, he’s as still as a statue.

​"Are you okay?" you ask. "You’ve been weirdly quiet since I got home."

​"I'm just tired," he says, walking over to pull you into a hug. He holds you tighter than usual, his chin resting on top of your head. You can hear his heart beating against your chest, steady and fast. "Just really tired."

​You close your eyes, letting the headache recede into the background. You’re fine. You’re just stressed. You’re just a busy person in a busy world, and Oscar is just a guy who spends his life looking for problems where there aren't any. You don't see the look on his face over your shoulder—the look of a man watching his worst fear begin to unfold in slow motion.

— ​✦

Alarm clock screams at 6:00 AM, and your head feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice. You roll over, groaning, and press your palms into your eyes until you see stars. Another day, another headache. You chalk it up to the humidity, the lack of sleep, or maybe just the general soul-crushing weight of adult life. You roll out of bed, your movements sluggish, and shuffle toward the bathroom.

​"Coffee’s already going," Oscar says from the kitchen. He’s already dressed in his scrubs, leaning against the counter with a cup of black coffee in his hand. He’s looking at you with that same unreadable, clinical expression he’s worn for the last week.

​"Bless you," you mutter, stumbling into the kitchen. You down the first cup like it’s life-saving medicine, then immediately start frantically checking your bag. "Have you seen my car keys? I swear I left them right here last night. Why is it that the moment I need to leave, my house decides to swallow my belongings?"

​You start tearing through the mail pile, knocking a stack of envelopes onto the floor. You’re annoyed now, the pulsing in your temples picking up speed with every frantic motion. You check the sofa cushions, then the kitchen junk drawer, your heart hammering against your ribs.

​Oscar is standing there, leaning back, his eyes locked on the spot on the counter where your keys are sitting in plain sight. They’re right there—shiny, silver, and utterly obvious. He doesn't move. He doesn't point. He just watches you, his face a mask of carefully controlled concern. He’s counting. He’s weighing the seconds it takes for you to notice the keys that were in your hand five minutes ago. His silence is heavy, bordering on suffocating, but you’re too wrapped up in your own rising frustration to notice.

​"I’m losing my mind," you snap, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "I put them right here! I remember putting them here!"

​Oscar finally speaks, his voice eerily calm. "Are you sure? Maybe you left them in your jacket pocket?"

​"I checked the pockets, Oscar! I checked them twice!" You’re pacing now, your breath coming in short, irritated bursts.

​He takes a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving your face. He’s looking for the glimmer of recognition, the moment where the memory clicks into place. It doesn't come. You’re genuinely convinced they’ve vanished into thin air. He finally sets his mug down, walks over to the counter, and picks up the keys.

​"These?" he asks, holding them up.

​You stop dead. You stare at the keys, then at the counter, then back at him. A wave of cold, sharp realization washes over you, but you shove it down. "Oh. Right. I... I must have moved them when I was putting the mail away. My brain is just toast today."

​You grab the keys from him, your fingers brushing his. His skin is ice cold.

​"Don't forget your report," he says quietly, gesturing toward the dining table.

​You frown, turning toward the table. Sure enough, your thick binder is sitting right there, smack in the middle of the surface. You had been staring at it for ten minutes while you were complaining about the keys, and you hadn't even registered it was there.

​"Seriously?" You laugh, a dry, nervous sound. "I’m looking right at the thing and it’s like it’s invisible. I need a vacation. Or a new brain. Preferably a new brain."

​Oscar doesn't laugh. He doesn't even crack a smile. He watches you stuff the binder into your bag, his eyes tracking every movement with a precision that makes you feel like a specimen under a microscope.

​"You’re working late today, right?" he asks.

​"Yeah, big meeting," you say, heading for the door. You’re already halfway into the hallway before you remember to grab your coat. You swing back, snatching it off the chair. "I’ll probably be home by eight. Don't wait up if you’ve got a late shift."

​"I’ll be home," he says. He’s standing in the doorway, watching you leave, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looks like he wants to say something—like he wants to grab you and pull you back into the apartment—but he just keeps his lips pressed into a thin, white line.

​"See you later, Doc," you call out, forcing a bright, casual tone that feels totally fake.

​"See you," he replies.

​You walk down the hallway, the headache roaring to life again. You’re halfway to the elevator when you stop, hit by a sudden, jarring wave of confusion. You reach into your bag to check for your phone, but you realize you haven't checked for your wallet. You turn around to head back, but as you look at your apartment door, you struggle for a split second to remember which unit is yours.

​It’s the one at the end, you tell yourself, your heart doing a sick, slow somersault. It’s the one with the blue wreath.

​You reach your door, unlock it, and walk back in. Oscar is still standing in the kitchen, right where you left him. He looks at you, his expression shifting from surprise to something much, much darker.

​"Left my wallet," you say, trying to keep your voice steady, trying to keep the panic from leaking out. You grab it from the counter, your movements jerky. "Back again. See you later."

​You leave, but you can feel his eyes on your back the entire time. You get to the elevator, the doors slide shut, and you finally let yourself lean against the cold metal wall. You’re fine. You’re just tired. Everyone forgets their wallet. Everyone loses their keys. You’re just stressed, and you’re dating a neurosurgeon who’s making you paranoid by proxy.

​But deep down, in the back of your mind, a small, terrified voice is whispering that something is fundamentally wrong, and you’re terrified that if you say it out loud, it might actually be true.

Hey, I’m at my desk, you type, your thumbs hovering over the glass. Everything is normal. Stop looking at me like I’m a malfunctioning MRI machine. I’m just tired, I promise.

​You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it. You’ve been trying to convince yourself all morning that you’re not a walking disaster. You’re just busy. Everyone gets overwhelmed. But that sinking feeling in your stomach—the one that hit when you couldn't find your own front door—doesn't go away just because you sent a text. You stare at the screen, waiting for his reply, trying to ignore the way your thoughts keep slipping through your fingers like water.

​Meanwhile, three miles away, Oscar is staring at a blank wall in his office. His coffee is cold, and he hasn't moved in ten minutes. His phone buzzes, he reads your message, and his jaw just tightens. He knows you're lying. He knows that "normal" for you lately has been a series of small, terrifying cracks in the foundation.

​Lando and George burst in without knocking, as usual.

​"I’m telling you, the patient in 602 is going to be the death of me," Lando is saying, mid-rant, throwing his hands up. "He’s convinced that his post-op headache is actually a microchip the government installed, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to—"

​George stops. He notices the silence in the room. He looks at Oscar, then looks at Lando, and nudges him to shut up.

​"Okay," George says, his voice losing that joking edge. "What’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

​Oscar finally turns his chair around. He looks exhausted, the kind of tired that sleep won't fix. "It’s her," he says, his voice dropping. "It’s not just the headaches anymore. It’s the memory lapses. She’s misplacing things, losing track of conversations, even basic navigation. And she’s trying to hide it. She’s trying so hard to act like it’s just stress."

​George leans back against the doorframe, his expression hardening. He’s a neurosurgeon, too; he’s seen the patterns. He doesn't need a textbook to know where this conversation is heading.

​"How long?" George asks.

​"A few weeks," Oscar says. "It started small. I thought it was burnout. But today... she didn't know which apartment was ours. She had to double-back to find the door."

​Lando goes quiet, his usual manic energy completely evaporated. He looks between the two of them, sensing the gravity shift. "Oscar... you’re the lead on her case. You’ve had the follow-ups. You saw the scans months ago. They were clear."

​"I know," Oscar says, his voice rough. "I’m the one who cleared her. I’m the one who told her she was a clean slate. So now I’m sitting here, wondering... am I overthinking this because I’m biased? Am I seeing things that aren't there because I’m terrified of losing her? Or am I just looking for an excuse to believe it’s not happening?"

​George goes silent. He’s staring at the floor, thinking. He’s not going to lie to his friend, and he’s not going to offer a hollow comfort. He’s a surgeon; he deals in facts, even when they’re brutal.

​"I can't diagnose her, Oscar," George says finally, looking up, his voice steady. "You know that. I haven't seen the charts, and I haven't seen her in months. But... memory retrieval issues, spatial disorientation, persistent cephalalgia? If a patient came to me with that history, I’d be ordering a new MRI within the hour."

​"I can't just drag her in here and force her into the machine," Oscar says, pacing the small room now. "She’s not my patient. She’s my partner. If I push this and I’m wrong, I destroy the trust we’ve built. If I don't push it and I’m right... I don't even want to finish that thought."

​"You’re caught between the doctor and the boyfriend," Lando says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "That’s a hell of a place to be, mate."

​"It’s a nightmare," Oscar corrects. "I operate on people’s brains every day, but I can't even look at the woman I love without wondering if her brain is failing her again. And the worst part? I don't know if I’m looking for the truth or just trying to convince myself I’m crazy."

​George nods slowly. "The fact that you’re scared means you’re paying attention. Keep watching her. And if you’re right, Oscar... you’re going to have to be the doctor, not the boyfriend. You know that better than anyone."

"Mate, you know the policy," Lando says, pacing the small office, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. "Doctors don't touch their own. Not when it's family, not when it's partners, and definitely not when it’s someone you’re this close to. You’re compromised, Oscar. You’ve been compromised since she walked out of that ICU."

​Oscar rubs his face with both hands, the friction of his palms against his stubble audible in the quiet room. "I know the damn policy, Lando. But she’s mine. If I just hand her over to a random resident or some stranger who doesn't know her history, they’re going to miss the nuance. They’re going to miss the baseline."

​"And if you do the scan yourself?" George pipes up, leaning against the desk, his voice calm but firm. "You’re looking at your partner through a filter of fear. You’ll either see things that aren't there because you're terrified, or you’ll overlook the obvious because you're desperate for her to be okay. It’s bad medicine, Oscar. It’s not just a rule, it’s for your own sanity."

​Oscar lets out a long, jagged sigh, pacing toward the window and looking out at the parking lot where he knows his car is parked. "You're right. Both of you. I know you're right. It’s just... it’s her."

​"I'll do it," George says, his voice dropping the teasing tone entirely. "I’ll run the intake. I’ll order the imaging under my own credentials. You can't be in the room, but I’ll make sure she gets the priority she deserves. I’ll be objective, I’ll be thorough, and I’ll be honest with you about every single pixel of that scan. But you have to step back."

​"George is the best guy for it, Oscar," Lando adds, his hand resting on his friend's shoulder. "He’s as sharp as you, and he doesn't have the emotional baggage. Let him handle the clinical side."

​Oscar stares at the floor, his brain clearly grinding through a thousand different scenarios, trying to find a way to maintain control that he knows he’s already lost. Finally, his shoulders slump. He looks at George and gives a slow, singular nod.

​"Okay," he says, his voice thick with a mix of frustration and begrudging acceptance. "You're right. I can't be objective with her. I'm too close to it."

​"Good," George says, already pulling out his tablet to look at the department’s afternoon availability. "We’ll get her in for an 'unrelated' follow-up. Keep it low-key, don't spook her."

​"I have to talk to her tonight," Oscar says, his eyes focused on the door. "I can't just trick her into an MRI. She’s smart, and she’s going to know something is up the second she sees George instead of me. I need to be the one to tell her why this is happening. I just... I need to figure out how to do it without making her feel like her life is falling apart again."

​"Don't lie to her," Lando says quietly. "She’s been through enough to know when you're bullshitting. Just tell her you’re worried, and that for your own peace of mind, you need a second set of eyes."

​Oscar nods, his expression haunted. "Yeah. I’ll tell her. Tonight."

— ​✦

Door clicks shut behind you, and you immediately drop your bag, stumbling into the kitchen with a hand pressed hard against your temple. "I don't know what it is, but this headache is actually trying to kill me today. I think my boss is actively siphoning my spinal fluid."

​Oscar is standing by the counter, holding a glass of water, his face unreadable. He doesn't offer a joke, and he doesn't tell you to sit down. He just watches you, his eyes tracking every flicker of pain on your face.

​"I need you to see George tomorrow," he says. His voice is flat, devoid of its usual warmth.

​You blink, taken aback. "George? As in, Dr. Russell? The neurosurgeon? For a headache? Oscar, that’s insane. I’m just stressed. I’m not going to waste a specialist's time because I’ve been staring at a screen for eight hours."

​"You aren't just stressed," Oscar says, and his voice spikes with an intensity that stops you in your tracks. He sets the glass down with a sharp clack on the marble. "I’ve been tracking this, and I’m done pretending it’s normal. You forgot your keys three times this week. You lost the thread of a conversation we had five minutes prior. You couldn't find our front door this morning."

​You feel your face go hot, defensive heat rushing through you. "So I’m a little scatterbrained! That doesn't mean I have a tumor, Oscar! You’re looking at me like I’m a lab rat because you’re still obsessed with the surgery you did months ago. You’re projecting, okay? You're just being a paranoid surgeon."

​"I'm being a doctor who is terrified because I know exactly what the red flags look like!" he snaps back, his composure finally fracturing. He steps toward you, his hands gesturing sharply. "Do you think I want to believe there's something wrong? I would give anything to believe you’re just tired. But I’m not blind, and I’m not going to sit here and watch you slip away while you play it off as a 'long week at work.'"

​"Slip away? Really?" You let out a harsh, incredulous laugh, crossing your arms over your chest. "You’re acting like I’m dying. I’m just human. I’m forgetful, I’m overworked, and I’m currently dating someone who treats every minor inconvenience as a neurological crisis. It’s patronizing, Oscar."

​"It’s not patronizing, it’s care," he says, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet growl. "I’ve been keeping a list in my head of every lapse, every headache, every moment you get lost in your own apartment. And every single time, I’ve prayed that I was wrong. But I’m not. And you’re too stubborn to admit you’re scared, too."

​"I’m not scared!" you shout, though your voice cracks. "I’m just tired of you dissecting my brain every time I misplace my wallet! Why can’t you just be my boyfriend instead of my doctor? I don't need a consult, I need you to just—"

​"I can't be just your boyfriend when your life might be on the line!" he cuts you off, his eyes flashing with a mix of fury and raw, exposed pain. "You think I like this? You think I like standing here, forced to act like a professional when my whole world is shaking? I am trying to save us from a disaster, and you are fighting me every single step of the way because you're too proud to admit you aren't okay."

​You stare at him, stunned into silence by the sheer ferocity in his tone. The headache is throbbing in rhythm with your heart, and for a terrifying second, you can't even remember the argument you were just having. You just know that he’s looking at you with a desperation that breaks your heart, even while you want to scream at him to stop.

​"If you won't see George for yourself," he says, his voice low and vibrating with a terrifying finality, "then see him for me. Because I can't do this anymore. I can't live in this house, watching you disappear, and pretend like everything is fine."

— ​✦

Hospital hallways seem longer, colder, and infinitely more suffocating when you aren't the one volunteering, but the patient waiting for a verdict. You’re sitting on the edge of the exam table in George’s office, your legs swinging rhythmically, trying to distract yourself from the hum of the overhead lights. Oscar is standing by the window, his back to you, his shoulders locked in a grip of iron. He hasn't looked at you since George walked out with the results in his hand, and the tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.

​George steps back inside, holding the tablet with the scan results. He doesn't look at you first; he looks at the scans. His expression is the professional, inscrutable mask of a man who has delivered thousands of life-altering sentences. He sighs, a quiet, weary sound, and finally turns to face you.

​"The imaging shows a delayed hydrocephalus and some focal compression," George says, his voice steady but heavy. "It’s a direct complication from the initial trauma. It’s what’s causing the memory lapses and the persistent pressure headaches. We need to go back in, and we need to do it soon."

​Everything goes quiet. The words don't seem to make sense. Go back in. Like it’s a routine maintenance check, not a crack in your skull.

​"Surgery?" you ask, your voice sounding small. "Again?"

​Oscar is across the room in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands gripping yours so tightly it almost hurts. His eyes are wide, glassy with a sudden, devastating surge of guilt. "I’m sorry," he whispers, his voice breaking. "I should have seen it. I should have ordered the scans the moment you mentioned the headaches. I was so caught up in being your partner that I failed you as a doctor. I'm so, so sorry."

​"Oscar, don't," you say, reaching out to touch his face. His skin is clammy, his breath coming in uneven hitches. "You didn't know. Nobody knew."

​"I am the expert!" he explodes, his voice rising in panic, the clinical detachment totally shattered. "It’s my specialty! I’m supposed to protect you, and instead, I watched you struggle for weeks while I was too busy being scared. I should have been faster. I should have been better."

​He looks up at George, his eyes fierce and pleading. "I’m doing the surgery. I’m the only one who knows the topography of her brain from the last time. I’m the one who closed her up. I’m doing it."

​George steps forward, his hand coming down firmly on Oscar’s shoulder, forcing him to stand up. He doesn't let go of his grip, anchoring him to the floor. "No. You’re not."

​"George, I am the lead on this—"

​"You’re not the surgeon on this case, Oscar," George interrupts, his tone cutting no room for debate. "You are completely compromised. Look at your hands."

​You look down. Oscar’s hands are shaking—a fine, rapid tremor that would make holding a scalpel a death sentence. He’s white as a sheet, his pupils dilated with shock.

​George looks at you, his eyes softening just a fraction. "I need you to head home and get some rest. There’s paperwork in the front office, and I have a team ready to prep everything for tomorrow. I need to have a private conversation with Dr. Piastri about the specifics of the procedure."

​"But—" Oscar starts, his voice raw.

​"Go home," George repeats, turning his gaze back to Oscar with a look of absolute, immovable authority. "That’s an order, colleague. You need to step out of the surgeon’s chair and be a partner for the next twenty-four hours. Can you do that?"

​Oscar looks at you, his entire body trembling, his mouth opening and closing as if he’s trying to swallow the reality of the situation. He looks terrified—more terrified than you’ve ever seen him in his scrub gear.

​"I'll be right outside," Oscar mumbles, his voice barely audible. He looks like he’s about to shatter.

​"No," George says gently, nudging you toward the door. "Go with her. Stay with her tonight. I’ll call you when I’ve finished the plan. But you are not stepping foot in an OR until this is over."

​You walk out of the office, Oscar trailing behind you like a ghost. He doesn't hold your hand. He doesn't speak. He just follows you out into the corridor, his eyes fixed on the back of your head as if he’s trying to make sure you don't disappear into thin air. You feel like you’re walking toward your own execution, but looking at Oscar—the man who usually holds the world together—crumbling into pieces because he realizes he’s helpless to save you—that’s the part that really hurts.

— ​✦

The Office of the Chief of Neurosurgery is cramped, smelling faintly of old coffee and high-stakes politics. You’re waiting in the car downstairs, but Oscar is currently standing in the center of the Chief’s office, hands balled into white-knuckled fists. The surgical board is watching him, their faces masks of professional neutrality, but he doesn't care.

​"I am the lead on her case history," Oscar says, his voice dangerously steady. "I performed the initial craniotomy. I know the scar tissue, the adhesion patterns, and how her brain responded to the anesthesia. No one else has that data."

​The Chief, a man who has seen it all, sighs and sets his pen down. "Oscar, we all know you’re the best we have. But you are not a neutral party. She’s your partner. You’re far too emotionally compromised, and that is a direct violation of surgical ethics. Russell is a world-class surgeon. He’s taking the case."

​"George is a brilliant surgeon," Oscar concedes, his jaw twitching. "But he hasn't been in that brain. I have. I’m the best person for this procedure, and denying her the best possible chance of recovery because of a policy is a mistake."

​"It's not about the policy, it's about the patient's safety," the Chief fires back. "Your hands were shaking in George’s office earlier, Oscar. Do you think I didn't see the report? If you go into that OR, you’re a liability, not an asset."

​Oscar feels the blood rushing to his ears, a hot, frantic hum that makes it hard to focus. He stops trying to be the calm, calculated surgeon. He lets the mask slide off.

​"You think I don't know that?" Oscar asks, his voice dropping to a jagged, desperate whisper. He leans over the desk, his composure finally collapsing. "I know I’m compromised. I’ve known it for weeks. But she’s my life. You’re asking me to hand over the person I love most in the world to someone else because you’re worried about protocol? I’m not asking you as a surgeon. I’m telling you as a man who is absolutely terrified that if I’m not the one holding the scalpel, she won't wake up."

​"Oscar—"

​"I am one of the best neurosurgeons in this country," he continues, his voice rising, raw and unsparing. "I have saved hundreds of people who were far worse off than she is. And you’re telling me that because I care about her, I’m suddenly incapable of doing my job? I don't care about the board. I don't care about the risk to my career. I just need to know she’s okay."

​"That is exactly why you cannot do it," the Chief says softly, his tone hardening. "If you make one tiny error—one microscopic slip because you were distracted by the fact that it's her face on that table—you will never forgive yourself. And she will never recover. You need to be her partner tonight, not her doctor. George is the one who will be her surgeon."

​Oscar stands there, chest heaving, looking at the older man like he’s just signed a death warrant. The fight is leaking out of him, replaced by a cold, hollow dread. He’s spent his whole life believing that being the best meant being the one in control, but he’s never been more aware of his own limitations.

​"She’s scared," Oscar says, his voice sounding small, lost. "She’s so scared, and she’s trying to be brave for me. I just... I can't be in the waiting room while someone else is working on her. How am I supposed to sit there and do nothing?"

​"You don't do nothing," the Chief says, standing up and walking around the desk to put a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. "You show up for her. You stay by her side when she wakes up. That is what she needs from you right now. Not a surgeon who is one panic attack away from a catastrophe."

​Oscar closes his eyes, a single, sharp breath escaping him. He knows he’s lost. He knows George is the better choice for the procedure, even if his heart refuses to accept it.

​"Fine," Oscar whispers, the word tasting like ash. "But if there’s a single complication—if George even hesitates—I’m coming into that OR."

​"He won't hesitate," the Chief says firmly. "Go to her, Oscar. She’s waiting for you."

— ​✦

The balcony feels like the edge of the world, a small, concrete rectangle hovering over a city that’s still moving, unaware that your own personal orbit is about to tilt off its axis. You’re huddled in a thick wool blanket, knees pulled up to your chest, staring at the streetlights below. Oscar is sitting right beside you, his shoulder pressed firmly against yours, his hand gripping yours so tightly his knuckles are white. He hasn't moved for an hour, his gaze fixed on a distant flicker of neon, his jaw set in a line of constant, suppressed agitation.

​"I’m sorry," you say, the words feeling heavy and thick in your throat. You turn to look at him, searching his profile for that familiar, calm composure, but it’s gone. He’s raw, completely stripped of the professional armor he usually wears like a second skin. "I’m sorry I kept pushing you away. I kept acting like you were just being a paranoid surgeon, like I didn't want to admit something was actually wrong. I should have listened to you. I should have trusted you when you said it wasn't just stress."

​Oscar turns his head slowly, his eyes dark, rimmed with the exhaustion of a man who hasn't truly slept since the MRI. He shakes his head, an abrupt, jerky motion. "No. Don't do that. Don't you dare take the blame for this. If anyone’s at fault, it’s me. I was the one who did your follow-ups. I was the one who saw you every single day. I told myself it was just fatigue, just the grind, because I wanted so desperately for you to be back to normal. I failed you, and that’s a weight I’m going to be carrying for a long time."

​"You didn't fail me, Oscar," you insist, shifting closer, trying to thread your fingers through his. "You were just… you were too close to it. You were the boyfriend, not the doctor. And honestly? I wouldn't have wanted anyone else to be the one taking care of me those first few months. You saved me then. You gave me back a life that I’m still living."

​He lets out a harsh, jagged laugh, looking away again. "I didn't save you enough, clearly. Now we’re back at square one, and I’m sitting on a balcony while someone else has to go in and fix what I left behind."

​"You trust George, don't you?" you ask, squeezing his hand.

​He goes stiff, his thumb tracing frantic, aimless patterns against your palm. "George is the best. I know that. If I didn't think he was the best, he wouldn't be in my circle, and he certainly wouldn't be allowed anywhere near your surgical chart. He’s meticulous, he’s faster than I am in some areas, and he doesn't have the same emotional baggage. He’s going to be perfect."

​"Then I trust him, too," you say, trying to force a small, watery smile. "And besides, if he messes up, I know you’ll hunt him down and ruin his career. I’ve seen how you and Lando treat him when he loses a bet. I’m in good hands."

​Oscar finally looks at you, his eyes searching yours with such an intense, aching vulnerability that it makes you want to cry. He lifts your hand, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles. "I know he’s good. I know it with my head, logically, statistically. But that’s not the problem. The problem is that it’s not me. I’m terrified that if I’m not the one holding the instrument, if I’m not the one seeing the tissue, I won’t know if you’re safe until the moment you wake up. I need to be the one to ensure you’re still… you."

​"I’ll still be me," you whisper, leaning your forehead against his shoulder. "I promise. We’re going to get through this, and then we’re going to go on that camping trip you wanted. We’re going to sleep for a week. We’re going to be boring and regular and absolutely nothing will be happening in a surgical theater."

​"I just want you back," he murmurs, his voice cracking. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "I don't care about the surgery. I don't care about the success rates. I just want you to wake up and look at me and be you. I’m so scared, more than I’ve ever been in my life."

​"I'm scared too," you admit, the truth finally coming out. You feel him shudder against you. "But we’re doing it together. Even if you’re not in the room, you’re going to be right there the second I open my eyes. That’s all that matters."

​He holds you tighter, as if he can anchor you to the earth, to this specific moment, forever. He knows the risks, he knows the fragility of everything, and he knows that tomorrow morning, he has to hand you over to someone else. It’s a torture he can’t even begin to describe, a helplessness that cuts through all his medical training and leaves him as vulnerable as any of the patients he’s treated. But for now, here on the balcony, in the quiet, he just holds on, and you hold him back, both of you waiting for a morning that feels like a cliff edge you have to jump off, together.

— ​✦

Hospital corridors are a blur of white and antiseptic, but you’re already being prepped, your mind starting to drift under the influence of the initial sedation. You catch one last glimpse of the three of them near the nurses' station—Oscar, George, and Lando. They’re huddled in a tight, frantic circle, completely ignoring the hustle of the floor around them.

​Oscar has his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his posture rigid, shoulders hunched up to his ears. He isn’t talking like a colleague right now; he’s talking like a man whose heart is being held by a string.

​"I know the protocol, I know the drill, I know the fucking anatomy," Oscar is saying, his voice tight and uneven. He looks at George, his eyes wide and bloodshot, desperate for a guarantee he knows he can't actually get. "But you have to watch the adhesion near the temporal lobe. It’s thinner than the imaging suggests. Please. You have to be careful with it. If you nick that, the bleed is—"

​"Oscar," George says, stepping into his space, his hand firm on Oscar’s arm. "Breathe. I’ve seen the scans. I know the terrain. I’m not going to rush, and I’m not going to take any unnecessary risks. I’ve got her."

​"And Lando," Oscar pivots, grabbing the front of Lando’s scrubs, his knuckles white. Lando, usually the one with a joke ready, just looks back with a grim, steady intensity. "Keep her stable. Don't let her pressure spike. If she starts to drift too deep, bring her back immediately. Please, Lando. You’re the best at this—just... just keep her here. Don't let her go anywhere."

​Lando nods, his grip tightening on Oscar’s shoulder. "I’m not taking my eyes off the monitors, mate. I’ll keep her right where we need her. She’s not going anywhere on my watch, I promise."

​Oscar lets out a ragged, choked sound—half-sob, half-breath—and he finally breaks. It’s not the composed, detached surgeon people expect; it’s just a guy, terrified and unraveling in front of his two best friends. He’s crying, openly, his shoulders shaking as he buries his face in his hands for a split second before forcing himself to look back at them.

​"I can't lose her," he pleads, his voice cracking, stripped of all pride and authority. "Please. I’m begging you. Save her. If you save her... I owe you everything. Just... just bring her back to me."

​George looks at Lando, a silent communication passing between them—a vow that goes beyond medicine, beyond career, and into the territory of brotherhood.

​"We’re going to do exactly what we’ve done a hundred times before," George says, his voice low and rock-solid. "We’re going to be perfect, Oscar. Go wait for her. We’ll come find you the second we’re closed."

​"You better," Oscar whispers, his voice trembling. "I’m going to be right outside that door. Do not make me come in there."

​Lando gives Oscar a rough, grounding squeeze on the arm. "Go. Get out of here before you make us all lose our nerve. We’ve got this."

​You see them move toward you then, their faces hardening back into the professional masks they wear to survive. Oscar lingers for a second, catching your eye as the gurney starts to move. He looks like he’s aged ten years in ten minutes. He steps up, leaning over so he’s directly in your line of sight, his face inches from yours.

​"I’ll be right here," he says, his voice barely a tremor. He reaches out, brushing his thumb across your cheek with a gentleness that hurts. "When you wake up, I’m the first thing you’re going to see. I love you."

​"I love you too," you whisper, the sedative already pulling you down into the dark. "Don't be a hover-parent while I'm out."

​He manages a weak, shaky smile, his eyes shining. "No promises."

​He stands back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, watching until you disappear through the double doors of the OR. He doesn't move. He stands there in the silence of the empty hallway, a surgeon without a patient, a partner waiting for his other half, just staring at the wall where the lights have turned to "IN PROGRESS."

— ​✦

Plastic chairs in the waiting area are the most uncomfortable invention known to man. Oscar sat in this room a thousand times as a visitor, a student, or a colleague popping in to deliver a chart, but sitting here now, waiting for you, feels like being skinned alive. Oscar stares at a faded poster on the wall detailing the stages of heart disease, his mind utterly incapable of processing the text. He’s spent years telling families that "no news is good news," but sitting in this chair, those words feel like an insult. Silence isn't absence of pain; it's a suffocating weight that pushes down on his chest.

​His legs won't stay still. He stands, walks to the vending machine, buys a coffee he knows he won’t drink, stares at the humming mechanism, and then walks back to his seat. He’s lived in this world long enough to know exactly what’s happening on the other side of those double doors. He isn't just waiting; he’s hallucinating the surgery in real-time.

​They’ve made the incision by now, he thinks, his eyes tracking a fly buzzing near a fluorescent light. They’re retracting the scalp. They’re burring the bone. They’re getting to the dura.

​A sudden, sharp spike of guilt tears through him. Did he miss a subtle sign in your last check-up? Maybe there was a slight delay in your response time that he chalked up to your exhaustion. Maybe if he’d been more aggressive with the imaging three weeks ago, you wouldn't be under anesthesia right now. He knows the medical reality—complications like yours are statistically rare, impossible to predict, and entirely out of his hands—but his brain refuses to accept the math. He feels like a criminal who got away with a mistake that’s now being paid for in your blood.

​"You need to sit down, Dr. Piastri," a nurse says, walking past him. He doesn't even realize he’s been pacing the perimeter of the room like a caged animal. He just mumbles an apology and sinks back into the chair, clutching his cold coffee cup.

​His fears are spiraling into territory he’s never had to navigate before. It isn't just about survival—that’s the surface-level terror. The real nightmare is the aftermath. What if you wake up and the version of you that loves him is buried under a layer of deficit? What if the spark that made you tease him about his cooking or laugh at his obsession with watch repair is gone? He realizes with a sickening jolt that he isn't looking at a surgical procedure; he’s looking at the potential erasure of the person he’s tethered his life to.

​"Twenty minutes," he mutters to himself. He checks his watch. It’s been forty minutes since the last update he imagined, and the gap is already feeling like a canyon.

​Every time the heavy doors at the end of the hall hiss open, his heart performs a frantic, painful kick against his ribs. He looks up, hope and dread colliding, only to see a transport orderly or a janitor. Each time, the disappointment is almost physical, a lead weight dropping into his stomach.

​He thinks about the hundreds of families he’s stood in front of, delivering updates with that practiced, calm professionalism. He’s always been proud of his ability to remain objective, to stay "the surgeon." Now, he feels like a fraud. He understands, with a sudden, brutal clarity, the look in their eyes—that wild, animalistic desperation that he used to find disruptive. He promises himself that if he ever gets through this, if he ever gets to walk back into an OR, he will never, ever be that detached again. He will touch their arms. He will look them in the eye. He will hold space for the madness they’re enduring.

​"Where are they?" he whispers, his voice cracking. He pulls his phone out, then puts it away, then pulls it out again. No calls. No news.

​He starts counting seconds, trying to distract himself from the vivid imagery of a retractor slipping or a vessel failing to clot. He hates that he knows the terminology. He hates that he knows the risks. Ignorance would be a mercy, but he has to suffer through every step of the procedure in his mind.

​They should be at the lesion by now. He closes his eyes, trying to force his mind to be quiet, to be a surgeon, to be anything other than a man waiting for his life to either start again or end. He realizes, with a crushing sense of humility, that all his awards, all his specialized training, and all his status in the hospital mean absolutely nothing. He’s just a man in a waiting room, praying for a miracle, and for the first time in his career, he’s terrified that statistics don't give a damn about who you are. To the hospital, you’re a case. To him, you’re the only reason he feels like he’s actually living. And the thought of being in this room without you—of walking back into that apartment alone—is a void so dark he can’t even begin to look into it.

— ​✦

Hours have bled into one another, turning the waiting room into a blur of sterile tile and flickering fluorescent hums. Oscar has long since stopped tracking the minutes. He’s just a statue of nerves, eyes glued to the double doors that feel like they’ve been sealed shut for a century.

​When those doors finally hiss open, his heart does that familiar, painful lurch. George is walking toward him. He’s still in his scrubs, his hair matted from the surgical cap, but he’s wiped the worst of the blood off his forearms. Oscar stands up, but he can’t read a damn thing in George’s eyes. They’re tired, guarded, professional.

​"George?" Oscar’s voice comes out as a ragged, desperate rasp. He can't even get the rest of the question out.

​George stops a few feet away, letting out a long, heavy exhale that seems to deflate his entire frame. For a second, he just stares at Oscar, and Oscar feels like he’s about to pass out from the sheer weight of the anticipation. Then, George breaks into a faint, exhausted smile.

​"She’s fine, Oscar," George says, the words simple and clean. "The operation was a total success. We got all the compression relieved, and the tissue looks exactly as we hoped it would."

​The sound that leaves Oscar’s throat isn't even human; it’s a broken, shuddering gasp. The adrenaline that has been keeping him upright for the last twelve hours just evaporates, leaving nothing but hollow space in his chest. His knees give out—completely, unceremoniously—and he hits the plastic chair so hard it clatters against the floor.

​"Is she..." Oscar starts, his hands shaking so violently he has to shove them between his knees to stop them. "Are you sure? Is she awake?"

​"Lando’s still in there," George says, moving closer and placing a steadying hand on Oscar’s shoulder. "He’s doing the reversal now. He’s waking her up, getting the tube out—the standard protocol. He’s taking his time, making sure she’s comfortable before they move her into recovery. She’s stable, Oscar. She’s really okay."

​"Thank God," Oscar whispers, his head dropping into his hands. He’s laughing and crying all at once, a messy, ugly, uncontrollable sound. "You're sure? No complications? No deficit?"

​"She’s stable, Oscar," George repeats, his voice firm, grounding. "I know you’re a surgeon, but try to be a boyfriend for five minutes and listen to me. The surgery went well. She’s safe. Just... let Lando do his job, and in a little while, you’ll be able to see her."

​Oscar nods, his breath coming in sharp, uneven hitches. He’s completely drained, his body feeling like it’s been put through a meat grinder. He can feel the tears tracks on his cheeks, cold and stinging, but he doesn't care. He just leans back against the wall, staring at the ceiling, feeling his heart rate finally start to settle back into a rhythm that isn't bordering on cardiac arrest.

​"I need to see her," Oscar says, his voice still shaky. "I need to know it's her. That it's really her."

​"You will," George promises, giving his shoulder a final, firm squeeze. "Go get some water, wash your face, and get yourself together. I’ll come get you when she’s in recovery. But for now? Just breathe, mate. You’re done."

​Oscar nods, closing his eyes. He’s still terrified, he’s still exhausted, and he knows the recovery road is going to be long—but for the first time in what feels like an eternity, the world isn't tilting. He’s here. You’re alive. And he’s going to be the first person you see when you open your eyes.

— ​✦

Soft beeping of the monitors is the only thing anchoring you to reality. You feel heavy, like your limbs are made of lead, and every breath takes a conscious effort. Sunlight has long since faded from the room, replaced by the low, amber hum of the night-lights. You blink, your eyelashes sticking together, and struggle to focus on the figures hovering by the end of your bed.

​Oscar is there. He’s slumped in a chair, his scrubs rumpled, his hair a total mess. He looks like he hasn't slept in a month, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that’s almost painful to witness. Behind him, standing tall and looking every bit the composed, clinical professional, is George. He’s holding your chart, checking the vitals on the wall monitor one last time before he gives a curt, satisfied nod.

​Your brain is still half-submerged in the fog of anesthesia, but as the pieces start to lock back into place, a mischievous, albeit slightly delirious, thought bubbles up. You remember the last time you were in this exact position. You remember the post-op confusion, the weird, fuzzy warmth, and the way you had looked at Oscar and confidently declared him to be your boyfriend.

​You see the way Oscar’s hands are shaking, how he’s leaning forward as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go of the bedrail. The guilt and the raw, unadulterated terror radiating off him are almost too much to bear. You want to fix it. You want to see that rigid, terrified set of his jaw finally break.

​You let out a soft, breathy groan, shifting your gaze away from Oscar. You look directly at George, letting your eyes widen just a bit, playing the part of the beautifully confused patient.

​"Hey," you whisper, your voice raspy and thin. You look at George, blinking slowly. "Who’s he?"

​You tilt your head toward Oscar, who freezes. His entire body goes rigid, his face draining of what little color it had left.

​George catches the flicker of a smile you’re trying to hide, and he doesn't miss a beat. He looks at you, then at the man beside him who looks like he’s about to have a full-blown cardiac event.

​"Who, him?" George asks, his voice smooth and utterly serious. He taps the chart against his palm. "That’s just the resident, I think. Or maybe a guy who wandered in from the cafeteria. Why, do you know him?"

​Oscar’s mouth drops open. "George—what? No! It’s me, it’s Oscar!" He turns to you, his eyes wide and bordering on manic. "Baby, it’s me. It’s Oscar. You’re... you’re joking, right? Please tell me you’re joking. Tell me you recognize me."

​You keep your face perfectly neutral, turning your head back to George. You reach out a trembling, IV-bruised hand, pointing a shaky finger at George. "Are you... are you my boyfriend?"

​Oscar lets out a sound that’s half-gasp, half-sob, his hands fumbling as he tries to grab your shoulders, but he stops himself, terrified to hurt you. "George, tell her! Tell her I’m the one! Don't you dare play along with this, mate, I will end you!"

​George looks at you, his lips twitching into that smug, aristocratic smirk he gets when he’s about to win a bet. He leans in, placing a hand on the bed rail, and looks at you with faux-adoration. "Well, I suppose I could be. I do like to think I’m quite the catch. But we’ve only just met, haven't we? Do you remember our anniversary?"

​"George, I am going to kill you," Oscar hisses, his face turning a shade of red that rivals the exit signs. He looks like he’s caught between wanting to tackle George and needing to keep his hands off you to ensure you’re stable. "She’s post-op! Don't gaslight her! This isn't funny!"

​You can’t hold it anymore. A bubble of genuine, wheezy laughter escapes your chest. It hurts your stitches, making you wince, but the sight of Oscar’s complete and utter breakdown is worth every second of it.

​"Oh my god," you wheeze, laughing until your eyes water. "You should see your face, Oscar. You look like you’re about to call a code blue on yourself."

​Oscar freezes. He stares at you, his breath hitching in his throat as the realization washes over him. He looks at George, who has already retreated to the doorway, suppressing a loud laugh of his own.

​"You," Oscar breathes, his relief so profound he seems to physically sway. He leans his head against the edge of the mattress, his shoulders finally dropping as he lets out a long, ragged exhale. "You absolute menace. I thought... I thought you were serious. I thought the surgery had wiped everything."

​"I’m still me," you say, your voice soft and tired now that the prank has run its course. You reach out, your hand finding the back of his neck, pulling him closer so you can rest your forehead against his. "Still me. Still remember you. And still stuck with you."

​Oscar closes his eyes, pressing his face into the side of your neck, his hand coming up to gently, carefully cradle your head. "Don't ever do that again. I mean it. I’ve aged a decade in the last thirty seconds."

​"Worth it?" you whisper.

​He lifts his head, and the look in his eyes—the raw, unfiltered love mixed with the remnants of his terror—is enough to make you ache. He kisses your temple, his lips lingering there for a long time.

​"Yeah," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "Worth it. Just... stay with me. Okay?"

​"Always," you promise, closing your eyes and drifting back toward sleep, his warmth the only thing that matters in the quiet of the room.

The chatter of the keyboard was already needling at your nerves, and you hadn’t even been in the café for a full hour. Your nail kept tapping the space bar, gentle and relentless, only for you to erase everything with a furious swipe a second later. The cup beside you —a hot latte, even if autumn still refused to fully arrive— had long gone cold, forgotten while your mind clung to the blank document before you. The open email in the tab above seemed to mock you with its silent impatience.

Four hours and thirty-eight minutes. That was how long the assignment had been sitting on the university’s webpage. The final assignment, the last offering of your entire degree before graduation. A sprawling project meant to consume your remaining two semesters.

With a frustrated exhale, you dragged a hand across your forehead, pushing your hair out of your sight. You were screwed; there was nothing in you. Not a single idea sprouting through the cracks. So much dedication poured into the degree you had dreamed of, only for you to feel yourself collapsing under the weight of one task.

The last damn task.

“Can I get you anything else?” You lifted your head and tore your gaze from the screen for a few seconds, startled by the soft voice of the girl who’d been tending to you all afternoon.

Your eyes ached from spending so long folded inside your own mind while pretending to stare at your work. You sighed, offering the girl —Karin, said her name tag— a belated smile. You really shouldn’t order anything else, not after the ham-and-cheese croissant you had already devoured.

And yet you found yourself answering:

“One of those cheesecake slices in the display would be great.”

“Berry or caramel?” she asked.

“Caramel, please.”

“Right away.” And just like that, Karin vanished again.

You were free to return to your misery for a few more minutes. She came back with a generous slice of cheesecake, and you granted yourself fifteen minutes of harmless indulgence, eating in silence and finally finishing the cold —yet still delicious— coffee.

You stretched your neck, feeling the dull ache blooming from sitting too long in the same position.

Curse this compulsive hunt for perfection.

Clearing your throat, you closed your laptop. You tried to convince yourself that you still had at least three hundred days left to work on the project. To at least begin it. Sometimes the best ideas refused to arrive when you chased them too hard. So you packed your things, paid for everything —and tried not to cry at the numbers on the receipt, the tax of a broke student in her final year— and left the café with the bitter taste of stagnation on your tongue before heading home.

“Hey, sweetheart. How was university?” Your father greeted you as soon as you stepped through the door, kissing your forehead while you slipped off your bag.

“Fine,” you sighed, dropping the bag on the couch, where he sat down again to continue watching TV.

“That doesn’t sound fine,” he teased.

“It’s just this long-term project. I still don’t know how to start it.” You smiled weakly as you took off your jacket. You could hear your mother moving around in the kitchen.

“What’s it about?” he asked, torn between the fight on the sports channel and your academic struggles.

“That’s the problem. It’s completely free-topic.” You shrugged, sinking onto the couch and staring at the TV without really seeing it. “I have no idea what to research.”

“Do it about boxing,” your father said instantly, making you roll your eyes with amusement.

“Okay, I'm going back to mom now,” you mocked, rising to your feet.

“I’m serious, babe. There are fascinating topics. Look! That one there used to be a superstar and retired after his last fight with a rookie. He was disqualified after landing a blow that—”

At some point, you stopped listening. You adored your father, but sometimes his enthusiasm swallowed entire rooms, and it felt like the whole world —his world— orbited only the things he loved, leaving little space for anything else. And he loved boxing so much that he’d talked your older brother into going pro when he was barely out of childhood… and he had tried the same with you.

The truth was that boxing had never really interested you, and there were so many fields you could explore for your final project. Could boxing truly cover everything you needed, when the pressure to deliver something perfect was clawing at your ribs?

“I expect great things from you,” your professor had said earlier that morning when you approached her after class to ask for more details. “You always make your assignments personal. I expect the same for this final project. Don’t disappoint me.” Then she walked away, leaving an even heavier weight on your shoulders.

“You look like you’re trying to solve your entire life in one afternoon,” was the first thing your mother said when you stepped into the kitchen. She loved spending time there, baking pastries and cakes whenever she had a spare hour.

“Because I have to solve the rest of my life today, if possible,” you whimpered, hugging her as she patted your back and kissed the top of your head.

“Don’t force it. Breathe,” she murmured.

It didn’t help much, if you were honest. But she was your mother and you loved her, and you would never say that aloud. So you only smiled faintly. You stayed chatting with her until the hour grew late enough that you reluctantly returned to your room to keep being frustrated at a project you didn’t know how to even begin.

“Come here, sit with me,” your father called out the moment you emerged from the kitchen.

“I have to study, Dad—”

“Five minutes. Give it five minutes, stay a little.” He insisted until you sighed. “You’re always studying. A five-minute break won’t kill anyone.”

You let out a soft laugh and indulged him, sinking onto the couch. You knew enough about boxing to follow the fight on screen, even if you didn’t enjoy it with the same feverish devotion as the old man beside you, who flinched dramatically at every punch.

“There he is, that’s the one I was talking about,” your father said, pointing at the screen just as the camera showed a trainer speaking to his fighter in a corner, probably planning the next round.

“What about him? I thought coachs were older.”

“He was a beast five years ago, but he retired,” he explained, earning an “ah” of understanding from you.

“And why did he retire?”

“Rumors, mostly. Nothing confirmed,” your father hesitated. “In his last fight he practically knocked out a rookie. The rookie retired right after too, but no one knows why, the family refuses to talk.”

“Isn’t knocking your opponent out normal in boxing? Comes with the territory,” you teased.

“Some say the kid might have suffered an injury that kept him from ever fighting again. But Norris never said a word.”

Your eyebrow arched, that spark of curiosity twitching to life at the base of your skull. Genuine, insistent.

You stood up before your father could protest and hurried to your room, opening your laptop again as you dove into column after column written about Lando Norris.

Columns from 2015, columns from 2019, just before he retired. Very few after that, from the years he dedicated himself to teaching. Many pieces about his last fight, and even more criticizing his attitude. None offering anything truly relevant. All riddled with speculation that didn’t feel remotely close to truth. Most were nothing but hollow tirades disguised as journalism, weak narratives built on sand.

It was almost pathetic.

“Illegal Strike, Gentle Consequence,” written by Hill West.

We’ve witnessed hard blows, dirty blows, blows argued about in bars for years. But last night reminded us that sometimes the rulebook sits prettily on the table and nowhere else.

The veteran threw an illegal so blatant even the referee seemed startled to actually react. And still, the punishment was light, almost courteous.

The fighter slipped out of the ring minutes later, as though the disqualification were a footnote in his autobiography. But many will remember this bout as the final mark of someone who forgot greatness requires boundaries.

You frowned, scrolling and scrolling through more opinion pieces, feeling your mind bruise beneath the emptiness of them all.

The last column, the most recent one, was more than three years old.

And you realized this might not be a bad place to start.

The corridor reserved for the victors was narrow and grimy, the kind of passage that clung to the walls of a third-rate gym hosting a fight barely worthy of a flickering spotlight. You had left your father behind a few minutes earlier, keeping watch over the car while you claimed you needed the bathroom.

Except you weren’t going to the bathroom at all.

You quickened your steps, clutching your bag, and slipped in beside Lando Norris himself, matching his pace as if borrowing his shadow. He wasn’t much taller than you; his height was unremarkable, but his body was broad and emanated a self-assurance that pushed you instinctively toward retreat.

“It was a good fight,” you offered, uncertain how to catch his attention in a way that wouldn’t bounce off him like a dull coin.

How did one speak to a man with whom you shared no interests when all you needed from him was information?

Lando turned at the sound of your voice, as though only now noticing the presence walking beside him. You watched his brow furrow, genuinely puzzled.

“What? Do I owe you something?” The question rattled you.

“No,” you answered, as if it should have been obvious.

“Then what? What do you want?”

You lifted your shoulders a fraction, your mind stalling for a few extra seconds as it tried to stitch together a lie convincing enough to save you. You were impulsive by nature, and you knew—given the infuriating lack of information about this man online—that he had absolutely no inclination to talk to any journalist looking to siphon off a few quotes.

No, that approach was doomed.

“I saw your fight,” you blurted out. “Well, your boxer’s fight. It was incredible.” You corrected yourself immediately.

“Right.” His tone was flat, bored.

“I thought you might be interested in training someone else,” you ventured. “I boxed when I was a kid, and I’d like to—”

“I don’t train women.” He cut you off without hesitation.

“Why not?” you asked, offended and disappointed in equal measure.

“Simple lack of interest. Don’t take it personally.” He shrugged.

It wasn’t personal, but you needed this man if you wanted a strong project. You were already obsessed with the scraps of information available about him, and with the idea of how much more you could uncover if you could only stand beside him long enough.

“It’s not personal, but I’m very good,” you insisted. A lie. You hadn’t touched a pair of gloves since you were eleven. “I won all my matches when I fought at flyweight.”

“Hooray. Congratulations. Still not interested.” Lando grew tense, walking faster, eager to shake you off.

“I’m sure I can—”

“Nope. Good night.”

You growled under your breath as he strode ahead, carried by those damn athlete’s legs and graceless efficiency. Maybe you needed more exercise after all; a life spent folded behind a computer screen was taking its toll, and you were only twenty-three.

Still, you were nowhere near giving up.

The leggings felt uncomfortable, squeezing your legs in all the wrong ways, but you forced yourself to ignore it as you pushed open the heavy gym door. The smell of sweat and cheap air freshener rolled over you, though at least the air conditioning breathed a cool, crisp relief across your skin as the door swung shut behind you. Anywhere else the noise might have drawn attention, but the sharp rhythm of punches, the ragged breaths, the shouts echoing off the walls drowned it beautifully.

The entrance was carpeted. Bags cluttered the shelves on the left, and a heap of foul-smelling sneakers claimed the corner. Half-empty water bottles stood abandoned like little monuments to exhaustion.

As you stepped farther in, you collided straight into the sight of the ring: a raised platform, half a meter tall, roped in and holding two people trading blows in a sparring session. You tore your eyes away only to crash into your reflection in the large mirror, and then into the cluster of men gathered around it, all of them watching what seemed to be a demonstration.

You felt so out of place it tightened around your lungs. When you boxed as a child, you never had to stand among grown men, never had to reckon with their size or their presence. Of course you felt uncomfortable in a gym built out of nothing but male sweat and feral energy.

You set your bag down and planted yourself in front of a heavy bag. Maybe it was just your imagination, but you could feel the weight of their stares burning into the back of your neck. They knew you didn’t belong, and somewhere beneath your stubbornness, you knew it too—your posture awkward, your gaze skittering over the room every few seconds, alert in that brittle way prey learns to be.

Still, you told yourself this was a thousand times better than giving up and starting from zero again. Better than chasing a new idea.

So you began hitting the bag. You had no wraps, no gloves, nothing. Not yet. Your scholarship money always arrived at the end of the month, and there were still twelve long days to go. You had no idea how to stretch your monthly budget far enough to add two new purchases with the fifty dollars the state threw at you.

Working wasn’t an option, you thought as your poor technique sent a dull pain through your knuckles. Classes drained too much time and energy already, and your scholarship didn’t allow you the luxury of easing your workload. You couldn’t afford fewer credits. And now you’d be spending even more time training.

This final project would devour you alive. But it was the last one.

“What are you doing here?” It took you a few seconds to realize the question was meant for you.

Lando had a strange, suffocating presence. He was young—likely nearing thirty—but the way he moved, the way he stood, was nearly frightening. He demanded to be looked at, admired even, and he probably knew it.

“I’m training,” you answered, as if it were obvious.

“Not in my gym,” he snapped. “People will think I’m training you.”

“And is that such a terrible thing?” you asked with a smile.

“With that technique, yes.” Your smile died, and heat flushed your cheeks.

Fine. You were terrible.

“I’ll pay you.”

“I don’t want your money.” He said it easily, carelessly.

“Please, I’m genuinely interested. I want to see how far I can go.” You tried to insist.

“I don’t care. I’m not training you.”

You sighed, frustration coiling tight in your chest.

“I promise I won’t be a nuisance.”

“You already are.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

“I’ll stay in a corner. I won’t bother anyone. I’ll pay for every hour.”

“The gym isn’t set up for you.” Lando folded his arms, and you tried desperately not to stare at the way the muscles shifted beneath his skin.

“What?”

“We don’t have women’s bathrooms or showers. This has been a men-only space since it opened. I’m sorry, there’s no place for you here.” He shrugged. “And I’m not making an exception. Renovations cost money.”

“I don’t need exclusive bathrooms. I just need you to train me. I can shower at home.” Lando frowned, and only then did he actually look at you, as if seeing you for the first time.

“That’s gross.”

You rolled your eyes at the jab, trying to ignore the fresh rise of heat in your cheeks. This was bordering on humiliating. You had never sounded so pitiable.

“I don’t know how else to ask.”

“I don’t care. I already said I’m not training you.” His posture settled back into something fortified, his gaze sweeping you like he was hunting for flaws. “You know where the exit is.”

You bit the inside of your cheek and stood frozen for a moment, unable to believe that was truly all he had to offer. With a long exhale, you turned and walked away, a knot of disappointment sinking under your ribs.

But that wasn’t the end. Because you returned the next morning, far earlier.

It was 10 a.m. when you stepped into the gym, now completely empty. You tossed your bag into a corner near the punching bags, slipped off your shoes at the entrance, and began striking the bag with clumsy, inexperienced blows, trying to imagine how you were supposed to approach this man and convince him to train you.

You knew you couldn’t come to Lando as a journalism student. Given his reputation and his history with the press, he would tell you to fuck off before you even finished saying the word “project.” No, the only way to reach him was through what he still loved, even if that passion didn’t quite beat in your own blood.

How hard could it be? Ten months tethered to boxing, just long enough to uncover who he was, what he’d lived, and all the things the internet refused to say about Lando Norris. Then you’d graduate. Then you could build something stable. You only needed the idiot to soften—maybe if he saw how persistent you were, he would eventually say yes—

“You again. Classes start in four hours.”

Lando’s voice cracked across the empty gym, and you heard his footsteps rushing down the stairs.

You followed the sound and caught sight of his curls descending from what looked like a raised office before he closed in on you, barely three meters away, his stride sharp, his expression carved from ice.

“I’m not enrolled in any of your classes,” you said.

“Of course not. Which is exactly why you need to leave.”

“I’m paying for the hours I use.”

You said it as though the logic were unbreakable, turning back to the bag even though you had no idea what you were actually doing.

Lando stared at you in silence for a few seconds. You tried your best not to feel like an idiot dissolving under his gaze.

“You need wraps. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I don’t have any.”

“Oh, brilliant,” he mocked. “You claim to care about boxing and don’t own the basic essentials.”

“Lend me yours. I’m sure you have extras.”

Lando let out a short laugh, almost surprised.

“Get out of my gym, kid.”

His voice held no room for discussion.

You ignored him, focusing on your hopeless punches. Sweat was already gathering on your skin, your breath uneven, your knuckles reddening painfully. You heard Lando click his tongue before stepping closer.

“Spread your feet.” His leg slid between yours, nudging you into a shoulder-width stance. You swallowed a startled sound. “Chin down.” Before you could react, obey, he pushed your chin down with a single finger. “And you hit from your hips.” His hands rested on your hips, respectful but firm, guiding the movement you lacked. His body radiated warmth against your back.

There was nothing improper in his touch, nothing predatory. And yet a spark lit deep inside you, unwelcome and undeniable.

“Hit with my hips?”

“From your hips,” he corrected. “Your whole upper body moves when you punch, whether it’s your right or your left. Using your whole body gives you more power, and it keeps you from injuring yourself if you rely only on your arms or wrists.”

You nodded awkwardly, copying each instruction. Lando stared back with a flat expression when you lifted your head, almost as if you were expecting praise.

“Now get out of my gym.” That was all he said before turning away.

You left that morning with more than disappointment. You carried a thin thread of hope with you too. Maybe if you kept pushing, something—anything—might give.

What did you have so far?

Nothing.

Only the certainty that he really did have the shitty attitude all the other journalists complained about.

The following days unfolded much the same. Lando had no intention of yielding, and neither did you. Sometimes you arrived later, when the gym was busier, and Max —the man who worked with him, as you’d learned— would watch you from afar with that amused little grin that declared you won’t last as long as you think before turning away to mind his own business. Lando remained a perpetual headache, always telling you to get out of his gym yet never truly lifting a finger to remove you. Most of the time you gave in anyway, only to return hours later.

The Thursday of the next week you had early classes, so you couldn’t be at the gym at ten. But you were there at three in the afternoon, when the place teemed with students and men training in every corner. You slipped off your shoes near the entrance, pulled your water bottle from your bag, and returned to the same spot you’d claimed over the past days, punching the heavy bag with the only scrap of instruction Lando had begrudged you once.

Your knuckles throbbed against the canvas, and your stance felt clumsy. You felt small, inelegant, and painfully aware of yourself every time your gaze drifted and caught someone watching you with mild, mocking amusement.

You swallowed it whole. You’d already begun this. Even if you still had time to change your idea and the angle of your project, you were far past retreat. It was a sport, and Lando didn’t speak to journalists, which meant there was little recent information circulating about him. Perfect, you thought. A personal project.

“You’re going to injure yourself if you keep that up.”

You could already recognize Lando’s voice when it cut through the noise, forever serious, forever weary, as if speaking to you cost him something.

“If you’re that worried, you could always teach me,” you replied, a sly little smile tugging at your mouth.

“I’m sure there are plenty of trainers willing to work with you. Boxers who actually train women. Go to them,” he insisted.

“I don’t want them. I want you.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Fine.” You shrugged, but kept punching.

You saw Lando roll his eyes before he walked off, and then Max approached you for the first time since you’d begun this idiocy.

“I’m not a coach, but you might want to move,” Max Fewtrell said, nearly laughing at the confusion on your face. “The whole point of hitting a bag is eventually leveling up to fight an actual person. And a real person won’t stand still waiting to be hit.” He lifted his shoulders in a mild shrug.

You glanced at the bag, then at your feet. He seemed to hear the gears squealing inside your head as you tried to piece the idea together.

“Move around. Your opponent will move with you. You don’t want to hit them as they come in or you’ll lose your balance. Circle the bag and hit it,” he explained, patient and kind.

“Oh.”

You nodded.

“Come,” he said, guiding you to the back of the room.

You understood where you were once he switched on the light inside a small shed-like storage room, revealing shelves stuffed with equipment. Gloves, wraps, speed bags, more heavy bags, cones for drills, everything you could imagine. He reached the section with the hand wraps and pulled out a black pair, simple and tightly rolled, the label noting approximately four meters.

“If you keep hitting the bag barehanded, you’ll injure your knuckles or your wrists.” Max held the wraps out to you, and you took them almost instantly. “Do you know how to put them on?” You shook your head, quick and sheepish. He smiled, as if the obvious one here was him for even asking.

He stepped closer and held out a hand for the wraps. He unrolled one until it was a long ribbon of cloth and took your right hand, extending it between you both as he began wrapping it with strategic precision.

“Two turns around the wrist. Wrap each finger so your knuckles are protected. Two more horizontal passes. And whatever’s left goes back around the wrist,” he said as he worked, showing you visually how it should be done. “Now the other.”

Max was strangely gentle as he held your wrist with one hand and wrapped the fabric with the other. He felt so much more approachable than Lando, and you thought maybe he could give you what Lando refused.

“You said you’re not a trainer… so you’re a boxer?” you murmured, lifting your gaze to study his face as he passed the wrap over your knuckles.

“Not really. I just work with Lando.”

You nodded.

“As friends?” you tried again.

“As friends, yes.”

Max finished adjusting the wrap on your other hand, and you flexed your fingers, testing how it felt. You nodded, approving the sensation.

“How do I convince him?” you asked after a few quiet seconds, just before he could speak. You saw him hesitate, weighing whether to answer.

“Look. He’s right. If you’re genuinely interested, there are plenty of great trainers, even better than Lando, with more patience and better tempers,” he said, rolling his eyes, “who would happily train you. I think you’re wasting your time.”

You exhaled, heavy.

“But you’re just as stubborn as he is,” Max added with a shrug. “So I have no idea which one of you will crack first.”

He walked out of the equipment room and you followed a moment later. Returning to your spot, you noticed the wraps made everything infinitely more comfortable. They were rough against your knuckles, but they softened the impact and kept the bag from biting into your skin. A makeshift cushion.

You stayed there for a long while, replaying the corrections you’d been given as you occasionally watched Lando instruct the others, the younger kids, the teens, the young adults who stood around him eager to learn. You almost envied them, seeing how naturally Norris behaved with them. Less tense, more playful. Good grief, you even saw him smile. He looked younger like that, lighter.

“Take those off. Where did you get them?” His tone was not the one he used with the others.

“Max gave them to me,” you replied, frowning slightly.

“They’re mine, and I don’t want you using them. People will think—”

“That you’re training me?” you cut in, raising a brow as he hummed a curt confirmation. “Heaven forbid someone thinks that.” You rolled your eyes.

But you were already peeling off the wraps, frustrated. You were lucky you liked things difficult; otherwise you’d have thrown in the towel long ago and told both the project and Lando —especially Lando— to go to hell.

“You’ll live,” he muttered, taking the first wrap while you removed the second. “Besides, you need to buy your own things if you plan on staying.”

You looked up at him immediately.

“I thought you wanted me gone.”

“Max told me you paid six months in advance.” Lando grumbled, and you frowned.

“That's…” something in you warned you to shut up. “You said you wouldn’t take my money. What changed your mind?” you asked, brow lifted.

“He already spent it, so I can’t return it,” he muttered through his teeth, snatching the second wrap and walking away, his broad back retreating across the room.

Only then did you allow yourself a quiet, incredulous laugh. When you glanced up, Max was already watching you from the second floor, wearing a conspiratorial smile. You mouthed a thank you toward him, soft and secret, meant only for him to understand.

At least someone's on your side.

Lando didn’t bother you again after that. In truth, he simply proceeded to ignore you… most of the time.

Which suited you well enough. It allowed you to keep training, even if you were still nowhere near your true goal. The weeks crawled forward, slow and stubborn. You managed to hand in the first draft of your final project to your professor, correcting the loose threads you hadn’t fully understood, all while continuing to train on your own every afternoon.

Eventually you had to tell your parents about your extracurricular adventures, once they began asking why you were getting home later than usual. Your father, of course, was more than delighted by your decision, because you hadn’t been able to confess that all this was only to secure that final grade. You blamed his earnest excitement for your cowardice, for the way the truth stuck to the back of your tongue and never made it out.

Which brought you to today. You’d gotten out of class an hour later than usual, which meant training later, and leaving the gym later as well. You sat on the carpeted floor, slipping on your shoes while you waited for your father to text you that he was outside, after insisting on picking you up because of the hour.

It was dark outside, and Lando was beginning to close the gym when you were finishing up.

“I need to lock up, and you’re in my way.” You rolled your eyes at Lando’s voice.

There was something almost amusing about how he always seemed particularly sour around you, as if your very existence grated on him. Ever since he’d given up and grudgingly allowed you to use the gym whenever you pleased, instead of kicking you out and forcing you to surrender, you’d grown slightly more comfortable. Looser. Less on edge.

You couldn’t say the same for him.

“Sorry. I’m just waiting for my ride,” you said as you tightened your laces.

“Then wait outside.”

“It’s dark and freezing.”

“Do I look like I care?”

You laughed, but didn’t argue, and for some reason, Lando didn’t push further. You could feel his gaze on you as you texted your father, sitting on his grimy carpet with sweat in your hair and your cheeks flushed from exertion.

“Why do you push yourself so hard?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence you hadn’t even noticed had thickened between you.

You looked up, startled by the almost intimate air that had settled there. You raised a shoulder.

“Once an idea lodges itself in my head, it’s hard to shake it off. I… fixate, I suppose,” you answered truthfully.

A controlled honesty. A half-truth.

“You’re a real pain in the ass.”

“I’ve been told.”

Silence. You returned your attention to your phone.

“Here.”

Before you even lifted your gaze, something soft yet firm hit you square on the head, bouncing into your lap while you let out a startled yelp. The wraps. The ones he’d taken from you days ago because it annoyed him to see you using them.

“Why—?”

“Monday to Friday. Six a.m. I want you here, and you better be on time,” he said, deadly serious.

“But I have classes at ten…”

“Do you want me to train you or not?” His stare somehow hardened, as if he already regretted the offer.

“Yes sir!” You shot up from the floor like a spring, clutching the wraps awkwardly in your hands.

“Then don’t argue. Six a.m., we start. You’ll be doing strength work, and I’ll teach you how to hit the heavy bag properly. After that, I’m putting you to spar with my other fighters.”

You nodded at every word he spoke. Because the closer he allowed you to stand, the more bridges you could build with the people around him, and the easier your work would become.

“But if you miss a single day, it’s over.”

His tone was iron.

“If you skip even once, that’s it. You’ll take your things and leave, and you won’t bother me again.”

“Yes sir.”

“Don’t call me sir.”

“Yes s— yes.” You cleared your throat, mildly embarrassed.

“Now get out.” He turned his back to switch off the lights.

“My dad isn’t here ye—” you began.

“Out of the gym. I need to close,” he growled before plunging the room into complete darkness.

You stepped back reluctantly, stumbling a little as you fumbled toward the faint outdoor light and slipped through the heavy door, shutting it behind you.

You had to wait for your father in the cold bite of late autumn, under the thick darkness of seven in the evening. Lando didn’t come out, and you didn’t ask to go back in.

You just went home.

Waking up early the next day was the hardest part. You were never the type to rise before dawn for your classes; one spare hour was usually enough to shower, get dressed, and grant your body and mind the sleep they truly hungered for. Now the sun hadn’t even considered lifting its face from the horizon when you stepped out of your dad’s car. Two minutes to 6 a.m. The gym lights were already burning, which meant Lando was awake. And waiting.

“Good luck, sweetheart. I’ll be back in two hours.”

You kissed your dad’s cheek before climbing out. You clutched your hoodie closer, shielding your neck, and pushed the gate open to slip inside. The cold was nearly identical to the air outside; Lando always kept the place cool, never warm enough to make the world beyond feel like a shock.

You kicked off your shoes in the entrance, staring at the empty gym and feeling like a stranger once again. You left your things in the same cubby as always and walked in.

“Did you eat breakfast?” Lando’s voice startled you. You watched him descend the stairs with that measured, deliberate pace.

He already looked fully awake, energized, composed. His curled hair perfectly kept, his jaw freshly shaved.

“Nope,” you replied honestly, without thinking.

“First mistake. You need to eat before training or you’ll burn out. Less energy, shorter stamina.” His tone had an edge as he passed you, heading toward the second wing of the gym.

An area you had never seen before.

“When I eat before training my stomach hurts. Then i wanna throw up.” Lando turned to you, almost affronted.

“Then wake up earlier and eat two hours before training, but eat.” You grimaced but didn’t argue.

No point in picking a fight with him.

He guided you through the second wing, filled with weight machines like any conventional gym. Same orderly rhythm as the rest of his space; two of the four walls were enormous mirrors. Machines for legs, machines for arms. Some you couldn’t make sense of, others you vaguely recognized from photos or half-watched videos online.

“Routine matters. Every day we’ll do the same thing.” He stopped beside a leg press. “Weights first. Build strength. Add muscle mass. Then we move to the bag. Then sparring.”

You nodded, shifting anxiously.

“I’m going to fix your technique, because right now it’s atrocious,” he continued. “And eventually, when you make decent progress, you’ll join the others in the afternoon. I don’t care that they’re men and you’re a woman. I’ll tell them to hit you like an equal.” You swallowed and nodded. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Lando narrowed his eyes, and you rushed to correct yourself. “Yeah. Yes, I understand.”

“Now watch.”

The next hour unfolded exactly as you feared. He forced you to lift weights until your arms and legs shook, until fatigue wrapped itself around you like a stubborn fog. And he did everything alongside you, twice your weights, flawless form, a quiet elegance that sparked a sting of envy. Halfway through, you realized you were intruding on his usual routine.

He did this every day; staying in shape, training for himself rather than teaching. And now you were part of that cadence.

After weights, he guided you through footwork, the basic lower-body movements you had to internalize. He made you use your own body weight to build control and force for later strikes. He even put you through a circuit that left you sweaty and gasping like your lungs had shrunk, humiliation prickling under your skin each time you caught him biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing outright.

“Enough for today,” he said when you were collapsed on the floor, catching your breath. Sweat dripped from your hair, your face prickled with heat.

“But you said I’d hit the bag and we’d spar.” You attempted to protest, nearly tripping over yourself as you tried to stand. Your arms trembled uselessly.

“You’ll faint if you keep going.” There was teasing in his voice, subtle but unmistakable. “Besides, you have plenty to master before we advance to sparring.”

You let your body fall back onto the mat, grumbling at your racing heartbeat. He almost made you regret your choices. Almost. Because you were sure he was doing it on purpose, the bastard.

Pushing you to the edge, draining you so thoroughly you’d start believing quitting was your own idea.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked.

“Same time,” he confirmed, turning his back.

You watched him position himself before one of the punching bags, and the urge to leave, to give him space, swept through you. So you obeyed it.

You peeled yourself off the floor with clumsy effort.

“You can use the showers. You stink,” he said casually.

“You said the gym isn’t set up for women,” you reminded him.

“It's just you and me now. Nobody's going to see you using the men's showers.”

You shrugged, taking it as permission, and dragged yourself to the showers. Men’s showers, obviously. You winced at the lack of curtains, locked the door, and finally let the hot water rinse away the sweat and heat that had begun to cling to you like a second skin.

Your arms ached as you washed your hair, but there was a strange glow around you, some kind of quiet revelation. You still knew very little about Lando, but only three weeks had passed.

Three weeks out of almost ten months. You could do this. Truly. The goal no longer felt unreachable from where you stood.

You took your time drying off and slipping into fresh clothes. When you walked out, clean and light and tired in a pleasant way, you noticed Lando was still training. He moved with the certainty of someone shaped by years of repetition. His feet quick, his movements deliberate, almost premeditated.

“So...” you began.

“See you tomorrow.” He cut you off before you could ask anything.

“Yep.” You swallowed the awkwardness and headed to the exit.

Maybe another day.

You put your shoes back on and left the gym without complaint, settling outside to wait for your dad to pick you up.

Over the following month, you slipped into a routine that was almost pleasant. Lando was, to your delightful surprise, just as structured as you—if not more. You trained every single weekday morning without fail, from six to eight. Then, you would leave the gym and head straight to your university classes. Most mornings, you found yourself with time to spare, giving you a quiet window to polish upcoming assignments or study for exams. The afternoons became the sole pocket of the day where you allowed yourself to chip away at your research before drifting off to an early sleep.

Your classes droned on as they always had. Listen, take notes, research, present, repeat. The narrative thread had always been the most captivating part of your degree, even if you still had professors who accused you of being far too poetic in every assignment. But you were so thoroughly consumed by this new rhythm—by the obsessive training and the desperate need to keep performing at your usual standard—that you failed to notice how quickly everything else began to fray at the edges.

And it was, quite literally, *everything* else.

Soon, you forgot to cook in the evenings, only remembering your empty kitchen when you unzipped your bag at university to find nothing inside. In that same quiet drift, you let slip the planned outings with your friends, and the cozy evenings spent with your mother watching movies. Slowly, your entire world narrowed, orbiting solely around your studies and the sweat of the gym.

Every time things began to feel a fraction easier, Lando pushed harder. He stacked more weight on the machines, introduced new techniques, or demanded a faster pace. Perhaps that was precisely what made it so addictive—the knowledge that he was constantly, relentlessly forcing you past your own boundaries, offering no reprieve.

And yet, he never offered a single word of praise.

Lando was inherently a man of few words, or so it seemed to you. He had a way of cleanly cutting off any attempt you made to converse or pry, which was terribly frustrating. This assignment was dragging you far outside your semi-professional comfort zone; while you were used to people opening up easily once you knew which questions to ask, Lando was an emotional brick wall. Thick, imposing, his sheer presence made you want to take a step back.

It wasn't something you were used to. And that only made it more intriguing. You became obsessed with how much you could pull from this story, how much you could evolve as a journalist if you could just break through. At some point, the level of dedication you were pouring into this should have probably been alarming, but there was no one around to pull the reins.

The only time you managed to draw your father's attention was when you started leaving practice later and later. You went from keeping him waiting for fifteen minutes outside the gym to making him honk his horn repeatedly before you finally emerged. Yet, he would always greet you with a sweet smile as you rushed out, cheeks flushed and hair damp, jogging to hop into the passenger seat. Eventually, the delay grew even longer. There were days you’d ask him to pick you up thirty minutes later than usual just to save him from waiting anxiously outside. Other days, you simply forgot the time entirely.

You had been living in this haze for two weeks when your father finally ran out of patience. You were mid-workout when he walked straight into the gym to find you. Lando was guiding your technique, holding up the focus mitts inside the ring, when the heavy thud of the door closing echoed through the space. Both of you snapped your heads toward the sound, as if it were the only thing capable of breaking the trance you were under.

"Dad," you gasped, a sudden, hurried squeak as your old man slowly approached the ring. He wasn't even looking at you directly, too busy marveling at his surroundings to care about anything else. "What are you doing here? It's still early—"

"It's almost nine in the morning," he interrupted, his tone distracted.

"Really?" you mumbled under your breath, scrambling to find your phone to check. 8:48 AM. *Shit.* "Sorry, I lost track of time. Let me get changed and—" You began gathering your things in a frantic rush.

"Good morning. I'm John. Father to this creature." Before you knew it, your dad had stepped up to extend a hand to Lando, who—you only just realized—was no longer standing beside you in the ring, but had already hopped down to greet him.

"Lando Norris," he introduced himself politely, shaking your father's hand.

"Yes, I know who you are." The grin on your dad's face was almost embarrassing; he was looking at Lando with the kind of awe you usually only saw when he was watching sports on television.

"Dad," you muttered through gritted teeth, climbing down from the canvas. That was when you saw Lando smile—a genuine, amused curve of his lips that felt so entirely out of character it threw you completely off balance.

"My daughter and I used to watch you on TV," your father said, offering it up as a crucial piece of trivia. Lando had the decency to look genuinely flattered.

"No, we didn't," you rushed to interject.

"Well, *I* followed your career almost from the very beginning. Back when you were younger and training under Zak." Lando let out a soft "Ah," which would have been comical if you weren't currently on the verge of dying of embarrassment. "It’s an honor that you're the one training my girl. She loved boxing when she was a kid, and her mother and I are thrilled to see her taking it up again."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. She used to be quite good." Your dad nodded with a pride that made you feel incredibly small. "How is she doing now? Is she keeping up?"

You averted your eyes the moment Lando looked over at you. You had rarely seen that particular smirk on his face—the one whose meaning you could never quite decode. He kept his professional boundaries so strictly defined that he rarely smiled or laughed with you; seeing this side of him as he conversed with your father felt surreal.

"She's doing well. She's good," Lando said carefully. His voice carried a rare, soft note of genuine honesty. It was far too gentle for someone who hadn't given you a single direct compliment since your training began. You could swear your father's eyes lit up with pure joy.

"Is she?" your dad sighed, sounding utterly delighted.

"Dad," you almost growled, desperate to snap him out of his reverie.

It worked. Your father pulled his gaze away from Lando and frowned at you, a mix of confusion and mild irritation crossing his face.

"What are you still doing standing there? You're going to be late for class," he scolded, leaving you mildly offended and scowling. "Go take a shower, you stink." You opened your mouth to protest, but your father was already shooing you away with his hand as if you were merely blocking the view, his attention already drifting back to Lando.

You had no choice but to obey.

You rushed into the showers, moving in a blur. You could faintly hear the low murmur of your father's voice mixing with Lando's, but from where you stood with the water rushing down, you couldn't make out a single word. Every now and then, a burst of laughter drifted through, making you scrub faster—driven by both the panic of leaving them alone together and the sharp reminder that you were incredibly late. More than ever.

You managed to shower in ten minutes and throw your clothes on in another five. You were still shoving things into your bag as you emerged from the locker room.

"I'm done! Ready to go," you announced, stumbling your way back to them.

Fortunately, your dad seemed to be wrapping up the conversation.

"A pleasure to finally meet you. Now, I must go drop my baby off at university." You tried to offer a tight smile. You were past the age of being genuinely embarrassed by your father babying you in front of people, but having Lando’s amused gaze fixed on you made the moment feel deeply mortifying anyway.

It was the most relaxed and normal you had ever seen him.

"Of course. Likewise, have a great day," Lando said, stepping forward to shake your father’s hand once more.

"You should come over for dinner sometime," your dad chuckled.

"You invited him to dinner?!" you gasped, the words finally registering in your brain.

Your father clicked his tongue and nudged you by the shoulders to get you moving before you could protest any further. Lando simply gave a polite nod of farewell, leaving you to wrestle your way out of the gym while trying to pry answers out of your father.

"Why would you invite him to dinner? Are you crazy?"

"Relax," your father sighed, rolling his eyes as he used your name like a gentle weight. "I was just being polite."

"Polite," you muttered, sliding into the passenger seat and quickly clicking your seatbelt into place. "What did you even tell him? Did you talk about me?"

"I just met one of the most brilliant stars in boxing, and your biggest worry is that I spent fifteen minutes talking about you," your father remarked, dripping with sarcasm. You let out a huff, your cheeks burning slightly as you looked out the window, finally shutting your mouth.

Perhaps he was right.

Perhaps you were just being incredibly paranoid.

But you remained paranoid for another week.

The training sessions with Lando began to feel a bit more like a chore, mostly because you were far too busy trying to keep the anxiety from registering on your face. You practically vibrated in place whenever you didn't have something to occupy your hands. You never quite knew if Lando simply didn't notice, or if he was just being polite enough not to pry. What you did know was that your gaze was heavy and entirely lacking in subtlety; he caught you staring more than once—long past the point of politeness—as you analyzed and weighed his facial expressions and body language, trying to decipher whether he was annoyed with you or not.

Then again, Lando looked angry about ninety percent of the time. But he never seemed exceptionally angry about anything involving you.

Nothing, at least, that suggested he had discovered some displeasing truth about your motives.

By the end of the week, you had convinced yourself that he was simply grumpy at a level that was... well, entirely normal for him. Nothing more.

Except Lando wasn’t just in a bad mood. While you had grown accustomed to his natural curtness and strict professionalism inside the gym, it had always been just that—until now. For over a month, you were fairly certain he hadn't been taking you seriously; that he was merely testing you, waiting for you to quit so your presence wouldn't claim too much of his time. But during this past week, it was almost... as if you both genuinely enjoyed each other's company.

Almost.

He was still an insufferable coach, carrying that disgustingly arrogant attitude typical of a retired star who still kept in peak condition. You absolutely loathed the way he demonstrated how to throw punches—making it look effortless, almost fluid and stylish—while your own body was left broken, patterned with the occasional dark bruise.

You managed to complete four and a half months of training before the university's Christmas break arrived.

It surprised you when Lando claimed the days surrounding Christmas as a definitive rest period; the gym would remain closed for the week. A few days later, Max mentioned that they would both be traveling to visit their parents, so you didn't question the decision.

Mostly because, in truth, the timing was perfect.

Upon returning from the holidays in January, you were required to present a draft progress report on the research project you were so desperately focused on. In reality, you had barely scraped together any of the investigation or the actual writing. Lando was excessively guarded with any information regarding himself—undoubtedly a habit born from years of dealing with gossips and reporters. It didn't help that the internet offered very little about his sudden retirement or the reasons behind it. Nor was there any trace of information regarding Isack Hadjar, the rising star Lando had knocked out in his very last fight before stepping away from the ring.

Though you were beginning to piece together where the threads might lead, you couldn't build a thesis on mere assumptions and whispers. You needed hard, concrete facts.

The gym closed on December 22nd, leaving you with exactly five days of actual rest to make headway on the project. You sat for hours in front of your computer, staring at a semi-empty document that you eventually filled with hollow, rushed words born of sheer panic. You had nothing. Absolutely nothing.

To make matters worse, you had grown so accustomed to the daily grind of training that you had to admit to feeling a strange, hollow ache during those five days of stillness.

But after the blur of Christmas family traditions—feasting extravagantly for three consecutive days, opening small, mutual gifts, and torturing yourself for hours in front of your university laptop—the gym finally reopened.

You knew this because your desperation had mounted to the point where, since the afternoon of December 25th, you had begun patrolling the block just to see if Lando had returned.

By the 27th, the world had corrected itself.

"You're back," was the first thing you said as you pushed the heavy entrance door open and saw Lando wrapping his hands.

He looked up, caught off guard for a fleeting second. And perhaps it was just your imagination, but his expression seemed to soften slightly the moment he saw you standing there.

"What are you doing here? We're closed until the New Year."

"Well, the door was open," you shrugged, stepping closer and burying your hands deep into the pockets of your jacket. It was warm inside, a stark contrast to the biting frost painting the streets outside. "And you're here before the New Year, too."

"Couldn't stay at my parents' place for that long," he said simply, his focus returning to the scarlet wraps in his hands.

The detail might have slipped out by accident, but you pretended not to know about it anyway.

"So you visited your parents," you smiled, leaning back against the ropes of the ring.

"Yeah. Max and I went together."

You knit your brows slightly.

"You're in a good mood," you let slip without thinking. The comment earned you a bewildered look from Lando, but the corners of his mouth twitched, as if he were trying to suppress a smile. "You don't usually talk this much."

You watched him roll his eyes before he countered, "That’s because we aren't friends."

"Right," you sighed. "Still, you're in a good mood. I mean, I just learned you actually have parents, and we've known each other for nearly half a year."

"Everyone has parents," he said, as if stating the most obvious law of nature, looking at you as though you were an idiot while he finished fastening the wrap on his left hand and began on the right.

"No kidding," you retorted, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Shut up and wrap your hands."

Lando shook his head gently, but you caught the faint smile lingering on his face. You didn't want the conversation to end; it was the warmest interaction you’d had in months. Perhaps visiting his family had relaxed him enough to let his guard drop, if only a fraction.

"Are we training?" you asked, stepping through the ropes into the ring.

"What else did you come here for?" He arched an eyebrow, and you merely shrugged, shedding your jacket and bending down to pick up a hand wrap from a gym bag overflowing with them.

You were just beginning to wind the fabric around your left hand when Lando stepped close.

"You're doing it wrong," he said, taking the wrap from your fingers and beginning to wind it himself. "You're still quite incompetent, considering we've been training together for almost half a year."

And just like that, he was back.

"First, you wrap each of your knuckles like this. Not too tight, not too loose," he explained, threading the cloth behind each of your fingers, crossing over your knuckles in precise, protective patterns. "Leave enough room so you can close your fist." He squeezed your fingers closed to test it, then made you open them again. "Then the thumb... then the wrist..."

You let him work in silence, simply watching him. His hands were slightly rough, but not nearly as calloused as you would expect from a professional fighter. He probably used some sort of lotion. He likely cared for his skin, because standing this close, you were certain you caught the faint, clean scent of melon cologne. You inhaled quietly as he finished your right hand and tossed you another roll of slightly soiled white wrap.

"Now you do the other."

You made a face as he stepped away, but you tried your best to mimic his handiwork. It wasn't nearly as neat—especially since you had to use your non-dominant hand—but it was something. If you did a poor job of it, Lando didn't say a word. He simply walked away, his back to you, until he turned around holding a pair of gloves.

Only when he tossed them to you and headed to the corner to retrieve another pair did the realization hit you.

"Are we sparring?" you inquired, your muscles tensing slightly.

Until now, the closest you had come to combat in the ring was hitting the focus mitts. It was a dance of shadow-sparring where Lando was fully engaged—feigning strikes, demanding constant eye contact, forcing you to follow his movements like a moth drawn to a flame.

But you had never, ever sparred with him directly.

Sure, you had sparred with some of the newer guys who joined the gym—the scrawniest, most clumsy of the lot.

But this was an immense leap.

Lando looked up, his gaze carrying a playful, teasing edge that sent a nervous flutter to the pit of your stomach.

"What, are you scared?" he smirked, stepping forward as he pulled on his gloves.

"No," you shot back quickly. "It's just... we haven't sparred until now." You hurried to slip your gloves on, your movements clumsy, fueled by a sudden rush of adrenaline.

"From now on, we're splitting our training hours evenly," he explained, beginning to circle you, slipping into a flawless defensive stance. You quickly copied him, facing him down. "One hour of lifting and conditioning. One hour of sparring."

"You and me?"

"And any of your other classmates. Not just the fresh, clumsy ones."

You barely managed a nod before Lando connected a sharp, light blow to the center of your stomach. You weren't ready, and that was all the invitation he needed to begin pushing you.

"Focus. Eyes on me."

"But we aren't wearing headgear!" you squeaked almost immediately, taking a hasty step back. He closed the distance instantly, hunting you down.

"Then keep your hands up and protect your head."

Despite the warning, Lando barely touched your head. It was unsafe to do so, and he knew that better than anyone. Instead, he chose to land precise taps on your arms, intentionally slipping past your guard to give you playful nudges against your forehead—gentle reminders to protect your face whenever you spent too much time defending your ribs.

It was as frustrating as it was exhilarating. He was so incredibly trained, disarming you with an ease that made you feel utterly helpless; you probably only managed to land about seven clean hits during the entire session. Yet, Lando laughed every time he caught you off balance, looking genuinely amused rather than just dutifully teaching, though he still took the time to instruct you amidst the exchange of blows.

"Keep your elbows in."

"Watch your chin."

"Stop crossing your feet or you'll lose your balance!"

"Remember to breathe with every punch. Inhale, exhale."

"From the hips, throw it from the hips."

By the time Lando decided you had had enough, you were drenched in sweat, your lungs burning as you struggled to find air.

"Catch your breath," he ordered, as if breathing weren't a desperate biological struggle at that moment. "Water comes after."

To be fair, he was sweating too. Considerably less, but sweat nonetheless—hardly surprising, considering he had kept you moving at a relentless pace for nearly twenty or thirty minutes when standard rounds rarely lasted more than five. He was forcing you to control your breathing so you wouldn't collapse, conditioning you to survive three minutes of absolute, unyielding action.

It was... brilliant.

You watched him take a long draught from a water bottle before capping it and tossing it to you to drink once your breathing finally steadied. Your chest ached with a dull, warm burn.

"You have to learn to breathe through your nose. You're breathing too much through your mouth," he explained, gesturing to the lower half of his face. "A real round is three minutes, but you have to be active the entire time. They can attack you at any second, and if you don't control your breathing, you're finished."

You swallowed hard, panting heavily before twisting the cap off the bottle and drinking deeply to soothe the dry scratch in your throat.

"You're terrible at this," he remarked, his brow furrowing. "How did you convince me that you won all your fights in flyweight?"

You let out a breathy laugh.

"I might have... exaggerated a little," you finally confessed, sliding down to sit cross-legged on the canvas floor.

"Why?" he asked suddenly, his expression turning serious, yet laced with an undeniable curiosity.

A cold weight settled in the pit of your stomach. A flicker of anxiety, a quiet warning that perhaps you were letting too much slip.

"I did win a lot of my flyweight fights. Most of them," you said, opting for a half-truth. "But that was years ago. I'm out of practice." You shrugged. "You've seen how much of a boxing fan my dad is. I guess I still do it because of him. It’s why I keep trying, even though we both know I suck."

Lando made a quiet face of understanding, and for a moment, you thought the conversation would end there.

"I was awful when I started, too. I was four years old. But everyone is absolute garbage when they don't know what they're doing," he said, and you nodded along. "You can't compare someone who is picking it back up in their twenties to someone who has been doing it since they were old enough to go to school."

You pressed your lips together, quietly touched by his words. It was almost sweet—a side of him you rarely, if ever, saw.

"My dad always wanted me to follow in your footsteps," you confessed. "At first, it was because I'm his only daughter, and I suppose fathers always want to know their girls can defend themselves. You know, to be self-sufficient so no one can ever lay a finger on them." Lando nodded, listening intently. "But he’s always loved boxing. He always wanted a son who boxed, and my older brother quit. So, it was me. It had to be me."

"But you like it now, don't you?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

You gave a soft nod, wetting your lips before answering.

"The way you teach it..." You hesitated for a beat. "If I liked it before, I think you've made me love it twice as much. You're... a really great coach."

Lando nodded slowly, his eyes locking onto yours for a few silent seconds. It was a long, suspended moment; you didn't look away either, waiting to see what he would say next. But nothing came. Not until he straightened up, and instead of addressing your compliment, he simply spoke with his usual authority:

"We're done for today. Go home, and don't come back until after the New Year," he commanded, already pulling off his gloves without looking at you. You followed suit, unstrapping your own.

"Yes, sir."

"I told you not to call me sir."

"Yes, Lando."

The days that followed were a living hell. Not only did you spend concerningly long hours glued to your laptop screen trying to force some progress on your project, but Lando had also forbidden you from training until after the New Year. And so, you found yourself trapped within the four walls of your home, compelled to keep digging into your own mind in a desperate bid to drag something useful to the surface.

As it turned out, working on the project was fun—until you actually had to work on the project.

You loved training with Lando and seeing your own progress, but when you compared your actual research notes to those of the rest of your class, you had absolutely nothing. A void, essentially. Not a single shred of the information you actually hoped to uncover. With every passing second, a quiet, suffocating anxiety bloomed inside you, fed by the looming threat of the progress draft presentation awaiting you right after the holidays.

You had two weeks.

Two. Miserable. Weeks.

And there was nothing.

Nothing in your head, and nothing on the page.

Minutes stretched into hours, and with each passing day, the stress tightened its grip because you couldn't shake the persistent feeling that you were constantly bleeding time. Sometimes your mother would slip into your room just to check on you, placing a soft, supportive kiss on your forehead; other days, she would quietly leave a plate of pancakes to lift your spirits when she saw how tense you were. But nothing truly seemed to work.

You wrote, and you erased. You spent hours spinning aimlessly in your chair, utterly paralyzed.

Celebrating the New Year felt like a temporary reprieve, even if your anxiety dragged your focus right back to the stagnant project the moment you started to actually enjoy yourself.

Seeing Lando again on January 2nd did nothing to ease the weight. You were so desperate you felt as though you might show up at the gym with a wiretap hidden on you, catching him off guard with a barrage of questions. But doing that would mean burning whatever fragile bridge you had built so far, and you couldn't afford that. You just needed a little more time. You needed to stop being so distracted, too.

"[Name]," Lando called out once more, snapping the focus mitts together to catch your eye. "Focus," he said sharply the moment you looked up.

You nodded, slipping back into position, but your mind was only half-present; the other half was drifting far away, and it showed. You felt a wave of nausea wash over you when you saw Lando sigh and look away.

"We're done for today."

"No, I'm fine, I'm just a little distracted," you finally admitted, letting out a heavy sigh. You wiped away the sweat stinging the skin beneath your nose and raised your guard again.

"I'm not going to waste my time with you if you don't want to train. I told you that from day one," he reminded you, pulling off the mitts. You inhaled sharply, deflating a little as he turned his back on you. "Go home and come back tomorrow. Rest."

You felt like you could cry.

It was stupid, really—you were just overwhelmed by university and the deadline rushing toward you like a freight train. Lando could have at least tried to show a sliver of compassion.

"Fine, yeah," you muttered under your breath, swallowing whatever passive-aggressive retort was fighting to escape.

You stripped off your gloves and wraps and called it a day.

But a single day of rest was never going to untangle the knot of stress you were carrying. You were like a guitar string being wound tighter and tighter to play a note, right on the verge of snapping.

And on the day of the review, you finally did.

Lando gave you absolutely nothing over the next two weeks. In fact, it felt like the small amount of ground you had gained with him was actively slipping away, doubling your frustration. When you finally turned in your draft, it was embarrassing. And your professor was not kind.

"What is this?" she asked, pointing to the document on her screen.

The classroom was quiet, everyone quietly focused on their own work. She had decided to call everyone up in alphabetical order to personally review the submissions sent the night before.

You leaned down beside her desk, feeling a hot flush creep up your cheeks and ears.

"I know it's not finished—" you began, but she cut you off immediately.

"It's more than that. It's poor. Frankly, it's embarrassing. Don't think I don't notice how you're trying to convince me—and yourself—that you know something through your writing." You sighed, hanging your head slightly. Your stomach ached; you had never turned in such a terrible piece of work in your entire academic life. "Your concept is brilliant, [Name], truly. But you have nothing here. What have you been doing these past few months? Because you certainly haven't been working on this document."

You pressed your lips together, wanting to scream that it was hard. Lando was a difficult, fortress of a man, and you couldn't just pivot to a new topic at the start of the second semester. If you failed this course, you wouldn't be able to present your portfolio to graduate. She seemed to read the heavy stress radiating off you, and seeing your silence, she sighed.

"I'll give you a 5.0 and mark it as incomplete. For the final submission, you need to give me something far better than a single page of text, or you won't pass my class."

You simply nodded, the severity of her words settling like lead in your mind and chest. The pressure felt like a physical weight, forcing your shoulders straight as you walked back to your desk.

That pressure stayed with you for the rest of the day. You had rescheduled your session with Lando to the afternoon that week because, honestly, your brain wouldn't let you wake up early to train when your mind was consumed by the dread of the review. Though, in hindsight, training with him after a humiliating evaluation was a thousand times worse.

Maybe it was the accumulated stress, or maybe it was the fact that when you arrived, there were still students from his previous class lingering around—people who definitely heard every sharp correction he threw your way and saw every time he tapped your nose with the mitts to force you back into the present.

"Focus, or I'm sending you home," he threatened, his voice dead serious before he snapped the mitts and held them up in front of your face.

Frustration made your punches wild and erratic. You weren't controlling your breathing, your shoulders were stiff, and at some point in the combination, the only thing you wanted was to plant a clean right hand dead center on his face.

"What the hell is wrong with you today?" Lando barked, dodging your strike with insulting ease before catching your wrist mid-air, forcing your guard down.

Bastard.

"Nothing," you spat through your teeth.

"Don't give me that shit. You're acting like a throwing-a-tantrum toddler, and you're an adult. Behave."

"Just shut up and let's keep training," you finally snapped, your voice echoing in the now-empty gym.

The last person had slipped out no more than three minutes ago, leaving the two of you entirely alone.

"Excuse me?" He tilted his head, his voice dangerously low. You'd be lying if you said it didn't frighten you a little, but anger and frustration won the fight.

"You heard me. You're being unnecessarily dense today, and I'm not in the mood. I'm tired." You finally let some of the defensive wall crumble, sounding almost small, embarrassed.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Is your life too difficult for you to focus for two hours a day on boxing?" His sarcastic, condescending tone sent a sharp spark of fury through your veins.

You rolled your eyes before shooting back, "Go to hell, Lando. Not all of us can box all day long. Some of us actually have lives and things we have to worry about. You could try being a little nicer."

"Nicer? Oh, come here, sweetheart. If you need me to, I can gently stroke your hair," Lando sneered, stepping toward you slowly, his eyes flashing with irritation and mockery. "Do you think this is a social club? You didn't come here to make friends. In fact, you were the one who begged me for weeks to train you, and now it turns out it's too much for you."

"I begged you to train me because I thought beneath all that bitterness, there was still a real boxer left. But I see I was wrong," you snapped, completely losing your filter. "You're just a frustrated coach who couldn't cut it, and now you take it out on your students."

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.

"Repeat that," Lando said, his eyes narrowing. You saw how tight his jaw was, the way he stalked you, forcing you to step back with every step he took toward you. It reached a point where you could feel the heat radiating off his skin—from the training, from the venomous words hanging between you. The silence was so heavy you could hear your own ragged breathing, and his too. "Stop shaking, and repeat exactly what just came out of your mouth."

You clenched your jaw, too. You were shaking; his observation only made you ball your hands into tight fists, wanting nothing more than to disappear. But you didn't. It was far too late to back down now, so you took a breath, muttering through your teeth.

"You're just a—"

Lando didn't let you finish. For a fraction of a second, you braced for a physical blow, but what crashed into you instead was his mouth.

It was a punishing, rough kiss, entirely stripped of any tenderness. A gasp of surprise escaped you, which he immediately smothered, consuming your lips with a desperate, aggressive hunger. You tried to push him away, but his free hand gripped your jaw with iron firmness, forcing your mouth open to receive his tongue. The invasion was wet, hot, and so entirely dominant it forced your neck to arch back.

Never in all the months you had spent training with him had the thought of his tongue in your mouth crossed your mind—and certainly not the realization of how much you would crave it.

You bit down on his lower lip until the metallic tang of blood filled your mouth, earning a low, gravelly growl from him. The rough stubble of his days-old beard scraped against your chin, and his hands, calloused and firm, slipped beneath your training shirt, squeezing your hips with a breathless urgency. He pressed you hard against his pelvis, forcing you to feel the rigid length already straining against his pants.

Oh.

"Max—" you stammered, trying to speak without moaning as Lando dragged his lips down to press feverish kisses against your neck. "Wait—Max—"

"Stop talking about Max." His hands slid down to grip the back of your thighs, pulling your legs to wrap around his waist before he dropped to his knees on the canvas, guiding you down onto your back with him looming hot between your thighs. "Max is gone. It's just you and me."

The wave of relief that washed over you was instantly cut short as he set to work on your sweatpants, tugging the fabric down along with your underwear.

"I'm all sweaty," you protested, trying in vain to stay his hands. But Lando was stronger, driven by a singular, unyielding focus.

"Good. Slips in easier," he murmured, his voice thick and breathless. "I'm going to put that pretty mouth of yours to better use than complaining."

You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath about what an asshole he was even now, your cheeks burning with a cocktail of exertion, anger, and desire. He gave a mocking tilt of his head as he kicked your shoes aside, finally leaving you bare from the waist down.

"Oh? Did the princess get upset?" he teased, gripping your hips to drag you flush against him. It was only then, as you saw his face hover near your knees, that you realized he was at least attentive enough not to just plunge right in.

"Learn to shut up," you rasped, grabbing a handful of his curls and pulling him down against your center.

For a second, you thought he might offer some sarcastic retort, but instead, he simply went to work. He forced your legs wider apart and parted you with a low groan, his flat tongue sliding over your clitoris before sucking on it aggressively. Your back arched off the mat at the sensation, bordering on a delicious ache, and your hips shifted restlessly.

"Stay still," he murmured, pulling back for a brief second before diving right back in. His hands clamped down on your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin as he drank you in greedily.

You let your head fall back onto the canvas, gripping his dark curls and pulling hard. You weren't gentle either; you gave him no room to breathe, more than once trying to lock your legs around his head in retaliation. But every time you did, he seemed to take it as a personal challenge, lapping at you with a fierce intensity that shattered your resolve.

He offered no mercy. He fought back against every squeeze of your thighs, his rough stubble scratching against your sensitive skin while his tongue moved frantically, shifting between overstimulating your center and dipping low into your heat to gather your slick.

Just as your climax began to build—sharp and demanding—Lando pulled away, leaving you to let out an frustrated groan at the sudden loss.

"What were you saying?" Lando asked, his voice raw and completely out of breath. His dark gaze remained fixed on you as you watched him pull at his own clothes. "Just a frustrated coach?"

You let out a breathless laugh, completely disbelieving, as you watched him free himself and stroke his length. The sight was dizzying.

The corners of Lando's mouth glistened with your wetness, his eyes dark and heavy. His training shirt was damp with sweat around the collar, hitched up just enough to reveal the sharp lines of his lower abdomen. His erection disappeared into his fist with every solid stroke. He wasn't small by any means, nor intimidatingly large, but he was thick—thick enough to make you wonder if you could slide him into your mouth without trouble.

The skin of his shaft was flushed a deep red, the head swollen with blood. He was circumcised, a detail that struck you as remarkably aesthetic.

"What's the matter? Can't handle it?" The challenge in his voice was unmistakable, and you took the bait.

"Is this your way of asking if I'm a virgin?" You arched an eyebrow, almost smiling as he shrugged with supreme arrogance. He was so incredibly full of himself.

"Maybe."

"I'm not."

"Good." Lando gripped your thighs again, dragging you down to meet him. "Because I didn't plan on being gentle even if you were."

You felt the blunt head of his length graze against your wet folds before pressing firmly against your entrance. You were surprised by how slick and open you were, yielding to him with the slightest push of his hips. Against all expectations, Lando went slowly, burying himself to the hilt with a cautious deliberation, as if—for a fleeting second—he was genuinely afraid of hurting you.

It didn't last.

"Nothing to say now?" he let out a breathless chuckle, looking down at you. His body was heavy against yours, solid and muscular. "Come on, say it again. What am I?"

You rolled your eyes, your chest rising and falling erratically before you gasped, "I said you're just a—uh... Uhm..."

His hips cut your sentence short, drawing back and driving in deep until his pelvic bone slammed against you, forcing you to bite your tongue.

"Again. I didn't hear you," the bastard taunted.

Then his pace shifted into a rhythm that became critical almost instantly. His hand pressed firmly against your lower abdomen, forcing you to tilt as he leaned in, finding the perfect, devastating angle to strike that sweet, sensitive spot inside you. It sent a violent shiver down your legs, forcing you to cling to his arms.

"That's it," he muttered. You could tell he was trying to keep his voice flat and detached, but he was breathless, thoroughly undone, watching every inch of himself slide in and out of you. "Not so talkative now, are you?" He stared down at you, and you gritted your teeth.

"The punching bag hits harder," you managed to gasp out, offering a breathless, mocking smile.

He let out a sharp laugh, but you knew you had struck his ego when he folded you back until your knees practically touched your chest, driving into you so hard that all you could do was cling to his shoulders and let out a broken whimper.

You wanted to scream at him, but you could only claw at his bare back, digging your nails deep into his skin as a quiet punishment. Lando didn't seem to care that you were leaving marks, which only frustrated you more. You hated that he held a power over you that you couldn't match, and above all, you hated how incredibly well he moved inside you. The bastard knew exactly what angle to use to keep you completely soft and unraveling; the sound of your skin meeting with every deep thrust was utterly obscene.

You could feel your release building again—fast, sharp, and overwhelming. Every thrust sent a tremor through your thighs, and you couldn't help but sink your teeth into the junction of his neck and shoulder as the climax shattered inside you. Your walls clamped tight around him, and you heard him let out a sharp hiss. He gave two more heavy, desperate thrusts before pulling out of you in a frantic rush.

You watched Lando stroke himself once more before spilling into his own hand with a low, muttered curse.

Your legs trembled as you drew them together and began to sit up, thoroughly satisfied but slightly dazed. Lando seemed to feel the exact same awkwardness as he turned his back to you, pulling his sweatpants up his legs with some difficulty with his occupied hand.

The silence fell heavy between you as you reached for your underwear with clumsy, distracted fingers.

You realized then that the anger and frustration had completely evaporated from your chest. You let out a quiet sigh, the warm haze of the orgasm still clinging to you.

"I didn't mean to scream at you earlier," you finally spoke up, cutting through the thick quiet. Lando didn't look at you; you heard him sniff quietly, just to do something, while you finished pulling up your pants. "I was just stressed about school, okay? If I don't turn this project in, I won't graduate, and I have absolutely nothing. My professor gave me an ultimatum today and... I don't know, I've just been frustrated and distracted. And I took it out on you. I'm sorry."

You heard him let out a dry chuckle, and for a second, you genuinely expected a mocking reply.

"I know what it's like to be knee-deep in shit," he said. You hadn't expected an apology, and you were certain Lando had no intention of offering one anyway. "But next time, leave your shit outside the gym doors when you come to train. Trust me, it's better that way."

You nodded, letting out a soft sigh. You thought that would be the end of it, but Lando continued.

"I don't care about your personal frustrations. But if you're in a fight, you can't have your head somewhere else, or you're going to get hurt. You can't just check out when you have an opponent in front of you who actively wants to do you damage." Finally, he turned to look at you, now that you were both decently dressed.

"Is that what you did when you boxed?" you asked, slipping on a shoe. "Clearing your mind and keeping distractions out, I mean," you added quickly.

You saw him nod.

"But I didn't have a coach as good as me," he smirked, a familiar trace of self-assurance returning to his voice.

You saw the perfect opening to ask.

"Zak? What was he like?" you inquired, resting your chin on your knee as you tied your laces.

"A thousand times worse than me," Lando replied bluntly. "He was cruel." The sheer weight in his voice made you look up to study his face. "He was never satisfied. He made us train at least four hours a day and gave us barely any rest. I had a teammate who fainted once during training, and Zak just said, 'It's a hazard of the trade.' I was glad when he retired."

"That sounds horrible. Why would you ever let someone treat you like that?" You arched your eyebrows.

"I used to think Zak was a genius for pushing all of us to our absolute limits." Lando shrugged, seemingly unaware of how much he was opening up, or perhaps he simply didn't care anymore. "Later on, I realized that to him, everything was just money. Even the people."

"Is that why you retired?" The words slipped past your teeth before you could stop them.

The instant the question left your mouth, you knew you had ruined it. Lando locked his eyes onto yours in a heavy, freezing silence. You could swear you physically saw his walls go up, stone by stone, sealing him away once more.

"Go home," he said flatly, before stepping down from the ring.

And, having no other choice, you simply did as you were told.

By the time you got home, you were finally be able to open the poorly written document, and started writing.

Sleeping with Lando was never supposed to become a routine, but it did.

​It all started the first day you managed to rearrange your schedule to train early in the morning. You were taking a quick shower in the men's locker room—the only place with genuinely hot water at that hour—your eyes closed under the stream, mind still hazy with sleep, when you heard the heavy metal door click shut. Before you could even react, Lando was already inside your stall, pressing you against the cold tiles. His rough, eager hands contrasted sharply with the warmth of the steam, and he gave you a morning orgasm so intense it left your legs trembling over the drain.

​After that day, the gym's hot water began running out suspiciously fast almost every morning.

​The boundaries simply dissolved. If it wasn't the showers, it was the metal desk or the couch in his second-floor office, where you had to cling to his shoulders just to keep from falling. And if it wasn't there, Lando always found a way to drag you back to the canvas of the ring when the building was empty, using it as a rough, makeshift mattress.

​You couldn't complain. Sex with Lando was addictive—a wild, selfish rush of adrenaline that you both desperately needed. But the best part came afterward.

​It was in the haze of exhaustion and release, when he lay beside you with ragged breath and his defenses down, that you found your finest opportunities. A lazy question tossed into the air while you fastened your bra was all it took for Lando, too exhausted to build his usual walls of distrust, to let slip some bitter phrase about his past. Small crumbs of information that you devoured in silence, memorizing them before his coldness took over once more.

​"You have a scar..." you mentioned once, after you both had showered. Lando had his back to you, and you stepped closer to trace the mark on his right shoulder blade. You felt him tense slightly beneath your touch.

​"Training," he said shortly, as if wanting to lay the conversation to rest.

​But you still hadn't learned when to stop asking.

​"Back when you trained with Zak?" you inquired, seeking his gaze over his shoulder.

​"Yeah," he replied, pulling on a clean t-shirt. "With him, it never ended with a knockdown."

​"That means leaving your opponent on the canvas with a single blow, right?" you tried to verify, watching him nod. "Isn't that illegal? I mean, to keep hitting someone who's already down?"

​You watched him move toward the door.

​"You always have a few seconds before the referee notices." And with that, he was gone.

​It was only later that you allowed yourself to feel guilty, when you were locked in your bedroom at night, typing away the secrets Lando was confiding in you, using his trust to advance your professional career. Every time that guilt crept in, you forced yourself to drown it. You told yourself it was necessary, that it was just a university assignment, and that he never had to know.

​But it was hard.

​Mainly because every time Lando mentioned anything about Zak, your stomach turned. You could picture him—a much younger, clumsier, more naive version of himself—trusting every single word that man said, training until his muscles collapsed under the promise of a professional career in the sport he loved.

​It was impossible not to empathize when you spent nearly three hours with the same man every single day, when you caught yourself looking at him just a little longer than politeness allowed. When you began to notice how he interacted with others, how he scratched his stubble when he spoke, making faces, and how everyone seemed to orbit around him and adore him, despite how insufferable he could be as a coach.

​And when his walls began to fall, it only grew worse.

​Guilt was no longer the only thing twisting in your stomach when Lando started joking with you more often, when you noticed he didn't seem so bitter most of the time. Suddenly, it became much easier to see all his other qualities.

​The way his face lit up when you teased him, his eyes crinkling into a smile. The way he had a rather peculiar, endearing laugh that didn't align at all with the persona you had first met. How he bit his lip whenever he had to explain something to you, watching you intently while you spoke.

​It was a beautiful torment.

​"When is Lando coming over for dinner?" You looked up from your breakfast to find your father staring at you, snapping you out of your daydream.

​It was six in the morning, and he was already awake, fully prepared to drive you to your daily training session—simply because it gave him the perfect excuse to talk to one of his favorite ex-boxers.

​"Huh, I don't know. Why don't you ask him yourself?" you tried to dodge the question.

​The truth was, you didn't want to ask Lando. You didn't want to invite him in the first place, because it implied things were getting serious. Even if your father had invited him before your relationship had shifted, there was still an invisible line crossed when meeting the parents.

​Especially over a dinner.

​"You're right, that's a great idea."

​You watched your father pace around the kitchen before walking out with a knowing, clever little smile.

​"Let me know when you're ready!"

​You sighed, knowing there was no escape. Your father was a true boxing fanatic; any chance to be near Lando would be thoroughly exploited, and he lost no time.

​Later, when he dropped you off outside the gym, he didn't leave right away. He waited until the moment Lando unlocked the gate to approach him with a wide smile.

​"My wife and I want to know when you're coming over for dinner."

​You saw Lando frown for a few seconds before seemingly recalling a promise made weeks ago.

​"Oh, right. I remember," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I don't know. When works for you?"

​"How about tonight?"

​"Tonight?!" you interrupted, only to be brutally ignored by both men.

​"Sure, yeah. I'll bring dessert," Lando smiled at your father before your dad gave him a playful tap on the arm and turned back to you.

​"Give him our address later. Don't forget!" he threatened playfully before walking away, pleased with himself.

​You rolled your eyes, hearing Lando's soft chuckle before he guided you inside, his hand resting gently against your lower back.

​"Did you seriously just agree to dinner with my parents?" you asked, knitting your brows, pretending the idea didn't terrify you to no end.

​"Your old man is funny," he shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips. You had to look away just to keep yourself from smiling back.

​You spent the rest of the day tense and anxious. You finally gave Lando your address before heading to your classes, but your mind remained hyper-focused on one thing: you had to get home early, tidy your room, and hide every trace of your essay—any clue that might tip Lando off that you were studying to be a journalist in the near future. You would have to talk seriously to your parents about avoiding the subject entirely, or at least dodging it as much as possible in front of him.

​The rest of the afternoon was a frantic blur. You rushed home after classes, sweeping every corner of the living room with your eyes before locking your laptop and notebooks away in your bedroom wardrobe. By the time you finished getting ready, the clatter of dishes from the kitchen signaled that your moment had arrived.

​You hurried down the stairs, finding your parents putting the finishing touches on the table setting.

​"Listen to me for a second," you said, intercepting them before they could pour the wine. "Could you please avoid mentioning my studies or anything about my university work? Nothing about my thesis, my college, or my research. Do you think you can do that?"

​Your father frowned, pausing with the silverware in his hand.

​"Why all the secrecy? It's your career, sweetheart, you should be proud of it. Besides, I wanted to ask him about his old boxing days; maybe that could help with your research..."

​"No, that's exactly why!" you cut him off, trying to suppress the rising panic in your voice. "He doesn't know anything. Lando is incredibly guarded and bitter about his past. If he finds out I'm writing about boxing or studying journalism, he won't say another word. He'll walk out. Please, let's just pretend I'm studying something else if he asks, or just change the subject. Do it for me, Dad."

​Your parents exchanged glances, bewildered by your urgency, but the sheer gravity in your expression made them give in. Your mother nodded first, placing a reassuring hand on your father's arm.

​"It's alright, darling. We'll talk about anything else," she promised. "We won't ruin your research."

​A heavy sigh of relief escaped your lips, but before you could thank them, the doorbell echoed sharply through the ground floor. Your heart took a violent leap inside your chest.

​"I'll get it," you called out before heading to the front door.

​You smoothed down your shirt before opening it, offering an uncomfortably polite smile to Lando, who stood there holding a dark bag.

​"Hey," he greeted with a small smile—one that felt much truer, much more relaxed. "I brought dessert," he noted, lifting the bag and shaking it gently.

​"Oh, wonderful!" your mother interrupted from behind you, forcing you to step aside as she approached to let Lando in. "Thank you so much, I'll put it in the fridge."

​She took the bag and vanished into the kitchen while you shut the door.

​"My mother," you sighed, a half-hearted introduction. You heard Lando let out a quiet laugh.

​"She seems nice." He was in a good mood.

​"Come on. Dinner is almost ready." With a slight tilt of your head, you led him toward the kitchen.

​From that moment on, you became a mere spectator to everything that unfolded. You watched them chat; your father poured him a glass of fruit wine, and the two of them simply drifted into their own world of boxing, reminiscing about the old days. Once everyone took their seats, it was inevitable that the conversation would shift back to you.

​"You've done an incredible job with my daughter," your father said. "Her fitness has improved immensely." You flushed under the sudden spotlight.

​"I've been giving it to her hard," Lando replied.

​His words made you choke on your wine. Unnecessary. Utterly unnecessary for him to use that double meaning at the table.

​"I can tell," your father nodded, spearing a few vegetables from his plate while he finished chewing and swallowing. "And how do you see her now? Has she improved enough?"

​Lando shot you a slightly mocking, playful glance before turning back to your parents.

​"She’s improved, yeah. A bit distracted these past few weeks, but she’s doing well. I think I’ll be submitting the formal application for her license to the board soon, so she can start competing."

​You did your best to pretend the idea didn't terrify you, while your father looked absolutely thrilled.

​"That's wonderful, thank you. Anything you need from us, just say the word," he said, genuinely impressed, before adding, "I'm really glad you're my daughter's coach, Norris. You're a very grounded guy despite everything. Honestly, I didn't think you would be... considering what happened with Hadjar."

​The air seemed to vanish from the dining room. You stiffened completely in your seat and glared at your father.

​"Dad," you warned in a sharp whisper.

​"No, it's fine," Lando interjected, a soft smile on his face that looked more like a practiced grimace. "What happened to Isack was an accident."

​You swallowed hard. You never would have thought Lando would address the matter so directly. You had danced around that name for months at the gym, and now your father was asking, without a shred of fear, the very thing you had been dying to know for ages.

​"I'm just saying..." Your father shook his head, oblivious to the invisible alarm that had been tripped. "You seemed pretty sure of what you were doing in the ring for it to be a simple accident. Mind you, I'm not trying to blame you for anything!"

​"Don't worry, I don't feel guilty," Lando replied almost instantly, cutting him off mid-sentence.

​His voice was too quick, too clean—a mechanical response that froze the room entirely. He locked his dark eyes onto your father, drawing a sharp boundary.

​"I know perfectly well that what happened was an accident, sir."

​Your father blinked, caught off guard by the boxer's sudden coldness, and simply nodded.

​"Please, let's drop the subject," you requested gently, stepping in before the thread could snap completely. You could feel Lando's discomfort; it radiated off him in heavy, dense waves. After months of knowing him, you preferred him in a good mood. "Let's just have a normal dinner."

​"Yeah, of course."

​Fortunately, dessert served as the perfect lubricant to dissolve the awkwardness that had settled over the dining room. Your mother, with her usual warmth, monopolized the conversation by talking about the London weather and some light neighborhood gossip, giving Lando the perfect opportunity to retreat into his short, polite answers without having to speak about himself. Your father, having caught the implicit warning in the air, limited himself to nodding and enjoying his food, keeping his questions strictly away from the ring for the rest of the night.

​Slowly, the tension in Lando's shoulders gave way. He didn't relax completely, but the room regained a peaceful normalcy that allowed you to breathe easy again.

​When the plates were cleared and the living room clock ticked past ten, Lando laid his linen napkin on the table and squared his shoulders, dictating the unwritten end of the evening.

​"Ma'am, sir, dinner was excellent," he said, standing up. "Thank you very much for the invitation, but it's about time I head out. I open the gym early tomorrow."

​Your parents stood up immediately to say their goodbyes with warm smiles and affectionate handshakes. Your mother even insisted on packing the leftover vegetables into a container for him—a domestic gesture that left Lando blinking, visibly out of his element, though he managed a gruff "thank you."

​"I'll walk him down," you intervened quickly, before your father could offer.

​Lando, holding the container of cold, sautéed vegetables in his hand, followed you down the hallway to the door. Once outside, you both walked toward the elevator and made your way out of the apartment complex in absolute silence.

​"I'm sorry about my dad acting like that," you spoke up once the elevator doors slid shut behind you and you led him outside the building to say goodbye. "I tried to tell him before you arrived that you don't like talking about it, but he's so nosy—"

​"I lied," he interrupted, turning to look at you with a grimace. "I still think about it. I do feel guilty."

​You felt your stomach knot, and for a few seconds, you truly didn't know what to say. Nothing had prepared you for this sudden burst of honesty, for this piece of his trust. He kept speaking before your brain could formulate a response.

​"Isack ended up in a really bad way after our fight... He went into a vegetative state." The truth settled deep inside you like a sickening ache.

​"Oh," was all you managed to say.

​"His parents took him off life support after a few months," Lando continued, and you felt a wave of dizziness wash over you. "Zak paid them a stupid amount of money to keep them quiet. So the journalists wouldn't ask questions."

​"It wasn't your fault, Lando. It was an accident," you managed to repeat his own words back to him.

​If there was one thing you had learned from everything Lando had told you, it was that Zak had been a terrible trainer.

​"But I should have said no when Zak told me where to hit him. I knew what that would do. I'm just as responsible."

​"You were a kid," you tried to reason.

​"I was of age. I knew what I was doing."

​"But you didn't know any better than you do now," you interrupted him once more. "You were under the care of a man who only cared about you winning and how much money he could make off you. You believed him, and that doesn't make you guilty."

​You heard Lando sigh, and the only thing you knew how to do was wrap your arms around him. It felt strange—hugging him, that is. He was stiff in your embrace at first, before finally surrendering and wrapping his arms tightly around you.

​"You're a better coach than he ever could have been." You felt him relax against you, and that brought you an immense sense of relief.

​"Thank you," Lando murmured over your shoulder before slowly pulling away.

​You looked up at him with a soft smile, trying to reassure him. He looked shattered, his eyes bright and rimmed with red, surely from holding back tears. He reached out and stroked your cheek, cradling the side of your face before leaning down to kiss you squarely on the mouth.

​He had never kissed you outside of sex, and more importantly, he had never kissed you with such tenderness. He was usually unnecessarily rough and teasing, but he was none of those things now. The stubble of his beard still pricked your skin, but it was deeply comforting when his lips weren't trying to punish you. You managed to return the kiss before he pulled back.

​"Early tomorrow."

​"Early tomorrow," you repeated, nodding.

​You stood outside for a few seconds longer, watching him walk away with a knot twisting in your stomach. And the moment his silhouette faded into the night, you ran back upstairs.

​You forgot all about helping your mother with the dishes, locking yourself in your room just to write.

​And if you were late for training the following morning, it was merely because you had stayed up until dawn, finishing a nine-page essay.

Good morning!

Apologies for the hour. I know there is still a week left before the final project deadline, but I wanted to check if there was any chance I could get one last review before that day.

Thank you so much in advance!

[Attached file]

Good morning, [Name],

After reading through the 10 pages of your essay, I don't think there is much to correct, except for a couple of phrasing adjustments and some minor punctuation fixes. Let's meet at the end of Monday's class to go over those details before the deadline, does that work for you?

Have a great weekend!

The relief you felt after submitting the essay felt exactly like shedding a coat of lead from your shoulders.

Ten pages of beautifully structured secrets finally rested in the professor's inbox, leaving you with a wonderful sense of lightness. The double game was over; everything was back to normal. A normalcy where the gym was no longer a journalistic research ground but your new sanctuary, and the man in front of you was no longer a subject of study but... well, Lando.

"If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to start charging you by the hour for contemplation therapy," his husky voice snapped you out of your thoughts, laced with a light mockery that made you smile instantly.

You blinked, focusing your gaze on the weathered leather focus mitts he held loosely against his chest. Lando wasn't wearing his usual rigid posture; his shoulders were relaxed and one eyebrow was slightly raised, looking at you with an amusement that made his dark eyes gleam.

"I am focused," you lied, adjusting your gloves with a swift movement.

"Right you are. That'll be why you nearly tripped over your own feet two minutes ago," he teased, taking a lazy step forward. He gently tapped the side of your headguard with one of the mitts, just a playful touch. "Your body is here, but your little head is still floating off somewhere. What’s the matter? Why so cheerful today? Did you finally finish saving the world with your university assignments?"

A tiny prickle of adrenaline—the last lingering ghost of the secret you had just buried—tickled your stomach, but you brushed it away with a flirtatious smile. You raised your fists to your chin, slipping back into your guard with renewed energy.

"Something like that," you replied, throwing a quick jab that landed with a sharp thud! against his left mitt, followed by a subtle sway of your hips. "Let's just say I closed a pending chapter. No more pressure, so I can focus entirely on winning a round against you."

Lando let out that short, peculiar chuckle you loved so much, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and instantly wiped away any trace of the bitter guy he pretended to be to the rest of the world. He licked his lips, closing the distance between you until you could feel the heat of his chest almost brushing against your gloves.

"Ambitious," he murmured, lowering the mitts completely to rest his hands on his hips. His eyes raked over you, lingering a second too long on your lips before meeting your gaze again with a roguish little smile. "Glad to know your precious free time belongs to me now. But if you really want to win a round against me, you’re going to have to work harder than that... Come on, guard up," he said, lifting the mitts back into position. "One-two, slip to the left... and if you do it right, maybe I'll reward you in the showers."

You burst out laughing, ducking the mock punch he threw your way.

The training session was tougher than other days, and true to his word, Lando rewarded you later in the showers. The relief you felt was beyond compare; it finally felt like your life was falling into place. You had found a hobby you never thought you’d love so much, and you were only months away from finally graduating.

However, when you walked into the gym the following day, you weren't greeted by the same warmth as the day before.

"What the fuck are you doing in my gym?"

"Huh?" You lowered your gym bag carefully, a confused little smile on your face. Lando looked angry. No, beyond that. He was furious. "What do you mean? Didn't we have a session today?"

"You don't train in my gym anymore." He wasn't even looking at you, throwing things blindly into a duffel bag.

"Is this a joke?" You felt your heart hammer wildly against your chest. A sickening sensation settled deep in your stomach.

"After what you did? You've got some nerve showing your face here again," you heard him let out a humorless laugh. "This is exactly why I don't train women. I should've known I'd feel like knocking your bloody teeth out one day."

You swallowed hard.

"Lando, what are you talking about?" Your voice sounded incredibly small when you asked.

"I’ve already read your little piece. In fact, the whole country could have read the utter shit you wrote about me."

You felt your stomach drop at his words, and your hands began to tremble.

"Takes some real guts to write all that crap, but to actually publish it and then come crawling back to me like a desperate bitch? You've truly outdone yourself." You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat.

"I didn't publish it—"

"Oh, right, so you only wrote it. You only came to my gym to bleed me for information, you only made me—" He cut himself off before he could say another word, and you felt your eyes sting as they filled with tears. "Get out of my gym and don't you ever come back."

"Lando, please. I swear there's an explanation."

"Yeah, maybe there is. But I couldn't care less to hear it." Finally, Lando snapped his head around to look at you.

His eyes were bloodshot and puffy—the living proof of his vulnerability. But they were also filled with pure hatred, entirely hollow. There wasn't a single shred left of the affection you had managed to build over the past few months. Everything lay shattered on the floor.

"Leave before I call the police."

Your chest heaved as you tried to breathe.

"I'm sorry," you managed to choke out before grabbing your things and rushing out.

The moment you got back into your father's car, you decided you wouldn't be going to classes that day. And when you walked back into your bedroom, lying right there on your desk was the living proof of your descent into hell. An email from your professor, sent yesterday afternoon, which you hadn't managed to read until now.

Good morning, [Name]!

Apologies for the hour, but I wanted to let you know that I managed to get in touch with a publisher to edit and release your opinion column about Lando Norris. The insight and the phrasing are exquisite—a deeply personal project under your name, and one that I am certain will open doors for your career in the future.

By the time you read this, it will already be published! We can discuss the details tomorrow after class. As always, I am so proud of your results. You are going to be an incredible journalist.