Fangirling Till Midnight

The movie you’d put on had finished hours ago and was now replaced by a black screen. Your phone had been thrown across the room after the tenth message left on delivered. 

 The array of your and Frank’s favorite snacks was growing staler by the minute. You couldn’t bring yourself to turn off the tv. Or clean up. Or drag your body to bed. 

If you were honest, you couldn’t do anything. You couldn’t even feel. 

You remember the first date night he’d missed. Your phone empty of any messages of calls to provide some sort of explanation for his absence. 

It was complete radio silence from his end, you’d left a series of texts that’d gone unread. When the lock on the front door click and the knob twisted, it was almost 4 am, you were fast asleep. 

The floorboards groaned quietly with each step Frank took as he headed towards your shared bedroom. Moonlight filtered through the sheer lacy curtains he remembered installing for you, after you’d complained about the room not getting enough sunlight but still wanting a sense of privacy. 

The light illuminated your sleeping body. And your tear streaked face. A frown seemed to take permanent residence on your face even when you weren’t awake. A sharp stabbing pain poked at his heart, jaw clenched knowing he was the cause for your unhappiness. 

He’d placed a feather-soft kiss on your temple, wrapping his arms around your mid section, and pulled you in close, molding your body to fit perfectly against his. 

He hated himself for thinking it, the thought surrounded by an ugly cloud of darkness and ruin for things good, but he couldn’t help but think to the woman he’d made vows to and how she used to fit lying next to him. 

You were woken up with a large bouquet of flowers wrapped in butcher paper, peonies being the main one judging by the large array spread across the assortment. A beaming smile replaced the sad expression on your face as you looked up at him, he’d kissed your forehead and whispered a thousand apologies, all of which you’d taken as you forgave him. 

You’d smiled then, so genuine and heartfelt at the action. No, peonies weren’t your favorite but you believed it was the thought that counted. 

A couple weeks later, you’d found Frank staring at a picture of his family you had hung in the main area of your apartment. Neither of you spoke for a while, him needing to sit in his grief and you wanting to sit with him in it. When he finally spoke, it was about his wife. 

Frank was a man who rarely opened up, spoke anything vulnerable. So, when he finally did, you embraced and accepted it—accepted him—in a heartbeat. No judgement passed from you as he spoke of his marriage and his wife. 

“Her favorite flowers were peonies.” He said as a look of remembrance glazed over his eyes. A lump had suddenly formed in your throat, you swallowed hard in an attempt to get rid of it. You’d mentioned your favorite flowers to him before. And sure, there were a few occasions when he’d gotten them for you. 

But most flowers he’d gifted were peonies. You thought nothing of it, simply touched by the gesture. However, the sudden realization that he was trying to make up for lost time with the woman he lost greyed the moments once so colorful and full of life. 

Still, you smiled at him, though it never reached your eyes. “Beautiful flowers fitting for a beautiful woman.”

“Yeah. She is.” The guilt you felt for even comparing the two of you in the first place was no match for the surge of jealous that threatened to consume your entire being. 

You were thrown into another instance of Frank’s no-shows. 

It was your one-year anniversary. He’d planned the entire date from the restaurant down to the heels that adorned your feet. You were supposed to arrive together but at the last moment, Frank had rushed out the door, planting a brief peck on your lips before yelling over his shoulder that he had to go but he’d meet you there. He didn’t. 

Five minutes had gone by. You sat at your reserved table, a booth in a tiny corner of the restaurant, the way Frank liked it. Thirty minutes, the kind waitress had circled back around and asked if you’d like to start with a glass of wine. You ordered a whole bottle, expecting Frank to also indulge in some. An hour passed, the chicken cacciatore sat untouched along with the vodka pasta that had gone cold. The wine, however, was about half-way through before you decided to take the check.

Antonio, the owner, had known Frank long before he brought you here. You never thought anything of it from his look of surprise the first time Frank had taken you there as a first date. But now something had settled and refused to leave and it was being to rot inside of you. Antonio had packaged the food you’d ordered, making a bow out of the handles so the food wouldn’t fall out and told you the meal was on the house and called you a taxi home. 

He had been sneaking worried glances at you all night when you were repeated checking your phone every minute and when your head would shoot to the door when the bell hanging above it would chime. Maybe it was then when he decided to take pity on you.

Or maybe it was when he finally locked eyes with you and saw everything you felt like it was written on your face. 

But if you weren’t as good at masking your emotions to the point where the kind, old man was able to take notice, then had Frank?

The thought made your head spin. Perhaps it was a mixture of that and the numerous glasses of wine but you were fighting nausea the entire ride home.

—

You didn’t have to check your phone to know that it was late into the night when the front door opened. Frank slowly closed the door, careful to not make any sound, assuming you were asleep. You weren’t. 

The thud of his boots slowed to a stop a few feet from you as he took in your curled form on the couch, eyes wide opened. “Shit, sweetheart,” he cursed, his voice gruff and deep, the sound of it used to cause shivers to form on your skin. Now, though, you wanted nothing more than for him to stop talking. To avoid the argument you knew was inevitable. Because despite every missed date, missed dinner, missed hangout with your friends where you always had to make some excuse for his absence to the point where they stopped asking, you loved him. You loved when he was there, and not the ghost of him. “It’s late, why ain’t you asleep yet?”

You loved the bump on his nose, traced every scar littered across his body with kisses. You sat on his lap and patiently wiped the blood he often came home with, pressing your lips onto patched wounds that you’d cleaned up. You stayed up with him each night the nightmares threatened to come alive. 

You had anchored him in the present when the past threatened to pull him deeper. It was a shame that when you needed him in times like this, he left you to hopefully wash up on shore one day. 

Your voice sounded unrecognizable even to you. Your eyes stayed locked onto the tv screen, refusing to meet his. “You missed date night.” In hindsight, it was something miniscule. Every partner has had to cancel a date with their lover before. Frank had. But he had missed too many.

A sigh left his lips as guilt crept into his bloodstream. “I’m sorry, baby. I-it slipped my mind.” He didn’t search for an excuse. Knew he’d given you too many. Your laugh cut through the air, only intensifying the already tense atmosphere. You knew how this conversation went. Had it time and time again. But this time, you had nothing left to say. It was evident in the way you suddenly rose from your lying position on the couch, and headed to the kitchen. You didn’t need to look back to know he followed you. He said your name. No response came from you. Frank said it again. 

You remembered a time when your name left his lips in such a delicate manner, like he wasn’t sure if he even deserved to say it. Now, though, it sounded wrong. Had too much desperation attached to it. “Sweetheart, say somethin’. Anythin’.” The sound of water being poured into the glass cup in your hand was the only sound that followed his plead. The glass clinked as you gently set it on the table, your eyes glued onto the water even after it settled. “What do you want me to say, Frank? I’’ll say it.”

“No, none of that bullshit, say what you mean-“

“I have nothing left to say to you.” You refuted. Frank’s eyes flickered across your face, searching for any emotion, something he could work with. His eyes moved to scan the room as if he’d find the solution to this, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You do, I’ve been horrible. Ain’t treatin’ you the way you deserve.” His words had blown the dying flame in your heart back alive. Your head snapped towards him, finally meeting his eyes. He looked at you with such desperation. You wondered if that was the expression on your face every time you forgave him just to keep him. 

Your eyes stung with tears you tried hard to keep back. “I can’t love you fully when you constantly have one foot out the door. This-whatever this is, is not enough.” You couldn’t stop, the word vomit was one that had been stuffed down until this moment. It completely erupted. “I haven’t asked for much, have I, Frank?”

“No, sweetheart-“

“You miss a date. A chance to meet my friends. An event I told you was important. You don’t show. You come home with flowers in your hand and a kicked puppy look on your face and I take you back with open arms. I don’t ask why. Why you don’t bother showing him. Why you don’t explain what happens every time you slip away at night or the injuries you always come back with.” You scoffed as tears finally dripped down your cheeks in never ending streams. “I don’t ask because when you’re here, it feels real. Like the bubble never popped and reality never crept in.”

You laughed again, harshly wiping the tears from your cheeks. “God, I mean, I’m so fucking pathetic, only now realizing how big of a fool I am for not knowing you don’t care-“

He snapped, unable to hold back his words. “I do care. I love you.”

“Then why won’t you open yourself to me fully? Did you-“ You stopped yourself but your self-restraint had already been cut loose. “Did you with Maria?”. You watched as his mouth closed, jaw clenching almost painfully. His hands slightly balled at his side in an attempt to control himself. “Don’t do that.” But that words had already been said.

“Did you?” Your voice tight, as if bracing for physical impact. Frank tone seemingly matched your own, but you knew it was tight from restrained anger. Frustration. 

“Don’t use my family against me.”

Arms now crossed against your chest, continuing to build the barrier between you two. “I’m not. But I need to know Frank.” If you didn’t ask now, you’d never have the courage to again. “Am I just someone to keep the bed warm so you can image it’s her lying next to you?”

“Stop.” But you couldn’t. He took a step forward, you took three back. He was standing right in front of you and yet he’d never been farther. Somewhere you couldn’t reach, though you tried. You tried.

Now you were the desperate one. “Just tell me! What, you think I can’t handle the truth?”

“You don’t wanna know the truth.”

Your arms flew up into the air in disbelief. “That’s not for you to decide. You opened up to her, you told me that yourself. You let her in, to see the parts you think are unlovable. Why can’t you do that with me?”

His own fuse had finally blown “She saw me, alright? Is that what you wanna hear?”

A beat passed between you as the argument began to boil. Your voice was contrastingly quiet to the violent fight. “You think I don’t see you?” Frank didn’t respond. “I have loved you for years. You think I haven’t seen every part of you?”

His response was immediate. “I don’t let you.”

You looked away, placing a hand on your hip while the other went to your forehead, a stance full of astonishment and disbelief wrapped in frustration bubbling just behind your teeth. “I have done everything I could. I made an excuse for you to my friends every time.” One minute, you were standing in front of him, the next, you were suddenly close up to brace both palms on his chest, shoving him. “I made an excuse for you to my parents when you didn’t show up to the dinner you wanted.” Another push. He barely moved an inch from his position. “I made an excuse for you to myself for every missed thing or when you ran unexplainably late. I accepted every fucking bouquet of flowers that weren’t even my favorite. Every dish you ordered for me, saying you knew I’d like it but they weren’t flavors I’d ever mentioned.” A sob tore from your lips, your entire body rearing back when you felt his hand slightly brush your face. “Every time you cried or woke up screaming Maria’s name or your daughter’s or your son’s. I was there. There has always been space for her. For your kids, here.

“But is there space for me? With you?” The question rested heavy between the two of you.

“What’re y’talking about? I’d do anything for you.”

“Except allow yourself to love me without the guilt of moving on. Of allowing yourself to love again.” His silence all but confirmed your statement. You smiled, anyway, a tight-lipped one that didn’t quite reach your eyes but you smiled. 

“I’ve spent all this time being by your side because I love you. Even the parts you think you hide from me. I love you not despite them, but I love them because they’re you.” You walked past him, not seeing his fingers twitch when your shoulders slightly brushed. When you were just out the kitchen, you spoke over your shoulder quietly. Knowing he’d hear you. “If you’re willing to try, knock on my door tomorrow morning. If not, you can leave your key on the coffee table.” Frank remained standing in the kitchen long after he heard the click of the bedroom door closing shut. 

The first thing you saw when you left your room the next day was the single key glinting tauntingly at you from the coffee table.

dividers by @/uzmacchiato

The first thing Sam said that morning was that he wasn't going. The second was that he was serious.

The third came after you threw a pillow at him. “I mean it.”

“So do I.”

You waddled past him towards the dresser, ignoring the way his eyes immediately dropped to your stomach as though you might spontaneously give birth somewhere between the bed and wardrobe.

You were thirty-eight weeks pregnant, not made of glass. There was a difference. Sam apparently hadn't received that memo.

“The scent is fresh,” you reminded him. “You said that yourself.” “And you're thirty-eight weeks.”

“Which isn't a medical emergency.” “It could become one.”

You turned around.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, already dressed except for his shoes, elbows resting against his knees. There was a particular expression he'd developed during your pregnancy, one that appeared whenever there was something he couldn't control.

Appointments. Blood tests. Braxton Hicks. The afternoon you'd slipped slightly getting out of the shower and caught yourself before you had actually fallen.

Sam had spent the rest of that day behaving as though your bathroom tiles had personally attempted to assassinate you.

You crossed the room and stood between his knees. His hands immediately settled against your hips. “Sam.”

“I know.” “You don't sound like you know.”

His eyes lifted to yours. “I don't like leaving you.” “I know.”

“What if something happens?” “Then I call you.”

“You can't call me if I'm phased.” “I call someone else.”

His jaw tightened. You smiled. “I'm not due for another eleven days.”

“That doesn't mean anything.” “No, but it does mean you're being dramatic.”

His eyebrows rose. “I'm being dramatic?” “You reorganised the kitchen because I reached for a mug.”

“You were standing on your toes.” “I am five foot four, Sam. I have been standing on my toes my entire life.”

“You're carrying my son.” “Ah.” You nodded seriously. “So once he's out, I can reach for mugs again?”

“No.” You laughed.

Sam didn't. At least not immediately. Eventually, the corner of his mouth twitched.

You leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Go.” His arms tightened around you.

“The minute anything feels different, you call.” “I will.”

“Anything.” “Yes.”

“You don't wait because you don't want to bother me.” “I know.”

“You don't decide it's probably nothing.” “You know me disturbingly well.”

“That isn't funny.” “It was a little funny.”

He gave you that look. You smiled innocently.

Then his expression softened and Sam rested his forehead against your stomach. Almost immediately, your son shifted beneath his cheek.

Sam's entire face changed. It happened every time.

You'd watched this man stare down vampires. You'd watched him command an entire pack with one look. You'd watched him shoulder responsibilities that should have crushed him.

And somehow one tiny movement beneath your skin could turn him into someone completely different. “Behave for your mom,” he murmured.

You slid your fingers into his hair. The baby kicked again.

Sam frowned at your stomach. “That didn't feel like agreement.” “He's your son.”

“That is exactly what worries me.” You laughed.

Sam stood and kissed you slowly, like he still wasn't convinced he should leave.

When he finally pulled back, one hand stayed at the side of your neck. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” “And I mean it. Call.”

“I will.” He got as far as the bedroom door before turning around.

“Sam.” “I didn't say anything.”

“You were about to.” His mouth closed.

You pointed towards the hall. “Go protect the reservation.” He reluctantly obeyed.

You heard him moving through the house before the front door opened. A few seconds later, voices floated in from outside.

Paul's was immediately recognisable. “What do you mean I'm staying?”

You closed your eyes. “Oh, for God's sake.”

Seconds later, Sam appeared in the bedroom doorway again. Paul stood behind him looking personally betrayed.

“No.” Sam folded his arms. “I'm not leaving her alone.”

“I'm not alone. I have a phone.” Sam ignored you.

Paul pointed towards himself. “I'm supposed to be tracking with you.” “You're staying.”

“Why me?” Sam stared at him.

Paul's eyes narrowed. “What?” “She's your sister.”

“So?” You looked at him.

Paul glanced towards you. “That came out wrong.” “Did it?”

“Yes.” Sam continued staring until Paul threw both hands up.

“Fine. But if she starts making me organise baby clothes or something, I'm leaving.” “You're not leaving.”

“This is abuse of Alpha authority.” “Paul.”

“Fine.” Sam looked back at you and you could practically hear the list starting again.

You pointed towards the door. He kissed you one more time before finally going.

Paul watched him leave, waited until the sound of the others had disappeared, then turned towards you. “You know he's insane, right?”

“You're eating his food while insulting him.” Paul was already heading towards the kitchen. “Exactly. He needs me here.”

Three hours later, you were strongly reconsidering whether Sam's decision had been wise. “Sam said you're supposed to drink more water.”

You didn't look away from the book in your lap. “Paul.”

“What?” “I'm warning you.”

He sprawled farther across the opposite end of the couch. “I'm literally just repeating instructions.”

“Sam said you're supposed to drink water. Sam said you're supposed to keep your feet up. Sam said you're not supposed to carry laundry. Sam said—”

“He did say all of those things.” You slowly turned your head.

Paul grinned. You threw the cushion beside you and he caught it before it hit him.

“Violence isn't good for the baby.” “I will kill you.”

“Also bad for the baby.” Outside, rain battered steadily against the windows.

It had worsened since Sam left. Not enough to worry you, because rain was hardly unusual around La Push, but every so often a gust came hard enough through the trees that you heard branches scraping violently against one another.

Paul glanced towards the window. “Getting shitty.” “Mhm.”

“They'll probably call patrol early if it gets worse.” You hummed.

Then your stomach tightened. You stopped.

It wasn't painful. Not exactly. Just pressure, a firm band wrapping around your abdomen. You breathed slowly and waited.

You'd been having Braxton Hicks on and off for weeks. Your midwife had warned you that they could become more frequent towards the end.

After forty seconds or so, the sensation faded. You shifted against the couch.

Paul was staring at you. “What?”

“What was that?” “What was what?”

“That.” You frowned. “You're going to have to be more specific.”

“The weird breathing.” “I breathed.”

“You breathed weird.” You looked back down at your book. “Thank you for monitoring my respiratory habits.”

“I'm serious.” “So am I.”

Paul said nothing, but you could still feel him staring. Finally, you sighed.

“It was just a tightening.” His eyebrows rose. “A what?”

“Braxton Hicks.” His expression remained blank.

You stared at him. “Surely you've heard of Braxton Hicks.” “Why would I have?”

“Because half the pack has been terrified of me going into labour for a month.” “That doesn't mean I listen when they talk.”

“Clearly.” Paul sat up slightly. “So what is it?”

“Practice contractions.” He immediately relaxed. “Oh.”

“They don't mean anything.” “Good.”

“They're normal.” “Excellent.”

You picked your book up again. Another twenty minutes passed before it happened a second time.

This one was stronger. Still not painful, but enough that you stopped reading and rested a hand over the curve of your stomach.

Paul noticed immediately. “Again?”

“Yes.” “Fake one?”

“Paul.” “What? That's what you said.”

You breathed until the tightness released. He was still watching you when you opened your eyes.

“How often?” “How often what?”

“These fake contractions.” You shrugged. “I don't know.”

His face changed. “What do you mean you don't know?” “I mean I haven't been timing them.”

“You're supposed to time contractions.” You stared at him. “And when exactly did you become an obstetrician?”

“I'm not an obstetrician.” “Glad we cleared that up.”

“But Sam went over this.” You burst out laughing.

Paul looked offended. “He did!” “You just admitted you don't listen!”

“I listen when death might be involved.” “Paul!”

“Birth. I meant birth.” “No, you didn't.”

He pulled out his phone. “What are you doing?”

“Timing them.” “They're Braxton Hicks.”

“Great. Then we can time your fake contractions.” “You're ridiculous.”

“And yet I'm the one Sam left in charge.” “An obvious failure of leadership.”

He ignored you. For the next half hour, Paul watched you with all the subtlety of a security camera.

Every time you shifted, his eyes snapped towards you. When you stood to get something from the kitchen, he immediately followed.

You turned around halfway there. “Why are you following me?” “I'm not.”

“You are literally behind me.” “I wanted food.”

“You always want food.” “Exactly.”

You shook your head and opened the fridge. Your stomach tightened again.

This time, you stopped reaching and placed one hand against the counter.

A small ache curled low through your abdomen. It wasn't terrible, but it was enough to make you concentrate. You breathed slowly.

Behind you, Paul stopped moving. “Is that one?”

You nodded. “How bad?”

“Not bad.” He was already looking at his phone.

When the pressure finally eased, you straightened. “Forty-five seconds,” he said.

“How long since the last one?” “Ten minutes and twenty-three seconds.”

You stared at him. “You've been timing down to the second?” “I take my responsibilities seriously.”

“You've eaten half our kitchen.” “That doesn't mean I can't multitask.”

You tried to laugh it off, but some part of you had started paying attention now. Ten minutes.

It could still mean nothing. Probably did.

Paul saw your expression. “Should we call?” “No.”

“Why?” “Because there's nothing to call about yet.”

“Sam said—” “Finish that sentence and I will give birth solely to spite you.”

Paul wisely closed his mouth. Eight minutes later, another came.

Then eleven. Then nine.

None were unbearable, but they felt different now. Lower. More purposeful. By the fifth, even you couldn't entirely pretend anymore.

Paul sat opposite you, elbows on his knees. “You're making the face.”

“What face?” “The one where you're thinking something you don't want to tell me.”

“I don't have a face for that.” “You absolutely do.”

You rubbed the underside of your stomach. “They might be real.” Paul didn't move.

“Real real?” “Possibly.”

His mouth opened. “No.” You started laughing. “What?”

“No. Sam is gone.” “I noticed.”

“He said not to let you have the baby.” You blinked. “He said what?”

“Not literally.” “Good, because I'm not sure you understand the mechanics here.”

Paul dragged a hand down his face. “Okay.” “You don't look okay.”

“I am extremely okay.” “You've gone pale.”

“I'm tan.” “Paul.”

He stood abruptly. “We're calling the hospital.”

The hospital on the reservation had known you since before the baby had a heartbeat.

You'd had most of your appointments there. You knew the nurses, knew which midwife laughed whenever Sam arrived with another list of questions, and knew exactly where Paul was supposed to park when the time came.

Your hospital bag had been sitting beside the front door for nearly three weeks because your imprint believed preparedness was a personality trait.

So when Paul finally convinced you to call, you weren't frightened. Not really.

You spoke to one of the nurses, who asked about the contractions, whether your waters had broken, how the baby was moving and whether you had any bleeding.

Everything sounded normal. Possibly early labour.

You were told to eat something light, drink water, rest if you could and continue timing. If the contractions settled, it could still be false labour. If they became stronger, longer and consistently closer together, you could come in.

Paul listened to the entire conversation as though there would be a test afterwards. When you hung up, he pointed towards your glass. “Water.”

You rolled your eyes. “The nurse said it.” “I heard her.”

“So drink.” “You're enjoying this.”

“A little.” You threw another cushion at him.

He caught that one too.

By early evening, you weren't throwing anything. The contractions had changed enough that there was no longer any question.

You were in labour.

They weren't agonising yet, but they demanded your attention. When one started, conversation stopped and you focused on breathing until it passed.

Paul had stopped pretending he wasn't concerned.

He followed you around the house with his phone and a ridiculous little note containing every contraction time. Seven minutes.

Six forty. Seven twelve.

Five fifty-eight. Between them, he talked constantly.

At first, it was because he was nervous. Then he realised it helped.

You were leaning over the kitchen island during one when he suddenly said, “Remember when you cut your own bangs when you were nine?”

Your eyes opened. “What?” “They were crooked.”

“Paul.” “Like, really crooked. Mom cried.”

“She did not.” “She almost cried.”

You breathed through another wave of pressure. “You told everyone at school I did it because I had gum in my hair.” “You told Mom I pushed you.”

“You did push me.” “After you cut your hair.”

“Because you laughed!” “I was a child.”

“You were evil.” Paul smiled as the contraction began to ease.

You straightened slowly. “Your jokes suck.” “You smiled.”

“I did not.” “You did.”

You pointed at him. “Don't get smug.”

Twenty minutes later, another contraction caught you halfway through the living room. It came harder than the others and you grabbed the back of a chair.

Paul appeared beside you immediately. “Okay.”

You closed your eyes. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing.” “I know. Sorry.”

His hand hovered awkwardly near your back. You grabbed his wrist and pulled it towards you. “Here.”

He pressed his palm into your lower back. “Harder.”

“Like this?” “More.”

Paul pressed harder. It didn't take the pain away, but it helped enough that you leaned into it.

He stayed quiet for several seconds before saying, “Did I ever tell you Jared got his shorts caught on a fence after phasing once?”

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. Paul's eyes lit up.

“You did not.” “He made us swear never to tell.”

“Then why are you telling me?” “Because I'm willing to betray him for medical purposes.”

You laughed again, weaker this time, while Paul kept talking. By the time the contraction ended, you were smiling despite yourself.

He pointed at you. “See?” “Don't.”

“I am excellent at this.” “You're still the worst labour support person in Washington.”

“And yet effective.” You rolled your eyes.

But twenty minutes later, when another contraction started and the pain took your breath, you looked at him. “Talk.”

Paul didn't hesitate. And that became the system.

Every time the pain began climbing or your breathing threatened to become too fast, all you had to say was, “Talk, Paul.”

He immediately told you something stupid.

A childhood story. Something embarrassing about the pack. The time Sam tried assembling the cot without reading the instructions and ended up with one side backwards. The time Quil convinced Embry that a tourist had recognised him as Bigfoot. Paul's disastrous first attempt at making pancakes.

You didn't even know if half of the stories were true. It didn't matter.

He kept you laughing, and laughing kept the fear from settling too deeply.

At six twenty-three, the contractions hit five minutes apart. Paul looked at his phone and then at you.

“We're going.” You stood in the kitchen with both hands braced against the counter. “Give me a minute.”

“You've had a minute.” “Paul.”

“You're five minutes apart.” “I know.”

“We're going to the hospital.” You closed your eyes as the contraction tightened. “After this one.”

He moved behind you and pressed both palms into your lower back. “Okay.”

You breathed through it while the wind screamed through the trees outside.

Something knocked loudly against the side of the house, but neither of you paid attention.

When the contraction finally eased, Paul was already moving. He grabbed your coat, your hospital bag, Sam's bag and the baby's bag.

You stared. “Why are there three?” “Your boyfriend packed them.”

“My boyfriend is your Alpha.” “Right now he's the lunatic who packed three bags.”

You almost smiled. Paul helped you into your coat and then crouched in front of you.

“What are you doing?” “Shoes.”

“I can put on shoes.” “You cannot see your feet.”

“I know approximately where they are.” “Sit.”

“Paul.” “Do not make me tell Sam you fought me over footwear.”

“You can't call him. He's phased.” “Then don't make me remember it for later.”

You sat. Paul tied your shoes.

Despite the absurdity of the situation, something warm squeezed in your chest. Your little brother.

The same boy who'd once hidden your favourite shoes because you'd refused to let him borrow your bike was now kneeling in front of you, tying your laces because you couldn't comfortably reach them.

He stood. “Ready?” You exhaled. “No.”

“Good enough.”

The rain was vicious by the time you reached the truck.

Paul kept one hand around your arm and another hovering near your back while you climbed inside.

Another contraction started before he'd even closed your door. “Shit.”

Paul leaned into the truck. “Want me to wait?” “No. Drive.”

He stared at you. “Hospital.”

“Yep.” “Now.”

“That's usually what driving means.” “Don't be smart.”

“You're the one having contractions.” You glared.

Paul slammed the door and ran around the truck. The tyres sprayed water as he pulled away from the house.

You kept one hand beneath your stomach until the contraction faded. Paul looked over. “Gone?”

“Yeah.” “Okay.”

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “You're doing fine.” You looked at him. “That was almost sweet.”

“Don't tell anyone.” You smiled.

The road curved. Paul slowed.

Then stopped. You frowned. “Why are we stopping?”

He didn't answer. “Paul?”

He stared through the windshield. You followed his gaze.

A massive tree lay across the road.

Not a branch and not something Paul could casually drag aside, even with supernatural strength. An entire tree had come down during the storm, its trunk stretched across both lanes and branches tangled with another fallen limb and what looked horribly like part of a utility line.

Rain hammered against the windshield. Paul's hands tightened around the wheel. “No.”

You stared at the obstruction. “Paul.” “No.”

“What do you mean no?” “This isn't happening.”

“You seem to have a complicated relationship with reality today.” He looked at you. “Can we go around?”

You glanced towards the ditch. Mud. Standing water. Trees.

“Right.” Another contraction began.

Your hand flew to the dashboard. Paul immediately forgot the tree and reached across for you.

“Talk?” You nodded.

He thought quickly. “Sam alphabetised the baby's clothes.” Your eyes opened. “What?”

“By size.” “He did not.”

“Newborn. Zero to three. Three to six. Six to nine.” You burst out laughing and immediately regretted it.

“Oh, God.” “Sorry.”

“No. Keep going.” “He also tried organising the nappies.”

“How do you organise nappies?” “I asked the same thing.”

The contraction peaked. You squeezed his hand hard enough to make him wince, but he didn't complain.

When it passed, you slumped back against the seat. Paul looked at the tree and then at you.

“Back home.” You nodded.

He turned the truck around.

The hospital answered immediately. Paul had the phone on speaker while you slowly paced the living room.

“Yes, the whole road.” A pause.

“No, I can't move it.” You looked at him.

Paul frowned at the phone. “I know what I look like. It's a massive fucking tree.” “Paul.”

“Sorry.” The nurse said something.

He sighed. “Yes. Sorry.” You almost laughed.

He listened carefully. “They're five minutes. Sometimes four and a half.” Another pause.

“No, waters haven't broken.” He glanced towards you. “She can still talk.”

You lifted your middle finger. Paul nodded. “Yeah, she's definitely responsive.”

You grabbed a cushion. He moved out of range.

The hospital already knew several roads had been affected by the storm. A team was being sent towards your area, but the downed tree was going to complicate things and someone needed to make sure the utility line tangled around the branches wasn't live before they could safely clear it.

For now, you were told to stay home. Keep timing.

Keep drinking. Don't panic.

First babies often took time. Help was coming.

You believed them. So did Paul.

For about forty minutes.

The lights flickered while you were walking through the hallway. Once.

Twice. Then steadied.

Paul looked up. “That's fine.” “You sound very convincing.”

“It's fine.” Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance.

Another contraction started. You leaned against the wall as the pain wrapped tightly through your stomach and into your back.

This one came hard. Paul was beside you instantly.

“Back.” He moved behind you and pressed his fists into the aching muscles along your lower spine.

You groaned. “Harder.” “I'm going to break you.”

“You won't.” Paul pressed harder.

You dropped your head as the pressure climbed. Your breathing faltered.

“Hey.” You shook your head.

“Talk.” Paul immediately started. “Remember when you tried to teach me to drive?”

You laughed weakly. “You almost killed us.” “You screamed before I even moved.”

“You put it in reverse instead of drive!” “There was nobody behind us.”

“There was a mailbox.” “It survived.”

“The mailbox belonged to Mrs Young.” “She hated us anyway.”

“Because you hit her mailbox.” “Allegedly.”

The contraction eased. You let your forehead rest against the wall while Paul's hands remained on your back.

“You okay?” You nodded, then swallowed. “I want Sam.”

His expression softened. “I know.” “What if he doesn't know?”

“Someone will get word to them.” “You don't know that.”

“No.” His voice became quieter. “But he'll come as soon as he knows.” You closed your eyes. “I should've made him stay.”

Paul nudged your shoulder gently. “Yeah, because Sam needs encouragement to be overprotective.” A wet laugh escaped you.

“He'd be unbearable right now.” “He'd be timing contractions with three watches.”

“He'd have called the hospital six times.” “Seven.”

You smiled. Paul looked at you seriously. “Until he gets here, you've got me.”

Your throat tightened. “Lucky me.”

Paul grinned. “There she is.”

Your waters broke at seven thirty-eight. You were standing near the couch when you felt the pressure change, followed by sudden warmth.

You froze. Paul was in the kitchen getting you more water.

“Paul.” Something in your voice brought him running.

“What?” You looked down.

He followed your gaze. For several seconds, neither of you spoke.

Then Paul said, “No.” You blinked. “What do you mean no?”

“No.” “My waters broke.”

“I can see that.” “So what exactly are you saying no to?”

He pointed helplessly towards the floor. “That.” You stared. “You want me to undo it?”

“Can you?” A laugh burst out of you.

Paul dragged both hands down his face. “This is not funny.” “Your face is.”

“Put it back.” “Put what back?”

“The water.” “Paul!”

“I don't know!” You were still laughing when another contraction started.

The laughter disappeared immediately. You grabbed him. “Oh, fuck.”

His arms came around you. “Okay.”

You pressed your face into his shoulder. “Jesus.” “Breathe.”

“It hurts.” “I know.”

“No, you don't.” “Yeah, fair.”

The contraction seemed to last forever. When it finally loosened, your knees felt weak.

Paul helped you sit and grabbed his phone. “Calling them.”

You didn't argue. The nurse's voice came through after several rings.

Paul spoke quickly. “Her waters broke.” He listened.

“Like two minutes ago.” Another question.

“Clear, I think. Yeah. No blood.” He looked at you. “Contractions?”

“Closer.” Paul checked his timer. “Three minutes forty.”

The nurse's voice changed, becoming sharper and more focused. She told Paul to stay calm.

He immediately said, “I am calm.” You started laughing again.

The nurse continued. Help was still trying to reach you. The road crew had been delayed by another fallen branch, but they were working on it.

In the meantime, because labour seemed to be progressing quickly, she wanted Paul to listen carefully. He paced the room. “Yes.”

She began explaining the signs that would mean the baby was coming sooner than expected: intense pressure, an uncontrollable urge to push, a visible head.

Then she started telling him what to do if you couldn't get to the hospital in time. Paul stopped pacing.

“No.” You looked at him.

The nurse continued. Paul shook his head. “We are not delivering the baby.”

The nurse said his name firmly. He went quiet.

“Yes.” You watched him listen.

Really listen.

Clean towels and blankets. Keep you somewhere safe and warm. Don't pull on the baby. Support the head as it emerges. If the cord was around the baby's neck, check whether it was loose. Get the baby straight onto your chest if everything looked okay and keep him warm.

Paul's face had gone pale again. Then the lights flickered.

Once. Twice.

The room went dark. You inhaled sharply. “Paul?”

“It's okay.” The phone crackled.

Paul moved towards the window. “Hello?” Static.

“Can you hear me?” The nurse's voice broke through briefly before disappearing again.

“Hello?” Nothing.

The call ended. Paul stared at the screen.

You stared at him. “Call back.”

“I am.” He tried.

Nothing. Again.

Nothing. “Paul?”

“No service.” Your stomach dropped. “Try again.”

“I am.” He moved through the room, holding the phone near one window and then another.

“Come on.” The wind howled outside.

“Paul.” “It's fine.”

“You keep saying that.” “Because it is.”

“You're lying.” “I know.”

He tried the landline. Dead.

Then his phone again. Nothing.

Finally, he walked onto the porch. “Paul!”

Rain blew inside. He held the phone up.

You stared. “Are you holding it over your head?” “Higher ground.”

“You moved it six feet!” “Do you want help or criticism?”

“You look ridiculous!” “Good. Laugh.”

And you did. Even then.

Even with your heart pounding and the house dark except for the battery lantern Paul had grabbed from the cupboard. You laughed.

Paul came back inside soaked and pushed wet hair away from his forehead. “No signal.”

Fear finally settled properly inside you. Not panic.

Not yet. But something cold.

“We can't reach anyone.” “They know we're here.”

“What if they can't get through?” “They will.”

“What if Sam doesn't know?” Paul didn't answer immediately.

Your eyes filled. “Go find him.” His head snapped towards you. “No.”

“You could phase.” “No.”

“You could find the pack.” “And leave you here?”

“I'll be fine.” Paul laughed once, with absolutely no humour in it. “You're three minutes apart and your water just broke.”

“You'd be faster as a wolf.” “No.”

“Paul.” “No.”

“If you can find Sam—” “I'm not leaving you.”

Your throat tightened. “He needs to know.”

“And he will.” “How?”

“I don't know.” “Paul—”

“Sam would kill me.” You stared at him.

He looked away for a moment before meeting your eyes again. “And I'm not leaving you.”

The joke disappeared. You reached for his hand.

Paul took it. Another contraction started.

You closed your eyes. “Talk.” His fingers tightened around yours. “Okay.”

You lost track of time after that. The power stayed off and the rain kept falling.

Paul found candles but decided the battery lanterns were safer after you threatened to murder him if he accidentally set the house on fire on top of everything else.

The contractions became relentless. Three minutes apart.

Sometimes less.

You walked until you couldn't anymore. You knelt against the couch, leaned over the kitchen counter, stood with Paul pressing his fists into your back and sat for exactly thirty seconds before deciding sitting was the worst thing anyone had ever invented.

Paul followed you everywhere. He held you, fetched water, timed contractions and talked.

You crushed his hand repeatedly. He never complained.

At one point, you leaned over the back of the couch and started crying. Not loudly, just tears slipping down your cheeks because you were tired and frightened and Sam wasn't there.

Paul crouched beside you. “Hey.”

“I can't do this.” “Yes, you can.”

“I don't want to do it here.” “I know.”

“I want the hospital.” “I know.”

“I want Sam.” Paul's jaw tightened. “I know.”

Another contraction began. You moaned and grabbed his hands.

“Look at me,” Paul said. You did.

“You're already doing it.” You shook your head.

“Yes, you are.” “It hurts.”

“I know.” “I can't.”

“Yeah, you can.” “How do you know?”

“Because you've been doing it for hours.” You cried harder.

Paul's eyes were suspiciously bright, but he smiled anyway. “And because you're meaner than this baby.”

You laughed through the pain. “There.”

He squeezed your hands. “That's my sister.” “Talk.”

Paul took a breath. “Okay. Did I ever tell you Sam fell off your porch?” Your eyes opened. “What?”

“He was trying to look cool.” “When?”

“Before you knew about the imprint.” “You're lying.”

“I swear.” The contraction gripped harder, but Paul kept going.

“He came over because you were outside. Leaned against the railing like this.” Paul mimed something absurdly casual. “Except the board was loose.”

You laughed. “He went straight backwards.”

“No.” “Full Alpha dignity. Gone.”

“Did you see?” “Everyone saw.”

“Why did nobody tell me?” “Because he threatened us.”

By the time the pain started to release, you were laughing again. Paul smiled.

And you realised something. He was scared out of his mind.

But he wasn't making you carry his fear too. So you didn't tell him you noticed.

Sam knew something was wrong before he knew what. The feeling had been there for nearly half an hour.

A pull. Restlessness. Something sharp beneath his ribs that had nothing to do with the scent they were tracking.

He'd tried ignoring it until Jared picked up something from Embry.

Someone on the reservation had managed to reach one of the younger wolves near the southern edge before communications failed completely.

The information ripped through the pack mind in fragments. Labour.

Road blocked. Hospital trying to reach the house.

Power lines down. No communication.

Sam stopped. Every wolf around him felt the instant terror before his thoughts narrowed to one thing.

Home. He turned and ran before anyone could say anything.

Trees blurred past. Mud sprayed beneath his paws.

Branches tore through his fur. He didn't feel them.

He didn't care. His imprint was in labour.

His son was coming. And he wasn't there.

Paul heard him before you did. You were leaning against the kitchen counter, breathing through another contraction, when his head suddenly lifted.

You saw his expression change. “What?”

He didn't answer. “Paul?”

He looked towards the back of the house. Something moved outside.

Heavy. Fast.

Your heart jumped. Paul smiled. “It's Sam.”

You burst into tears. The contraction hadn't even ended.

“Oh, God.” Paul caught you when your knees weakened.

“Hey.” “He's here?”

“Yeah.” “Are you sure?”

“I know what he sounds like.” Seconds later, something hit the porch.

Then footsteps. The back door opened.

“Baby?” You sobbed.

Sam came through the kitchen barefoot, soaked through his clothes, hair wet and chest heaving.

You didn't know where he'd phased or how quickly he'd managed to pull on the shorts and shirt he'd obviously grabbed from one of the pack's hidden stashes.

You didn't care. “Sam.”

He crossed the room in seconds. Paul stepped back as Sam caught you.

You buried your face against his chest. “I'm here.”

You clutched his shirt. “You took too long.” “I know.”

“I hate you.” “I know.”

“I don't.” “I know.”

His mouth pressed against your hair, then your forehead, your temple and your cheek. “I'm sorry.”

You shook your head. “Don't.” “I should've been here.”

“You couldn't know.” “I should've—”

Another contraction hit. Your body stiffened.

Sam immediately changed. His hands came around you. “Okay. I've got you.”

You gasped. “Back.” He moved behind you and pressed both hands into your lower back.

Relief hit almost immediately. “Like that?”

“Harder.” He pressed harder.

You leaned into him. Paul stood a few feet away, suddenly uncertain now that Sam was there.

You looked towards him through half-closed eyes. “Talk.”

Sam glanced up. Paul immediately understood. “Right.”

He thought for half a second and then smiled. “Did you know Sam alphabetised the baby's clothes?”

Sam's head lifted. “I organised them by size.” “You labelled the drawers.”

“Because that's practical.” “Keep going,” you breathed.

Paul grinned. Sam muttered something under his breath.

For the first time in hours, you felt safe. Not because the storm was over.

It wasn't. Not because help had arrived.

It hadn't. But Sam was there.

Paul was there. You weren't alone.

When the contraction ended, Paul gave Sam the rundown. You had never seen your brother look more serious.

“Waters broke at seven thirty-eight. Clear. No blood. Contractions were five minutes before the tree, then closer after we got back. Hospital knew. They were sending people. Power went. Cell service died. Last one was two minutes fifty-eight.”

Sam stared at him. “You timed everything?” Paul looked offended. “Yes.”

You lowered yourself carefully onto the couch. “He's been annoyingly good.” Paul pointed at you. “Thank you.”

Sam looked at your brother. Something passed between them. Not quite gratitude yet, because there wasn't time for it, but close.

“You did good.” Paul's face changed for a second before he shrugged. “Obviously.”

You rolled your eyes. Sam crouched in front of you. “How are you?”

“Terrible.” “Okay.”

“Don't say okay.” “Right.”

“I mean it.” “I know.”

You grabbed his hands. “Don't leave.” His expression softened. “I'm not going anywhere.”

For another half hour, they still believed you might make it to the hospital. Sam checked outside twice.

No vehicles. No lights.

Nothing but rain and darkness. He tried his phone.

No signal. Paul tried his.

Nothing.

The fallen tree remained somewhere down the road, and there was no way Sam was putting you back in the truck just to discover whether anyone had managed to clear it.

So you stayed. Once Sam was there, he became your main physical support.

He walked with you between contractions, held your hips when you leaned over the back of the couch and pressed hard into your lower back whenever the pain wrapped around your spine.

Paul stayed close without hovering.

He kept timing the contractions and handing Sam whatever you needed. Water. A cold cloth. The battery lantern when the room seemed too dark.

And he kept talking. You started losing yourself inside the rhythm of it.

A contraction would begin and Sam would steady you. Paul's voice would start somewhere nearby.

The pain would build. You'd breathe.

Sam would tell you that you were doing well. Paul would say something stupid enough to make you laugh.

Then it would ease. Until something changed.

You had both arms wrapped around Sam's shoulders when a contraction rolled through you. Halfway through, pressure slammed low into your pelvis.

You gasped. “Sam.”

“I've got you.” “No.”

His hands tightened around your waist. “What?” You shook your head frantically. “Pressure.”

“Okay.” “No, different.”

Your body suddenly bore down without your permission. You cried out and clung to him.

Sam's face changed. “What kind?” “I need…”

You stopped. Paul, standing beside the couch with his phone in his hand, stared at you.

“What?” You looked at Sam.

“I need to push.” Silence.

Sam blinked. “No.” You almost laughed despite everything. “What is wrong with you two saying no to things you can't control?”

“We're going to the hospital.” “Great.”

“We're going to get you there.” “Sam.”

He was trying to sound calm, but you could hear the panic beneath it. “We'll wait for this contraction and then—”

“Sam.” “What?”

“I can't tell him to wait!” Sam went completely still.

Paul swore quietly. Another bearing-down pressure came and your body moved with it.

You grabbed Sam. “Oh, God.” He lowered you carefully onto the couch.

“Okay. Don't move.” “I wasn't planning on it.”

Paul suddenly straightened. “The nurse.” Sam looked at him. “What?”

“She told me what to do if this happened.” “You know what to do?”

Paul stared at him. “Absolutely fucking not.” You groaned.

“But I listened.” That was somehow more reassuring than it should have been.

Sam helped you towards the bedroom between contractions because it was warmer, quieter and gave them more space to set everything up.

Paul moved ahead, gathering the clean towels and blankets the nurse had told him to prepare.

By the time Sam eased you onto the edge of the bed, Paul had positioned two battery lanterns nearby and stacked clean towels within reach.

Another contraction started before you had fully settled. You grabbed Sam's forearms. “Don't put me flat.”

“I won't.” He helped you shift until you were partly upright against the pillows with your knees bent.

You adjusted twice before finding something even vaguely tolerable.

Paul hovered near the foot of the bed for all of three seconds before you noticed the expression on his face. “You okay?”

He stared at you. “You're asking me?” “You look like you're going to throw up.”

“I might.” Despite everything, you laughed.

Paul pointed towards you. “Don't make fun of me while you're having a baby.” “Why not?”

“It's rude.” Another contraction took the humour away.

You doubled forward.

Sam moved immediately to your right side and slid one arm behind your shoulders, letting you grip his other hand while he kept you supported against his chest.

Paul stayed on your left. The pressure became enormous.

“I need to push.” Sam looked towards Paul. “What did the nurse say?”

Paul immediately sobered. “If she can't stop pushing and the baby's already visible, don't try to move her. Don't pull. Support the head when it comes. Keep everything clean. Baby straight onto her chest after.”

Sam swallowed. “You remember all of it?” “I remember enough.”

You made a strained sound. “This is really reassuring.” Paul looked at you. “You want me to lie?”

“No.” “Then we're doing great.”

Sam kissed your temple. “We're going to be okay.” “You don't know what you're doing.”

“No,” he admitted. You stared at him.

His mouth trembled slightly. “But I'm here, and I'm not leaving you.”

Paul leaned closer from your other side. “And for the record, I've memorised roughly sixty percent of one emergency phone call.”

You laughed and cried at the same time. Sam glared across you at him.

Paul shrugged. “She laughed.” The contraction eased.

For a few seconds, you sagged against Sam. Then the pressure returned.

Harder. Lower.

Your whole body seemed to know what it was doing even if none of you did. “I need to push.”

“Okay,” Sam said quietly. Paul looked at him. “Someone needs to check.”

Sam's face went blank. Paul's did too.

You looked between them. “Neither of you wants to say it, do you?”

“No,” Paul said immediately. Despite the pain, you almost smiled.

Sam squeezed your hand. “I'll do it.” That made sense.

He was your imprint, your baby's father and the person you wanted with you through every part of this. Paul visibly relaxed.

“Great. Excellent. That's absolutely your department.” “Paul.”

“What? She's my sister. I have boundaries.” You actually laughed.

Sam kissed your forehead once before moving. “I'm going to check, okay?”

You nodded.

Paul immediately took Sam's place at your right side, sliding one arm firmly around your shoulders so you still had something solid to lean against.

Sam moved to the foot of the bed and crouched between your bent knees. The second he looked, his face changed.

You saw it. “Sam?”

He didn't answer immediately. Paul's hand tightened around yours.

“Sam?” His eyes lifted to yours.

“He's right there.” Your heart jumped.

“What?” “The baby's right there.”

Paul leaned forward. “You can see him?” Sam nodded without looking away. “Yeah.”

Another contraction began before anyone could say anything else. You cried out and gripped Paul's hand.

Sam stayed between your knees. “Okay, baby. Push if you need to.”

You bore down. Paul braced his arm around your shoulders, helping keep you upright while you curled forward.

“That's it,” he said. “Crush my hand if you need to.” You did.

“Jesus Christ.” “Don't complain!”

“I'm not!” Sam's voice came from the foot of the bed, calm despite the fear threaded through it.

“Good. You're doing so good.” You pushed until your body forced you to stop.

Then you collapsed back against Paul. Sam remained where he was, both hands ready but careful not to rush anything.

Paul looked down at you. “Want me to talk?”

You nodded weakly. “Please.” He thought, then looked towards Sam.

Sam immediately narrowed his eyes. “Don't.”

Paul grinned. “Did you know he practiced holding a baby with a bag of flour?” Sam closed his eyes.

You stared at him. “What?” “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.” “It was once.”

“You held flour?” “It was a bag.”

You laughed so suddenly you had to hold your stomach. “Why?”

Sam looked offended from his position at the foot of the bed. “Because babies need head support.”

Paul was delighted. “He walked around the kitchen with it for twenty minutes.” “You swore you wouldn't tell her.”

“She needs medical distraction.” “Keep going,” you demanded.

Sam muttered, “Traitor.” Paul continued. “He also practiced swaddling a pillow.”

You laughed. “Oh my God.” “It was useful.”

“Was it?” “Yes.”

Another contraction began. Sam's attention snapped fully back to you.

“Okay, baby. Here we go.” Paul stopped joking immediately and tightened his arm around you.

You pushed. Your entire body strained with it.

Sam stayed between your knees, watching carefully. When you ran out of strength and collapsed backwards, he looked up.

“He's closer.” You started crying. “I can't do this.”

“Yes, you can,” Sam said. “I can't.”

Paul leaned towards you. “You've said that about twelve times tonight.” “Fuck you.”

“There she is.” You gave a breathless laugh.

Sam smiled despite himself. The next contraction built quickly.

You grabbed Paul with one hand and reached towards Sam with the other.

Sam took it briefly, kissed your knuckles and reluctantly let go so he could move back into position between your legs. “I'm right here,” he told you.

Paul squeezed your other hand. “And I'm right here.” You pushed again.

This time, Sam's expression changed completely. “Oh.”

Your heart lurched. “What?” His eyes filled.

“Sam?” He looked up at you, and you had never seen his face like that.

Wonder. Terror. Love. Everything at once.

“I can see his head.” You burst into tears. “You can?”

“Yeah.” His voice broke. “Yeah, baby. I can see him.” “Oh my God.”

“He's right here.” Paul went quiet beside you.

You turned your head slightly and saw him blink hard. “Are you crying?”

“No.” “Paul.”

“Focus on the baby.” You laughed shakily.

Sam laughed too. Then the next contraction came.

There was no room for anything else. Paul stayed beside your upper body with one arm behind your shoulders and his other hand locked around yours.

Sam stayed between your knees. He was the one watching your son descend.

He was the one physically guiding the birth. Paul was the one murmuring encouragement into your ear when you buried your face against his shoulder.

“That's it. Come on. You've got this.” You screamed at both of them.

Neither took it personally. When the contraction eased, Sam reached towards the stack of clean towels.

“Pass me another.” Paul kept one arm supporting you while stretching far enough to grab one with his free hand.

“Here.” Sam took it.

You looked between them, breathless and exhausted. “This is insane.”

Paul nodded. “Completely.” Sam smiled at you. “But he's coming.”

“I don't want to do another.” “You don't have to think about another,” Sam said. “Just rest right now.”

You closed your eyes. Paul brushed damp hair away from your face.

Then the pressure returned. You whimpered. “No.”

Sam was immediately focused again. “Baby, I need you to listen to me.” You opened your eyes.

“He's almost here.” You shook your head.

“He is.” “I can't.”

“You can.” Paul squeezed your hand. “He's not saying that to be inspirational. I can literally see Sam's face. This kid is coming.”

You laughed once, almost hysterically. Sam glanced at him. “Helpful.”

“She laughed.” “Both of you shut up.”

They did. For about three seconds.

Then Sam's voice softened. “Push when you need to.” Your body bore down.

You curled forward with Paul's arm supporting your shoulders. The pressure became burning and overwhelming.

“Sam!” “I know. I've got him.”

You cried out. Sam's hands stayed ready, supporting rather than pulling as the baby's head emerged.

Paul looked from you to Sam and then very deliberately back to your face. “Talk,” you gasped.

His head snapped towards you. “Now?” “Yes!”

“Okay. Uh… Sam cried when you bought the first baby blanket.” “I did not,” Sam said from between your knees.

“You absolutely did.” “I had something in my eye.”

“Inside the house?” “Paul.”

You started laughing through tears. “Keep going.”

“He also slept with the ultrasound picture under his pillow.” Sam's head jerked up. “How do you know that?”

Paul grinned. “You just confirmed it.” You made a strangled laugh.

Then the contraction peaked again and everything else disappeared. “Push,” Sam encouraged.

You did. His expression shifted.

“The head's out.” Your breath caught.

Paul's jokes stopped immediately. “What?”

Sam's eyes shone. “His head is out.” You began sobbing.

Paul squeezed your hand. Sam looked down again, concentrating.

“Okay. Don't rush. Just breathe for me.” You tried.

Paul breathed with you deliberately, exaggerating each inhale and exhale until you matched him. “That's it.”

Sam checked the baby's neck the way Paul had told him the nurse instructed. “No cord.”

Paul let out a breath you hadn't realised he was holding. Another contraction began.

You cried out. Sam leaned closer from the foot of the bed. “One more good push, baby.”

You shook your head violently. “I can't.” “You can.”

“I can't.” Paul wrapped his arm more firmly around you and held you against him.

“You've got both of us.” You looked towards Sam.

He was crying openly now. “One more,” he whispered.

You sobbed. “Okay.” The contraction took over.

You pushed. Paul held you upright.

Sam stayed between your legs with both hands ready. The pressure built until you were certain you couldn't take another second.

Then there was a sudden, enormous release. Sam made a sound that was half laugh and half sob.

“I've got him.” You collapsed against Paul.

For one horrible second, everything was quiet. You heard the storm.

Your own breathing. Sam's.

Paul's. Nothing else.

You lifted your head. “Sam?” Then your son cried.

Sharp. Tiny.

Furious. Your whole body sagged with relief.

“Oh my God.” Paul swore beside you.

Sam was crying so hard he could barely speak. “He's here.”

Your own tears spilled freely. “Our baby?” “Our baby.”

Sam carefully lifted your son, supporting his head and body exactly the way Paul had repeated from the nurse's instructions.

Paul immediately moved the towels out of the way and helped lower you back against the pillows.

“Give him to her,” he said quickly. “Nurse said straight onto her chest if he's breathing.” Sam nodded. “Right.”

Then your son was against you. Warm.

Slippery. Real.

You stared down at him while Sam wrapped a clean towel around his tiny body. Dark wet hair.

Tiny fists tucked close. His cries softened the moment he felt your skin.

“Oh.” That was all you could manage.

“Oh, baby.” Sam climbed onto the bed beside you, staying near your left side now that the baby was safely against your chest.

His hand shook as he touched your son's back. “Our son.”

You looked at him. Sam's entire face was wet.

You reached up and touched his cheek. “You're crying.” “I know.”

From the other side of the bed came Paul's voice. “Everybody's crying. Can we stop announcing it?”

You laughed. Paul was wiping his own face with the back of his hand.

“Uncle Paul.” His face immediately crumpled. “Don't.”

“Oh my God.” “Don't call me that right now.”

“You're Uncle Paul.” “I know.”

Sam laughed. Paul glared at him before looking down at the baby.

His expression softened completely.

The next several minutes felt strangely quiet. The storm still existed.

The power was still out. The road was still blocked somewhere beyond the trees.

But none of it seemed quite as important anymore. Your son lay against your chest beneath warm towels and blankets.

Sam remained sitting beside you, one arm behind your shoulders and the other hand constantly touching some tiny part of the baby. His back.

His hair. One ridiculously small foot.

Paul hovered at the side of the bed. Now that the emergency was over, he suddenly looked unsure what to do with himself.

You smiled at him. “You helped.” Paul looked horrified. “Please never say that again.”

“You did.” “I handed towels.”

“You did a little more than that.” “I very intentionally stayed at your end of the bed.”

You laughed. “Thank you for that.” “Boundaries.”

Sam shook his head. Paul crouched beside the bed and finally allowed himself to look properly at his nephew.

“He's tiny.” “He's a newborn.”

“I thought he'd be bigger.” “Why?”

Paul glanced at Sam. “He's huge.” Sam stared at him.

Paul shrugged. “Valid observation.” The baby made a small sound.

Paul's expression changed. You saw it happen.

All the jokes and fear disappeared. Just awe.

He slowly reached one finger towards your son's hand. The baby gripped it.

Paul froze. “Oh.”

Sam looked at you. You smiled. “Got you.”

Paul didn't answer. Your son tightened his tiny fingers around Paul's.

Paul swallowed. “Strong grip.” “Of course that's what you say.”

“He does.” Sam smiled.

Then a sound came from outside. An engine.

Paul's head snapped up. Sam immediately stood and moved towards the window.

Another engine. Voices.

Lights flashed faintly through the curtains. Paul stared towards the window.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” You started laughing.

Sam looked at him. “What?” Paul pointed outside. “Oh, NOW they get here.”

The medical team entered the house less than two minutes later. Everything became busy again.

Questions. Checks.

Warm blankets. Blood pressure.

Your pulse. The baby's breathing.

Sam answered when you couldn't. Paul explained the timeline with almost aggressive precision.

The midwife who had spoken to him earlier was among them. She looked at Paul. “You listened.”

Paul folded his arms. “You sounded serious.” “I was.”

“I know.” She smiled. “You did well.”

Paul suddenly became incredibly interested in the floor. Your son was checked.

Healthy. Strong.

Loud. You were stable.

Exhausted and sore, but okay.

The relief that moved through Sam when the medical team confirmed it was visible. His shoulders dropped for what felt like the first time all night.

Eventually, they helped you onto a stretcher.

You held your son against you while Sam stayed close enough that his hand never left your shoulder for more than a few seconds.

Paul followed them outside. The rain had finally begun easing.

Someone had partially cleared the fallen tree and made enough room for the emergency vehicles to get through.

As they prepared to load you into the ambulance, you looked at Paul. He stood there soaked, exhausted and pale.

“Come with us.” He shook his head. “No room.”

“Paul.” “I'll follow.”

“You promise?” His expression softened. “Yeah.”

You held out your hand. He took it.

“Thank you.” Paul immediately grimaced. “No.”

“What?” “Don't get emotional.”

“You literally helped me have a baby.” “Stop saying that.”

You laughed. He squeezed your hand. “Go.”

Sam climbed into the ambulance beside you. The doors closed.

Through the window, you could still see Paul standing in the rain. Your brother.

Your unexpected labour partner. The worst midwife in La Push.

And somehow exactly who you'd needed.

The reservation hospital felt impossibly bright after hours spent beneath battery lanterns. You had been checked again.

So had your son.

You'd been cleaned up, settled into bed and finally given something for the aching that had started making itself known now that adrenaline was wearing off.

The baby slept in the bassinet beside you. Sam had barely taken his eyes off him.

Paul had arrived less than twenty minutes after the ambulance and had refused every suggestion that he go home, change clothes properly or sleep somewhere that wasn't a stiff chair in the corner of your room.

Someone had eventually found him dry clothes. You suspected Emily.

He was wearing a sweatshirt that definitely wasn't his and a pair of sweatpants that were slightly too short. You had wisely decided not to comment.

Yet. Paul was sitting with his elbows on his knees, staring towards the bassinet.

Sam sat beside your bed. For the first time since that morning, everything was calm.

Your son was safe. You were safe.

Sam was home. Paul was still somehow awake.

You looked towards your brother. “You know you can go home.” “No.”

“You haven't slept.” “Neither have you.”

“I had a reason.” “So did I.”

Sam smiled faintly. Paul caught it. “Don't.”

“I didn't say anything.” “You were thinking something.”

Sam leaned back in his chair. “Didn't know you could tell.” “I've spent enough time around you.”

You laughed softly. Immediately, both men looked towards you.

You sighed. “I'm fine.” Sam leaned closer. “You sure?”

“Yes.” Paul narrowed his eyes. “You said that this afternoon.”

You looked at him. “Don't start.” “I was right.”

“One successful evening and suddenly he's unbearable.” “I was already unbearable.”

“That is unfortunately true.” The baby shifted in the bassinet.

Sam stood immediately. You watched him lean over the tiny bed, checking something that absolutely did not need checking.

Paul looked at you. “He's going to do that every thirty seconds, isn't he?”

“Yes.” “Annoying.”

“You stood outside in a thunderstorm holding your phone over your head.” “That was different.”

“It accomplished nothing.” “I had a process.”

Sam lifted the baby carefully from the bassinet. Your son made a small protesting noise before settling against his father's chest.

Sam's whole expression softened. It made your chest ache in an entirely different way.

Paul watched too. For once, he didn't make a joke.

Sam came back towards the bed and sat beside you with your son cradled carefully in his arms.

Your baby's tiny face was mostly hidden against the blanket. Paul leaned forward slightly.

“You two actually going to tell me his name at some point?” You looked at Sam.

Sam looked at you. You'd chosen the first name months ago.

The middle had taken longer. There had been lists.

Arguments. Names crossed out.

Names reconsidered. And then, weeks ago, you'd finally made a decision.

One you had deliberately kept from Paul. Sam's mouth curved slightly.

You knew that look. Paul noticed it too.

His eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said. “That's a lie.”

“Probably.” Paul looked between you. “Why are you both being weird?”

Sam adjusted the baby slightly in his arms. Then looked down at his son.

“Micah.” Paul's expression changed.

Not dramatically. Just softened.

“Micah.” You smiled.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I like that.” Sam looked at you again.

You gave him the smallest nod. Then he looked back at Paul.

“Micah Paul Uley.” Paul went still.

Completely still. For a moment, you thought he genuinely hadn't processed it.

His brows pulled together. Then his eyes lifted from the baby to Sam.

“What?” You bit the inside of your cheek.

Sam repeated it. “Micah Paul Uley.”

Paul stared. “Paul?”

You smiled. “That's usually how your name works.” His eyes snapped towards you.

“You gave him my name?” “Middle name.”

“I know what a middle name is.” “Just checking.”

“Why?” You stared at him.

Paul looked genuinely baffled. Not joking.

Not deflecting. Actually baffled.

You felt your expression soften. “Because you're my brother.”

His jaw tightened. You continued before he could interrupt.

“Because you've been there for me my whole life, even when you were being a pain in my ass.” “Which was most of it.”

“Most of it,” you agreed. A tiny smile tugged at his mouth.

Then you looked towards Micah.

“And because I wanted him to carry something from my side too. Something from someone I know will always be there if he needs him.” Paul swallowed.

You could see him trying desperately to think of something sarcastic. Nothing came.

Sam looked down at Micah. “And tonight pretty much confirmed we chose the right person.”

Paul immediately shook his head. “No.”

You laughed softly. “No?” “No. You're not doing this.”

“Doing what?” “Making it emotional.”

“You cried when he was born.” “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.” “There was a lot happening.”

“You were crying.” Paul pointed towards you. “You were busy.”

“I still have eyes.” Sam laughed quietly.

Paul looked towards him. “Don't encourage her.” Sam's expression softened.

“You took care of them.” Paul went quiet.

Sam continued. “You took care of my family when I couldn't get here.”

Your brother looked uncomfortable now. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

“She’s my sister.” “I know.”

“I wasn't going to leave her.” “I know.”

Paul glanced towards you. You gave him a tired smile.

Sam's voice dropped quieter. “That's why he's Micah Paul.”

That did it. Paul looked away.

You watched his throat work. “Don't cry again,” you teased gently.

“Shut up.” “You're definitely going to cry.”

“I hate both of you.” “No, you don't.”

Paul looked at Micah. “No.”

His voice was quieter. “I don't.”

Sam stood. Paul immediately looked suspicious.

“What are you doing?” “Giving you your nephew.”

Paul's eyes widened. “No.” You laughed.

“You literally helped deliver him.” “I stood at your head!”

“You still helped.” “I handed towels.”

“And let me nearly break your fingers.” “Exactly. I've contributed enough.”

Sam held Micah towards him. “Paul.”

“He's sleeping.” “So?”

“I'll wake him.” “He'll survive.”

“I've never held one that new.” You stared at him. “You were in the room when he became that new.”

“That is not the same thing.” Sam almost smiled.

“Hold your nephew.” Paul looked between the two of you as though hoping one might rescue him.

Neither did. Slowly, he held out his arms.

Sam moved closer. “Put this arm here.”

“I know how to hold a baby.” “You just said you've never held one this new.”

“That doesn't mean I'm an idiot.” Sam raised an eyebrow.

Paul sighed. “Fine.” Sam carefully transferred Micah into his arms.

Paul immediately went rigid. His entire body locked as though someone had handed him a live explosive.

“Relax.” “I am relaxed.”

“You look terrified.” “I'm not.”

Micah shifted. Paul's eyes widened.

“He moved.” “Babies do that,” you said.

“I know.” “He's allowed.”

“I know.” Paul stared down at him.

Slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased. Micah settled into the crook of his arm.

Your brother adjusted him slightly, far gentler than anyone who knew Paul would probably expect. Sam sat back down beside you.

You both watched. Paul seemed to forget you were there.

He looked down at Micah's tiny face. “Hey.”

You smiled. Micah's fist moved beneath the edge of the blanket.

Paul carefully freed his hand. Tiny fingers opened.

Then closed around Paul's index finger. Paul stopped breathing.

You felt your eyes sting. Sam's hand found yours beneath the blanket.

Paul looked down at the little hand gripping him. “Micah Paul,” he murmured.

The name sounded different in his voice. Softer.

You squeezed Sam's hand. Paul looked towards you.

“You planned this?” “Obviously.”

“For how long?” “A while.”

“And nobody told me?” “That would've ruined this.”

“What?” You gestured towards his face.

“This.” Paul frowned. “What face?”

“The face where you're trying desperately not to cry.” “I hate you.”

You laughed. Micah startled slightly at the sound.

Paul immediately looked down. “Shit. Sorry, buddy.”

Your heart practically broke. “Buddy?”

Paul ignored you. Micah settled again.

Paul rocked him slightly without even seeming to realise he was doing it.

Sam watched for another moment before saying, “He's going to have you wrapped around his finger.” Paul looked at the tiny hand still gripping his.

“Already does.” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

You went very still. Paul realised what he'd said.

His eyes narrowed at both of you. “Neither of you heard that.”

You grinned. “Oh, we absolutely did.”

“No.” “Sam?”

“Heard it.” Paul looked betrayed.

“You're supposed to be on my side.” Sam's eyebrows rose. “Why?”

“Pack loyalty.” “You spent half the night telling my imprint embarrassing stories about me.”

“Medical necessity.” You laughed.

The room finally felt warm. Not because of the hospital heating.

Because of this. Sam beside you.

Paul holding Micah. Your son's tiny fingers wrapped around the man whose name he now carried.

You hadn't chosen Paul because of the storm.

You hadn't chosen it because he'd stayed with you through labour or because he'd helped Sam bring Micah into the world. The name had already been his.

But after tonight, it felt like it had somehow become even more right. A reminder of family.

Of the person who had been there when everything went wrong. Of the brother who had made you laugh when you were terrified.

Of the uncle who would probably teach Micah every bad habit imaginable and then deny responsibility. You looked towards Paul.

“You know this means you have responsibilities now.” His eyes narrowed. “I already had responsibilities.”

“More.” “No.”

“You're his namesake.” “Middle namesake.”

“Still counts.” Paul looked down at Micah. “Your mother is already using you against me.”

You smiled. “And it works.” Micah made a tiny sleepy sound.

Paul immediately softened again. Sam leaned towards you and pressed a kiss against your temple.

“You tired?” You nodded.

“Sleep.” Your gaze stayed on Micah.

Sam followed it. “He's okay.”

“I know.” “I've got him.”

Paul glanced towards you. “I've got him.”

Something about hearing both of them say it made the last of the tension leave your body. You sank farther into the pillows.

Sam's fingers stayed wrapped around yours. Paul remained beside the window with Micah settled safely in his arms.

Your eyes drifted closed. You heard Paul speaking quietly to your son.

“Just so we're clear, little man, I did most of the work tonight.” You smiled without opening your eyes.

Sam snorted. “You handed me towels.”

“I saved lives.” “You made jokes.”

“Exactly.” You could practically hear the grin in Paul's voice.

Then he lowered it again, speaking only to Micah. “Your mom'll tell you different, but Uncle Paul had everything under control.”

You almost laughed. Almost.

Sleep was already dragging you under. The last thing you heard was Paul beginning another story.

Probably something embarrassing about Sam. Probably not entirely true.

And for the first time all night, you didn't need to ask. He already knew.

Sharks were surprisingly straightforward. Squid were judgmental and sea turtles had somehow mastered the art of looking disappointed.

It was, honestly, one of the best vacations you'd ever had.

Eventually, however, even paradise got boring. Which was why nearly five months later you found yourself returning to Forks. Not because you missed anyone. That would just be embarrassing. You simply wanted to check on things.

Maybe visit Charlie. Maybe see if Bella had finally used the therapy sessions. Maybe punch Edward if he was around.

Normal things.

However, the moment you stood outside the Swan house, something felt off. You couldn't explain it, but the vibe was just depressing. "...Jesus Christ."

Then you walked inside and immediately wished you hadn't. Because Bella was curled into a ball on the couch. Not reading, not sleeping, not watching television. Just existing. "...What the fuck."

You checked for a pulse. And, hurray, she was still alive. "Bella?" Nothing. "You good?" Nothing. "Blink twice if you've been possessed." Nothing.

Jesus Christ. This some scary shit.

You were about two seconds away from quietly backing out and pretending you never came when a damn bird flew through the open window. It flew overhead for a second before it attempted to take a shit on your shoulder.

"YOU FILTHY LITTLE—"

Bella's head snapped toward you. You froze. The bird wisely fled the scene.

Then Bella stood up. Her eyes looked unhinged, like somebody had removed all the lights and forgotten to put them back. You took a cautious step backward. "Nope." Another stop. "Absolutely not."

And then she launched herself at you.

"What the fu—"

You barely had enough time to brace yourself before she slammed into your chest. Her arms wrapped around you. Tightly, way too tightly. "You're back." Not liking the physical contact, you tried to push her off, but discovered something horrifying. Bella was stronger than she looked. Pushing, shoving, and even an elbow to the ribs didn't grant you sweet release.

You stared at the ceiling.

This was somehow worse than the comatose phase.

After several minutes, in what felt like a hostage negotiation, you finally managed to pry her off. Taking a seat on the couch, Bella immediately filled the spot beside you. Far too close for comfort, mind you. And, more concerningly, she never stopped staring. Not once. You'd seen bears look at food with less intensity.

"....So, where's Charlie?"

"At work."

"Good."

Pause.

"Where is the rest of your family?"

There it was.

You sighed. "Vacation."

"Vacation?"

"Yep."

"Where?"

"No clue."

"When are they coming back?"

"No clue."

"Do they miss me?"

You stared at Bella as the silence stretched to uncomfortable levels "Girl," you pointed at her. "What have you been doing for the last five months?"

Bella shrugged. The gesture irritated you immediately. "Nothing really. I've just been...here."

You looked toward the ceiling, searching for strength, yet found none. "Okay but like..." You gestured wildly. "Anything else?"

Silence.

Your eye twitched. "A hobby?" Nothing. "A friend?" Nothing. "A new crush?" Nothing. You slowly sat up straighter. "...Therapy?"

Bella immediately looked away.

You felt something inside you snap. "ISABELA MARIE SWAN." She visibly flinched. "Oh my God." You stood up. "OH MY GOD."

"It wasn't—"

"I PREPAID AN ENTIRE YEAR."

Bella shrank into the couch. "I know."

"Do you know how expensive that was?"

"I know."

"Do you know how hard it is to find a therapist who won't immediately kick you out the door after hearing vampire-related nonsense? And you didn't go?"

"I was busy."

"Busy doing what?! Auditioning to become furniture?"

Bella looked offended. "I was depressed."

"THAT'S WHAT THE THERAPY WAS FOR!" You began pacing because if you sat down again, you might actually lose your mind. "I left resources. I left support. I left professional help. I LEFT A NOTEBOOK."

Bella quietly mumbled, "I used the notebook."

You stopped pacing, hope flickered in your eyes. "...Really?"

She nodded.

Your shoulders relaxed slightly. "Okay." Maybe there was progress. Maybe things weren't as bad as they looked. "That's good."

Bella hesitated then added, "Most of it was about Edward."

The hope died instantly. You dragged both hands down your face. "Unbelievable."

And somehow, against all reason, you already knew you weren't leaving anytime soon. Because somebody clearly needed adult supervision, and unfortunately, you were the closest thing available.

"Okay," You pointed a finger at her. "First thing tomorrow, we're getting you a hobby."

Bella blinked. "A hobby?"

"Yes."

"What kind?"

You thought about it then shrugged. "At this point, I don't care. Knitting. Karate. Tax fraud. Something."

You had honestly expected her to choose something boring like journaling. You had not, however, expected the universe to hand her Jacob Black. Which, in hindsight, was exactly the sort of thing the universe would do. And honestly? You liked him immediately.

Not in a “oh, I endorse this relationship” way. More in a “compared to Edward, this kid feels like a green flag” way.

Jacob was blunt. He was loud. He had the general energy of a golden retriever that had learned how to be sarcastic. He called Bella on her nonsense, talked to her like a person instead of a fragile glass ornament, and, most importantly, did not spend his nights lurking outside someone's window like a supernatural creeper with abandonment issues.

Which was deeply refreshing.

On your end, you made her eat. You made her shower. You made her change clothes that no longer qualified as clothes and more as crime scene evidence. You made her go outside, even if it was just to stand on the porch and glare at the sky like it had personally offended her. And somehow, through all of it, Jacob had wormed his way into the routine too, offering her rides, bad jokes, and a level of emotional maturity your brother Edward could only hope to have.

And then, because the universe apparently hates peace and you winning in life, Alice came back to ruin everything. You were sitting on Charlie's couch when the front door opened, and there stood your sister with an expression of utter disbelief.

"Alice!"

The amount of happiness that flooded Bella's face was honestly alarming. Before you could blink, Bella had launched herself across the room and wrapped Alice in a hug.

For a moment, you actually pitied your sister. Because damn, that human was strong. Months of hauling motorcycle parts around with Jacob had apparently paid off as Alice staggered backward slightly from the force of impact.

"You're here."

Alice hugged her back automatically, though her expression remained completely bewildered. After a moment, she pulled away just enough to stare at Bella's face.

“Would you like to explain to me how you’re still alive?! I saw a vision of you, jumping off a cliff. I knew I’d be too late but—” Her expression sharpened into pure outrage. “Why the hell would you try to kill yourself?!”

Bella eyes widened. “I didn’t. I was cliff jumping.”

“Why?”

Bella hesitated, then gave the most unconvincing shrug of all time. “Um…fun?”

Alice’s expression twisted in disbelief so complete it was almost impressive. “That was fun for you?”

“Until I hit the water.”

“I have never met anyone more prone to life-threatening idiocy in my life.” Then she wrinkled her nose in disgust. “And what is that hideous wet dog smell?”

“Oh, probably Jacob. He’s a werewolf.”

"Great, you manage to—" Alice abruptly stops, eyes going hazy, which is a clear indicator that she's currently receiving a vision. You straightened on the sofa, but didn't dare approach her, as last time you did, she backhanded you so hard you crashed through Carlisle's antique bookshelf.

She still owed you an apology by the way.

The longer Alice remained still, the more you grew concerned. Concerned in the sense that if this turned into another family crisis, you were going to return to the ocean and stay there indefinitely.

Alice inhaled sharply. Her eyes snapped back into focus, and for the first time since arriving, she looked afraid. "Bella, Edward thinks you're dead."

The next minutes were spent with Alice informing Bella about what her vision entailed, and honestly, you stopped listening at the mention of the Volturi.

No. Just no.

You knew about the Volturi.

Ancient vampires. Ridiculous power. Enough influence to make kings kneel. And one of them, if old stories were to be believed, had the personality of a medieval tax collector.

No thank you.

You valued your life or at least your continued existence. You had no desire to meet the vampire equivalent of Vlad the Impaler and his equally terrifying coworkers.

At some point you must have started dissociating because the next thing you knew the house was eerily quiet. You looked around and realized that your sister and Bella were gone, along with the car previously out front.

“…Huh.”

They left without you. Good. Excellent. Wonderful. You made yourself more comfortable on the couch. Problem solved. Then, the front door slammed open and you barely had time to react before tiny vampire hands grabbed your arm.

“Get up.”

“No.”

Alice pulled. You didn’t move. She pulled harder. You remained firmly planted on the couch. The couch, however, groaned in protest.

“Get up.”

“No way in hell am I going all the way to Italy just because Edward decided he wanted to become a damn drama queen. I already fixed Bella to the best of my abilities. I ain’t no genie.”

Alice stared at you with the same expression she always got when she was seconds away from either winning or committing a crime. “You are coming.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m really, sincerely, deeply not.”

Alice’s jaw tightened. “Y/N.”

You folded your arms and sank deeper into the couch like a stubborn cat with a grudge. “Alice, listen to me very carefully. I have spent months dragging Bella out of a depressive swamp because your brother thought being emotionally devastating was a personality trait. I have done my civic duty. I have fulfilled my obligation to the vampire community. I have contributed. I am done. This is the end of my shift.”

Alice made a noise in the back of her throat that meant she was losing patience, which was honestly rude considering you were the one being inconvenienced.

“Edward thinks she’s dead.” she said, a little more sharply now, as if that was supposed to change your mind.

You deadpanned. “And? That is a he problem.”

“He’s going to Volterra.”

“Sounds like a him-and-the-Italian-police problem.”

Alice’s eyes flashed. “He’s serious.”

You shrugged. “Natural consequences.”

"He's going to kill himself!"

“And whose fault is that? The man has existed for over a century and apparently never learned how to use a damn telephone.”

“He’s grieving!”

“He’s stupid!”

“He’s emotional!”

“He’s Edward!” You threw your hands into the air. "I'm not stopping you or Bella from saving him, although he kinda deserves it, but I'm also not joining."

And you stayed true to your word.

You didn’t go to Italy.

You didn’t stand around in ancient marble hallways while vampires with inferiority complexes made speeches about blood and fate and whatever other miserable nonsense old immortals used to fill the centuries. You didn’t watch Edward and Bella have whatever emotional disaster of a reunion that was bound to happen.

You went back to your rented apartment, kicked your shoes off by the door, and for the first time in what felt like forever, let silence sit with you without demanding anything in return.

It was glorious.

You made tea you didn’t need. Sat on your couch like a king who had survived a coup. Opened a book, read the same sentence four times, and still counted that as a win. There was no Bella crisis. No Edward crisis. No family meeting. No one collapsing emotionally in front of you and expecting you to catch them.

For maybe five whole day, your life was peaceful until there was a knock on your door. Frowning because you rarely had visitors that were not family, you stood up and opened the door.

“…Jasper?”

Your brother smiled in greeting, and before you could stop yourself, you threw your arms around him. “Dude, I missed you. Like—I don’t say this often, but I did.”

Jasper laughed softly, returning the hug. “I missed you too.”

And there it was.

The reason Alice’s emotional blackmail worked every single time. Because if she was your sister, Jasper was your platonic soulmate. Your brother from another mother. The person who understood silence as fluently as conversation.

“Get in here.”

Jasper entered your apartment and stopped. His golden eyes traveled over the space. The ocean maps. The marine biology books. The suspiciously large amount of waterproof equipment, and the whiteboard.

Written across it in large letters was:

DO VAMPIRES BECOME MERMAIDS IF THEY DRINK FISH BLOOD??

Jasper turned to you confused. “…What?”

You immediately lit up. “Oh, I’m so glad you asked.”

Three hours later, Jasper was sat on your couch listening patiently while you explained your adventures beneath the sea. You told him about wrestling sharks. Losing to octopi and discovering that dolphins were evil.

“They’re organized,” you said gravely. “Too organized.”

Jasper nodded solemnly. “I believe you.”

“THANK YOU.”

“Nobody else does?”

“They called me paranoid.”

Jasper frowned. “You are, but dolphins are unsettling.”

You pointed at him dramatically. “Exactly! This is why you’re my favorite.” A pause. “…Don’t tell the others except Edward. He doesn't even make it on the list.”

“I won’t.”

You relaxed then narrowed your eyes. “Wait.” Jasper froze before you pointed accusingly. “You didn’t come all this way just to visit me.”

He looked away.

Bingo.

You gasped dramatically. “YOU HAVE AN AGENDA.”

Jasper looked almost guilty. Which on Jasper meant he looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Carlisle asked me to find you.”

You slumped. “Of course he did.” You buried your face into a pillow. “I’m not coming back.”

Jasper sighed. “I figured you’d say that.”

“Good. Then mission accomplished.”

“It’s important.”

“No.”

“Y/N.”

“No.”

“Bella’s holding a vote.”

You stopped and slowly lowered the pillow. “…What kind of vote?”

Jasper hesitated. “The family’s voting on whether she should become a vampire.”

Silence.

Then sat up straight. “Oh.”

Well, that changed things. Not because you particularly cared about vampire politics. No, but because Edward hated the idea of turning Bella into one of your kind. A grin spread across your face.

Jasper immediately looked concerned. “Why are you smiling like that?”

You stood. Grabbed your jacket and smiled wider. “Jasper.”

“Yes?”

“Take me home.”

SMALL TIME SKIP

The drive back to Forks felt like walking into a storm you’d already survived once, but this time you had your own reasons for being there. Not Edward. Never Edward. If anything, Edward was just a bonus source of irritation.

By the time you reached the house, everyone was present.

Esme, looking worried and gentle. Carlisle, composed but tired. Rosalie, looking like she’d rather bite someone than participate in sentiment. Emmett, looking entertained by the drama of it all. Alice, vibrating with anticipation. Edward, pale and tight-jawed and already looking like he wanted to object to the concept of free will.

And Bella, at the center of it all, looked nervous but determined.

You took your place without ceremony, shoving your hands into your pockets and surveying the room. “Wow, you people really know how to create a joyful atmosphere.”

Alice smiled at you. “You came.”

“Against my better judgment.”

Edward’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you were done with all this.”

“I was,” you said. “but then I got invited to watch your misery in current time."

Rosalie snorted.

Bella glanced at you, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. “You really came back.”

You shrugged. “Jasper guilt tripped me.”

Jasper lifted one shoulder, guilty and unapologetic all at once.

Carlisle began speaking, explaining the vote again, though everyone already knew what it was about. Bella would become one of them, if they agreed, if they trusted her choice, if the family decided this was the right step.

You didn’t say much while the others talked. You mostly watched Edward, because it was hard not to. He looked furious at the idea, even as he kept trying to frame it as concern. He was miserable in that way only Edward could be. Like a man being asked to suffer by the universe and somehow blaming everyone else for the weather.

Bella took a breath.

Then she looked at everyone and, with the kind of steadiness that had become a little more impressive now that she was standing on the edge of becoming immortal, she said what she wanted.

And when eyes turned to you, you already knew what you were going to say.

You didn’t hesitate. “I vote yes.”

Edward stared at you like you’d betrayed some sacred blood oath. “Why?”

You smiled, all teeth. “Because you hate it.”

Emmett barked out a laugh. Alice was grinning. Bella stared at you, a little startled, a little touched. Edward looked deeply, personally wronged.

You folded your arms and kept going, because honestly, this had been building for months.

“She wants it,” you said, glancing at Bella. “And after everything she’s been through because of you, I’m not going to stand here and tell her she has to stay human just because you can’t handle the idea of consequences.”

Edward’s jaw tightened.

“Oh, don’t make that face. You spent months treating Bella like the center of your universe and then acted surprised when that universe exploded. If she wants to stop being fragile, let her. Maybe then she can survive your nonsense.”

You pointed at him.

“And before you start, no, I do not care that this isn’t what you wanted. You got your way every time this family caved for months. My turn.”

Edward muttered something under his breath that definitely was not polite.

You grinned.

“That’s not helping your case. It’s eight a.m., she’s having an age crisis, and Edward looks one breeze away from proposing in the parking lot. This is a crime scene.”

Still, you let Alice drag you inside, toward the lockers where Bella and Edward now stood. “Happy birthday, Bella!” She sang, shoving a neatly wrapped box into her hands.

Bella smiled, startled. “Oh, thank you, Alice.”

“And,” your sister added, eyes sparkling with mischief as she yanked you forward, “a little birdie told me Y/N also got you something.”

You shot her a glare that promised vengeance.

With zero ceremony, you pulled a small rectangular package from your bag and handed it to the human. No smile. No speech. Just vibes. Bella hesitated, then unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a plain black notebook. “Oh, thank you, Y/N. This really—”

“Don’t mention it. I figured writing your thoughts down might help. You know. Before you act on them. God knows it might save you from a few concussions, emotional breakdowns, or near death experiences.”

“Y/N!” Alice hissed. “I told you to be nice today.”

“I am being nice. This is me being nice. I could’ve gotten her a helmet.”

You leaned in Bella's direction, lowering your voice just enough to sound conspiratorial rather than cruel. “Look, it’s practical. Journaling helps process trauma. And statistically speaking, you’ve already collected enough near death experiences to qualify for a punch card.”

Bella opened the notebook, flipping a few pages, before her brows furrowed. “There’s a phone number written here.”

“Ah,” you said, pointing. “Important part.”

Edward’s head snapped up. “What phone number?”

Bella read it aloud. “Dr. Linda Matthews.”

“Licensed therapist. Excellent reviews. No supernatural bias. Doesn’t flinch when people mention immortal boyfriends or abandonment issues.”

“You bought her therapy?!”

“Yes,” you said calmly. “Bella now officially has one year of prepaid therapy because I got a discount for paying upfront.” You paused, then added, far too pleasantly, “But, and this is crucial, I specifically put you on the 'do not attend sessions' list.”

Edward’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “You can’t—”

“Oh, I can,” you interrupted. “And I did. You are not allowed in the waiting room, the hallway, the parking lot, the Starbucks across the street, or anywhere within a ten mile radius of her therapist’s office while she has sessions.”

Bella looked between the two of you, stunned. “…Ten miles?”

“Yes,” you nodded. “Urban area. Plenty of room for Edweirdo to brood safely.”

Edward spluttered like you’d just insulted his mother. “That’s excessive!”

“No,” you said. “Excessive is watching someone sleep without consent. This is preventative care.”

Jasper snorted into his hand then immediately pretended to cough when Alice shot him a warning look sharp enough to cut glass. He straightened, face schooled back into neutrality, though his eyes still danced with amusement.

Bella looked at you then back down at the notebook. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

You shrugged, the motion casual, but deliberate. “You didn’t have to date Edward, yet here we are.”

Edward opened his mouth, clearly ready to protest, but Bella spoke first. “Well, whatever the reason was, I appreciate the gift, Y/N. I don’t think anyone’s ever worried about me like this before.”

You paused.

It was barely noticeable unless someone had been watching you for decades and knew exactly how long it took you to snap back into armor. “Don’t read into it. I just don’t want Edward spiraling into a century-long depression if you trip down the stairs and die.”

TIME SKIP

You were not going to Bella’s birthday party.

This was not up for debate.

This was not a “maybe.”

This was a hard NO, underlined twice, highlighted, and stapled to common sense.

For one, nothing good ever happened when Bella Swan, sharp objects, and vampires occupied the same zip code. Secondly, and most importantly, the logistics were humiliating.

Cake. An entire cake. For one human.

What were the vampires supposed to do? Stand around like Victorian ghosts and politely watch Bella chew? Clap when she swallowed? Pretend forks were a new and exciting invention? Also, doesn't she have friends to spend her birthday with? Ones with pulses and the ability to eat without throwing it up a few hours later?

Nope. Absolutely not. You were out.

Which was why you were halfway down the porch steps, bag already slung over your shoulder, mentally planning your Denali vacation: snow, silence, no humans, when a hand wrenched you backwards with the strength of a pissed off goddess.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

You groaned. “Rosalie. Unhand me.”

She stood behind you, grip ironclad, expression flat and dangerous. “If I have to stand through this nonsense, so do you.”

You tried peeling her fingers off one by one. Didn’t budge. “Okay, but consider this, I will make it worse.”

She smirked. “Good.”

You twisted, ducked, and, miraculously, slipped free of her grasp. “Oh my god,” you breathed. “I’m FREE—” You took off running. “I’M GOING TO DENALI,” you yelled over your shoulder. “TELL CARLISLE I LOVED HIM AND THIS WAS A HOSTILE WORK ENVIRONMENT.”

The front door flew open.

“EMMETT,” Rosalie shouted, pointing dramatically. “GET HIM.”

Heavy footsteps thundered behind you. You glanced back once, huge mistake, and saw Emmett charging after you with the grin of a man who lived for chaos.

“YOU CAN’T CATCH ME,” you yelled. “I’M SMALLER AND FUELED BY SPITE!”

“You run like a newborn deer." Emmett taunted.

You zigzagged. You vaulted a bush. You almost made it to the tree line. Almost. When Emmett suddenly tackled you mid stride, sending both of you to the grass.

“LET ME GO,” you hissed, flailing. “I’LL SCREAM.”

“You’re already screaming.” he said cheerfully, hauling you upright like an unruly cat. Right then, Alice appeared in front of you, blocking your escape route.

“If you stay for Bella’s birthday party,” Alice said sweetly, hands clasped behind her back, “I promise I won’t force you to carry the bags of my next shopping spree.”

You stared at her. Then laughed. “Nice try, demon. You said the same thing last time and I still carried seventeen bags, three shoe boxes, and what I’m pretty sure was a lamp.”

“That lamp was essential.”

“I had carpet burn on my hands.” you snapped.

Emmett adjusted his grip, amused. “So, still running?”

“Yes,” you said instantly. “Release me. I’m not staying. I’d rather fistfight a grizzly.”

Rosalie crossed her arms on the porch. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I AM BEING REALISTIC,” you shot back. “This party will end in blood, tears, or Edward spiraling emotionally. I want no part of it.”

Alice sighed theatrically. “Okay, okay. New angle. You don’t have to sing.”

“No.”

“You don’t have to pretend to smile.”

“I never do.”

She took a step closer. “You don’t have to stay and help clean up after Bella leaves."

“I already wasn’t planning to.” You leaned forward in Emmett’s hold, pointing at her accusingly. “Whatever you’re about to say next, I’m not falling for it.”

Alice’s smile softened. Dangerously. “You can stand next to Jasper.”

You sighed, defeated, shoulders slumping. “That was a low blow.”

Alice hummed. “Effective, though.”

Jasper appeared behind her a second later, looking already stressed. When his eyes landed on you, something in his posture eased, just a fraction, but enough that you noticed.

“You okay?” you asked immediately, twisting in Emmett’s hold to look at him.

Jasper nodded once. “I will be. If you’re nearby.” Your chest did something annoying and traitorous.

You pointed at Alice. “See? Emotional manipulation.”

Alice grinned. “Platonic soulmates are my favorite leverage.”

Emmett finally set you down, hands raised in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Escape attempt neutralized.”

You brushed grass off your clothes, scowling. “For the record, I almost made it.”

“Sure you did,” Rosalie said dryly from the porch. “Very heroic. Ten out of ten form. Zero out of ten results.”

You shot her a look. “You enjoyed that.”

She smirked. “Immensely.”

You turned back toward the house, dragging your feet like a child being marched to time-out. “I want it noted that I was coerced. Under duress. With bribes.”

Alice looped her arm through yours, sing-song. “But you stayed!”

“Against my will,” you muttered. “If Bella dies, this is on all of you.”

And surprise, surprise, she almost died.

Again.

Shocking. Truly. Absolutely no one could have predicted this outcome. Except you. And maybe gravity. And possibly common sense. And let’s get this straight right now, loud and clear, for the people in the back:

It. Was. Not. Jasper’s. Fault.

Not even a little. Not even in Edward’s overly dramatic, guilt soaked narrative.

Bella got a papercut. A PAPERCUT. The kind of injury that normally earns a bandage and mild annoyance. Jasper tensed, sure. That was expected, but he didn’t lunge. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t even move before you were already there.

Hand on his chest. Voice firm. “Jasper. Eyes on me. Not her. Me.”

And he listened.

His jaw clenched. His breath stuttered, but he stopped because Jasper knew how to fight himself.

Crisis averted.

Or it would have been if Edward hadn’t decided that the most logical way to “save” Bella from a non-threatening Jasper was to throw her into a table made entirely of glass. A GLASS TABLE. You still couldn’t wrap your head around that thought process. Somewhere in Edward’s brain, papercut had translated to YEET GIRL INTO SHATTER ZONE.

You didn't even scream at Edward, too busy dragging Jasper outside to get some fresh un-scented Bella air.

You spent the next hours in the forest with him: walking, talking, sitting in the dirt while he shook and apologized and hated himself for something he hadn’t even done. You talked him down, anchored him, reminded him that stopping mattered. That he was not a monster just because his instincts flared. By the time you both returned to the house, you were running on exactly one thing: rage held together by habit.

You wanted silence.

A wall.

A cave.

Maybe a nap buried six feet underground.

Instead, you walked into Edward standing in the living room like he was about to announce a national tragedy. “We’re leaving,” he said. “Bella isn’t safe with us.”

You laughed. Not a chuckle. Not a scoff. But a sharp, ugly laugh that tore out of your chest. “Oh wow,” you said, clapping once, slow and deliberate. “You don’t fucking say. Alert the press. Call NASA. Edward Cullen has finally caught up.”

His jaw tightened. “This isn’t funny.”

“You’re right,” you snapped instantly. “It’s pathetic. I warned you. I warned all of you. I told you bringing a fragile human into our world was dangerous, reckless, and stupid. And what happened? I was the villain. I was ‘dramatic.’ I was ‘heartless.’ God forbid I didn’t want Edward to play supernatural roulette with a girl who trips over oxygen.”

Edward took a sharp step forward. “You don’t get to talk about her like that—”

“Oh, I absolutely do,” you cut in, voice rising. “Because every single thing I said would happen did. Papercut? Check. Blood everywhere? Check. Jasper spiraling even though he stopped himself like a fucking champ? Check. Bella nearly dying? CHECK.” You laughed again, bitter and sharp. “This isn’t hindsight, Edward. This is me being right in real time.”

Carlisle tried to intervene. “Y/N, you’re letting your anger—”

“No,” you snapped, spinning on him. “I’m letting the truth speak, Carlisle. Big difference.”

You pointed back at Edward, finger shaking with fury. “You don’t get to rewrite this like it’s some tragic love story where fate was cruel. This is cause and effect. You made selfish choices, people got hurt, and now—NOW—you have the decency to act like this revelation fell from the sky."

Edward’s voice cracked. “I just wanted her safe.”

“Then you should’ve left her alone,” you shot back without hesitation. “You should’ve walked away the first time you realized she smelled like a walking obituary, but no. You had to have her. And here's the part that really gets me," you said, voice sharp with disbelief.

"Every time you fuck up, the rest of us are expected to bend over backwards to make it right. You screw up, and suddenly it’s ‘we’re leaving.’ We’re leaving. As if this wasn’t your mess to begin with.”

Rosalie scoffed loudly from the side. “Funny how that works.”

You nodded at her once, grateful. “Exactly. When Jasper struggles, he carries it like a sin. When Alice messes up a vision, she blames herself for weeks. When Edward nearly gets Bella killed? We pack our bags and say it was for the 'greater good'."

You dragged a hand down your face, exhausted in a way sleep wouldn’t fix. “I’m done,” you said flatly. “I am so done.”

And then you vanished.

One second you were in the living room, the next you were upstairs in your bedroom, ripping open drawers and shoving clothes into a bag with zero concern for organization. You flashed back downstairs just as fast, bag slung over your shoulder.

“So,” you said, adjusting the strap, “since we’re apparently fleeing Forks because Edward couldn’t fucking control himself, I’m taking a vacation.”

Edward frowned. “A vacation?”

“Yes,” you snapped. “A vacation. From this hot-ass mess. From the drama. From the broken glass. From the emotional Olympics you keep dragging us into.”

Carlisle stepped forward. “Y/N, please—”

“No,” you interrupted. “I need a break. A long one. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere calm. Somewhere without humans who trip over air and vampires who panic over stationary injuries. I’ll send postcards,” you added dryly. “It’ll say: Greetings from Somewhere Sane. No humans harmed today.”

Rosalie snorted outright.

Jasper stepped forward, eyes heavy. “You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, voice gentler now. “Don’t worry about me, Jazzy.”

He physically cringed. “Don’t call me that.” he muttered.

You grinned, absolutely delighted. “Oh, I’m calling you that forever now.”

Despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitched.

“She started it.” You said, but gave Edward the pleasure of looking away and slouching deeper in your chair. “And why is she even staring at us? Do humans not know that eye contact means aggression? Or is this a regional problem? Maybe Arizona doesn’t have basic survival instincts.”

“(Y/N).” Edward hissed.

“I’m genuinely asking.”

Rosalie sighed like your existence personally offended her. “She’s curious, (Y/N). Humans get curious.”

“Curious about what? We sit here. We look pretty. We mind our undead business. It’s not like we’re juggling axes or sacrificing goats.”

“Alice suggested the axes once, remember?” Emmett said. “Carlisle said no.”

“And the goats?”

“Also no.”

“Tragic.”

Edward rubbed his temples. “Can everyone please behave? She’s not a threat.”

“Oh, I know she’s not a threat,” you said, stabbing at your boxed apple juice with unnecessary force. “She’s a walking liability. A hazard on legs. She radiates ‘about to trip and break something expensive’ energy.”

“She’s clumsy.” Jasper admitted diplomatically.

“Clumsy? Bro, clumsy is bumping into a chair. Bella looks like gravity filed a restraining order against her and it’s retaliating.”

Emmett choked on a laugh. Jasper pressed his lips together so hard they almost disappeared. Alice was openly beaming now, her chin propped in her hand like she was watching her favorite sitcom. Rosalie, for once, did not immediately scold you. She simply gave a slow, unimpressed blink that meant she agreed but refused to compliment you for it.

Bella's eyes drifted up again: straight to your table, straight to Edward, and then (unfortunately) straight to you. When your eyes met, you raised your brows, silently mouthing, "What are you looking at?" She jerked so hard that the cartoon of milk nearly spilled on the table.

Edward kicked your shin under the table. “Stop terrorizing her.”

You glared at him. “I’m not terrorizing her. I’m observing.”

“You’re glaring.”

“That was a neutral expression.”

“For a vampire about to commit a felony.” Rosalie supplied. You rolled your eyes and reached for your fork. Edward snatched it out of your hand instantly.

“What are you—?"

He hissed under his breath, “Your face looks like you’re about to throw it at her.”

You blinked, and paused to considered it. “Okay, fair. But give it back.”

“No. You don't need to frighten her anymore than you have.”

“I wasn't scaring her,” you said, though no one at the table believed you. “If anything, I’m preparing her. This is enrichment. Like zoo training.”

TIME SKIP

When Edward came home that afternoon, his expression was the exact mix of disgust and existential dread you usually associate with Rosalie encountering a crowded mall. He barely got through the door before you spoke. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

Edward dropped his bag with unnecessary dramatics. “I had Biology with her.”

You recoiled. “Oh my god. And, let me guess, she sat next to you?”

“Yes.”

You slapped a hand over your chest. “A tragedy. A violation. You poor thing.” Edward glared. You shrugged. "No actually, I get it. She smells like dessert to you, right? And instead of avoiding you like a human with basic survival instincts she's like, ‘Oh gee, let me sit beside the immortal bloodsucker and try to befriend him.’ That’s a choice. A stupid one.”

Edward groaned. “It took everything in me not to jump across the table and suck her dry."

You raised a brow. “So this is the part where you decide to stay away from her, right?” Edward didn’t answer. You slapped a hand over your eyes. “Oh no. You’re already obsessed, aren’t you?”

And obsessed he was.

Painfully. Horrifyingly. Criminally.

Two days later, he unknowingly let it slip—and by slip, you mean he confessed it like a man who had forgotten what shame was—that he’d been watching Bella sleep from inside her room like a total creep. It happened during another dramatic Edward Entry, where he appeared at the top of the stairs with that look. That haunted, dreamy, lovesick, vaguely murderous look.

“I’ve discovered something.” he murmured, descending the stairs like a gothic chandelier falling in slow motion.

“A personality?” He ignored you. That was mistake number one.

“She talks in her sleep.” Edward said, voice low and weirdly soft.

You blinked once. Twice. “…Excuse me?”

Edward paused, eyebrows lifting in mild confusion. “Bella. She—”

“—talks in her sleep,” you finished for him. “Yes. Yes, you just said that. My question is: how you know this?”

Emmett’s eyebrows shot up. Jasper straightened in his seat like someone had plugged him into an electrical socket. Rosalie turned her head slowly—very slowly—to glare at Edward, because although she disliked Bella with a passion, she wasn’t about to let her brother be a full blown psycho. Her eyes narrowed into lethal slits.

“Edward. Tell me you’re joking.”

He stiffened. “I—”

“No,” Rosalie snapped, cutting him off like a guillotine. “Don’t. Whatever you say next is going to make me want to hit you, and Carlisle will get mad when I break your jaw.”

Emmett raised a hand helpfully. “I can hold him down.”

Rosalie didn’t even look at him. “He wouldn’t fight back. He’d probably cry about it.”

Jasper’s voice was cautious, like he was approaching a wild animal. “Edward, please tell us how you discovered this?”

Hesitation.

A bad sign.

A very bad sign.

You leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Edward, where were you standing when she was sleep talking?”

“I wasn’t standing.” he said defensively.

Rosalie looked a heartbeat away from physical violence. “Okay, so you were sitting. Where? On a tree branch? Outside her window like a feral owl?"

He winced. “The rocking chair in her room.”

The room exploded.

Rosalie made a strangled, murderous noise. Jasper froze as if preparing emotionally for Edward’s funeral. Emmett dropped the remote and whispered, “Oh my god. You ARE a creep.” And you stood up so fast your chair skidded backward.

“EDWARD ANTHONY MASEN CULLEN!”

“Don’t use my full name—”

“You sat,” you repeated, stabbing each word into the air like a knife. “In the dark. In the corner. In a rocking chair. Watching a human girl as she slept like some sort of pale, sparkly sleep paralysis demon?"

Edward winced. “When you say it like that—”

“How ELSE am I supposed to say it?” you barked. “You violated every privacy law ever created! Even the unwritten ones! Humans don’t even LIKE when their pets stare at them while they sleep.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Oh my god,” Rosalie cut in, looking genuinely appalled. “I didn't think you could become even more of a loser than you were."

It was at that moment that Esme entered the room cheerfully, but then froze, noticing the tension. “What’s going on?”

You pointed at Edward with the dramatic fury of a soap opera character. “Oh, it's nothing. Just that your perfect golden boy here has been breaking into Bella Swan’s bedroom and WATCHING HER SLEEP!”

Esme blinked. Then blinked again. “Oh dear...”

Carlisle followed behind her, eyebrows rising. “Edward?”

Edward threw his hands up. “I was making sure she was safe!”

You gaped at him. “SAFE FROM WHAT, EDWARD?! NIGHTMARES? PILLOWS? HER OWN BREATHING?!”

Emmett nodded vigorously. “Bro, imagine waking up and seeing YOU in the corner. I’d yeet myself out the window.”

Jasper nodded. “So would I.”

Edward glared at all of you. “None of you understand—”

“OH TRUST ME,” you barked, “we understand PERFECTLY. You have lost your goddamn mind.”

Rosalie stepped closer, voice low. “If Bella finds out about this, she is going to pass out so fast she’ll crack her skull on her nightstand. And then YOU’LL have to explain to Charlie Swan why his daughter died of fright.”

Emmett held up a finger. “Which would be hilarious—”

Rosalie snapped, “Emmett!”

“—but bad.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Edward, listen carefully. Humans don’t LIKE being watched while unconscious. They tend to—oh, I don’t know—call the police!”

“That’s ridiculous.” Edward scoffed.

“Oh?” you asked sweetly. “And what would YOU do if a stranger sat in YOUR room at night?”

“I would know.” He said smugly.

“Yes,” you said dryly, “because you’re a vampire. Bella is a CHIHUAHUA with the durability of a breadstick.”

Rosalie rolled her eyes. “You need to stop. Now.”

Edward’s jaw clenched. “I can’t. She’s important.”

You threw your arms up. “You met her TWICE!”

“Three times.” Edward corrected.

“Oh! Well EXCUSE ME,” you said dramatically. “Three encounters. That changes everything. Let’s book the wedding.”

Emmett raised a hand. “Dibs on best man.”

Rosalie hissed. “We are not planning a wedding for the girl he’s currently stalking.”

“I'm not—"

“STALKING!”

ANOTHER TIME SKIP

Edward really lived up to his creep status. Not even a week after stalking the poor girl, he took her into the woods and confirmed that yes, he sparkled like a disco ball in direct sunlight, yes, he was a vampire, and yes, the rest of his family were too. You nearly sprinted into the woods to find the largest tree trunk available, solely to beat him with it.

Rule #1 (if there was a handbook): DO NOT REVEAL YOUR STATUS TO HUMANS.

And what did Edward do? He broke it. Crushed it. Set it on fire. Ran it over with his stupid Volvo. And then? Then he had the audacity—the pure nerve—to invite the girl to your home. Your safe place. The one place you guys didn't need to hide. You met them in the kitchen alongside the rest of your family who were busy making Italiano.

Edward practically glowed with smugness. “So, this is Bella.”

You stared at her.

She stared back.

You blinked slowly, once, twice, like a warning system rebooting. “…Why is she here?”

Esme gasped softly. “(Y/N)!”

Bella flushed, shrinking in on herself. “I—I didn’t mean to intrude—”

“You’re not intruding.” Edward reassured her, giving Bella a soft smile like he hadn't done anything wrong.

You pointed a stiff, accusing finger at him. “Oh, she absolutely is intruding. What happened to subtlety? What happened to discretion? What happened to keeping our kind a secret?”

Bella blinked nervously. “I apologize if me knowing brought you guys any problems—”

You barked a laugh.

Not a cute laugh.

A deranged older sibling losing their patience laugh.

“Oh, sweetheart, you didn’t bring us any problems. He did.”

Edward’s jaw tightened. “(Y/N)—”

“No, no, do not ‘(Y/N)’ me,” you snapped, stepping forward. “Do you have any idea how many decades—DECADES—we’ve spent keeping a low profile? Do you know how many times I’ve had to dodge nosy humans, animal control, conspiracy theorists, and that one lady who swore Emmett was Bigfoot?”

Emmett yelled from behind the kitchen counter, “SHE TOOK A PICTURE OF ME EATING A GRANOLA BAR—WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?!”

You waved a dismissive hand. “Case in point.”

Bella’s eyes widened. “I—I didn’t know—”

“Of course you didn’t know,” you said. “And you shouldn’t have known anything. About any of us. Because Edward was supposed to handle this like a responsible adult. Instead, he took you to the forest like a dramatically depressed anime character and told you everything.”

Edward hissed, “It wasn’t like that—”

“Oh?” you said. “Did you or did you not ‘say it, out loud’ her into a supernatural TED Talk?” Edward opened his mouth. You didn’t let him finish. “Exactly, you dramatically confessed eternal damnation in a mossy forest like the world’s biggest theatre kid.”

At that moment, you heard the sound of a glass breaking and Jasper's slight cursing. You didn't need to be in the same room to know he looked like a man trying to balance a thousand knifes on his head while walking a tightrope over a pit of Bella-scented lava.

“Okay,” you muttered. “Time for intervention number twelve of the week.” You turned your back on the couple and stepped into the main living room where Jasper stood at the top of the staircase.

"Come on, bro." You said, grabbing him by the wrist and nudging him towards the back hallway where the exit was. "Let’s go take a long walk where no gremlins are messing with you."

Jasper gritted his teeth. “Thank you.”

Edward called out, annoyed, “We’re in the middle of a discussion—!”

Jimmy knew love.

He knew it in the way he knew the sunny spot on the rug moved three times a day.

He knew it in the way he knew Max’s suitcase meant betrayal, but Max’s hoodie left on the chair meant forgiveness.

He knew it in the way he knew Sassy was going to hit him before she hit him, because her tail did a particular twitch first.

And he knew it because the most beautiful creature in the world lived on the balcony next door.

She was white.

She was fluffy.

She was round in the way expensive pillows were round.

She had a face like she had been disappointed by every human alive and was simply enduring the world until someone finally presented her with the appropriate throne.

She was, Jimmy had decided, a goddess.

The first time he saw her, she was sitting on the neighbouring balcony while the late afternoon sun made her fur glow.

Jimmy had been minding his business.

He had not been doing anything wrong.

He had merely been standing on the back of the sofa, pressing his nose against the glass door, while Max said, “Jimmy, don’t even think about it.”

Jimmy had not been thinking about anything.

Then she appeared.

White fur. Blue collar. A little gold bell. Eyes the colour of rainwater.

Jimmy forgot how to breathe.

Sassy, from her place on the armchair, opened one eye.

“Don’t,” Max said from the kitchen without looking up.

Jimmy placed one paw against the glass.

The white cat blinked at him.

Jimmy made a very soft, very dignified sound.

Sassy lifted her head.

Max looked over.

“Oh no,” he said.

Jimmy did not know what that meant, but Max sounded like he had just lost a race before the lights had even gone out.

The white cat turned, showing him the full glory of her tail, then disappeared behind a curtain.

Jimmy remained frozen.

Sassy yawned.

Max came over, crouched beside him, and looked through the glass toward the empty balcony.

“No,” Max told him.

Jimmy looked at Max.

Max narrowed his eyes. “I know that face.”

Jimmy did not know which face Max meant. He had several. 

“No escaping,” Max said. “No dramatic Romeo and Juliet balcony situation. I don’t have time for this.”

Jimmy understood only three words in that sentence.

No.

Escaping.

Balcony.

All deeply concerning.

He pressed his paw harder to the glass.

Max sighed.

Behind him, Sassy jumped down from the armchair, walked over, sniffed Jimmy’s ear, and then smacked him on the head.

Jimmy accepted this. Sassy was his sister. She had been smacking him on the head since they were kittens. It was one of her love languages, probably.

“She is right,” Max said.

Jimmy did not think Sassy was right. Sassy was never right. Sassy once hissed at a cucumber. Sassy had no authority here.

The next day, the goddess returned.

This time, Jimmy was prepared.

He had positioned himself on the dining chair closest to the balcony door after breakfast. He had ignored Sassy when she called him pathetic with her eyes. He had ignored Max when Max walked past and said, “Still? Mate.”

Jimmy was not still.

Jimmy was devoted.

The goddess appeared just after noon, carried out onto the balcony by a woman with soft hair and a long cardigan.

The woman was not Max.

Jimmy knew most humans were not Max. Humans had different smells and voices and levels of competence. Max was his human, which meant he was the best human, even when he left for loud weekends and came home smelling like champagne, rubber, and other people’s hands.

The woman next door smelled faintly of vanilla, laundry soap, and something floral. She spoke gently to the goddess as she placed her on a cushion in the sun.

“There you go, princess,” the woman said. “Fresh air.”

Princess.

Jimmy’s ears went forward.

Yes.

Correct.

The goddess was a princess.

Maybe a queen.

Maybe something above queen.

The goddess settled onto the cushion and looked across the gap between balconies.

Jimmy stood.

Sassy made a disgusted little noise from the back of the sofa.

Jimmy ignored her.

He lifted one paw.

The goddess blinked slowly.

Jimmy nearly fell off the chair.

Max, who had been drinking coffee, looked up from his phone.

“Why are you making that noise?”

Jimmy had not realized he was making a noise.

He closed his mouth.

Sassy swatted his tail.

Jimmy did not even care.

The goddess had blinked slowly at him.

That meant something.

Jimmy did not know what, exactly, but it meant something.

For three days, Jimmy watched her.

For three days, the goddess appeared on the balcony in the afternoon.

For three days, the woman in the cardigan spoke to her in a warm, amused voice.

“Careful, Cleo.”

Cleo.

Her name was Cleo.

Jimmy had a name now.

A real name.

Not just goddess, though goddess still applied.

Cleo liked sleeping in the sun. Cleo liked turning her face away when her human tried to take photos of her. Cleo liked batting lazily at the leaves of the potted olive tree on her balcony. Cleo did not chase bugs because bugs came to her. Cleo did not run. Cleo reclined.

Jimmy admired this deeply.

Sassy did not.

On the fourth day, when Jimmy climbed onto the sideboard for a better view, Sassy joined him.

For one hopeful moment, Jimmy thought his sister had come to support him.

Then she shoved him.

Jimmy landed on the floor with a soft thud.

Max looked up from where he was stretching on the mat.

“Sassy.”

Sassy sat down exactly where Jimmy had been and looked at Max like she had done him a favour.

Jimmy got up and shook himself.

Sassy began washing one paw.

Max sighed. “You deserved that, probably.”

Jimmy did not deserve that.

Jimmy was a lover.

Sassy was a criminal.

The problem was the door.

The door was glass.

Glass was unfair. Jimmy could see through it, but he could not pass through it. This was one of the great cruelties of the universe, along with empty food bowls, closed bathroom doors, and Max refusing to let him sit inside the suitcase.

But Jimmy was not stupid.

Sassy thought he was stupid because Sassy thought everyone was stupid except herself and sometimes Max, depending on whether Max had fed her recently.

Jimmy was clever.

Jimmy had observed the humans.

The balcony door opened when Max pushed the handle down and slid it across. The handle was high. Jimmy could not reach it.

But sometimes Max left the door not quite closed.

Max had a habit of doing this when he came in after watering the plants. He would slide it mostly shut, then get distracted by his phone or a call or the other human who sometimes came over and made him laugh in the soft voice.

Jimmy waited.

He was patient.

He was a hunter.

He was a romantic hero.

He was also, according to Sassy, extremely annoying.

On the fifth afternoon, the opportunity came.

Max had been on a phone call for a long time, pacing barefoot through the apartment.

“No, I know,” Max said into the phone. “But it’s stupid. Why would we do that?”

Jimmy did not know what was stupid. Many things were stupid. Vacuums. Rain. Sassy’s attitude.

Max went onto the balcony with his phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear, watered the plants, argued with someone named GP, then came back inside.

The door slid almost closed.

Almost.

Jimmy’s heart began to pound.

Cleo was on her balcony.

She was sitting on her cushion, watching him.

This was a sign.

Jimmy crouched.

Sassy, from the sofa, lifted her head.

Her eyes narrowed.

Jimmy ignored her.

He pushed his nose into the tiny gap between door and frame.

It moved.

Not much.

Enough.

“Jimmy,” Max said.

Jimmy froze.

Max was still on the phone, looking directly at him.

Jimmy looked back.

Max pointed at him. “No.”

Jimmy considered this.

Then he ran.

“Jimmy!”

The gap widened under his shoulder. The balcony air hit his whiskers. The floor was warm under his paws. Behind him, Max swore.

Jimmy darted across the balcony.

There was a gap between his balcony and Cleo’s balcony.

It was not enormous.

It was, however, a gap.

Jimmy stopped at the edge.

Cleo watched him.

Jimmy looked down.

That was very far.

Jimmy looked back.

Max had dropped his phone somewhere inside and was coming toward him with the expression he wore when someone on television said something stupid about his driving.

“Don’t,” Max said.

Jimmy looked at Cleo.

Cleo blinked.

Jimmy made his decision.

He did not jump across the gap.

Jimmy was romantic, not suicidal.

Instead, he discovered something better.

There was a low dividing wall at the far end, where the two balconies met around the corner. It was narrow. It was slightly ridiculous. It was absolutely climbable.

“Jimmy, I swear to God—”

Jimmy climbed.

Max lunged.

Jimmy was faster.

He scrambled onto the wall, tail high, paws careful, heart full of purpose.

The world became ledge and air and Max saying words Jimmy was probably not supposed to understand.

Sassy appeared at the open balcony door.

She did not look concerned.

She looked entertained.

Traitor.

Jimmy crossed the little wall and dropped onto the neighbouring balcony.

Cleo did not move.

Jimmy landed, shook himself, and looked at her.

He had done it.

He had crossed kingdoms.

He had defied glass.

He had escaped.

He had proven his love.

Cleo stretched one front paw luxuriously, then the other. Her bell gave a tiny, perfect chime.

Jimmy approached slowly.

Cleo did not hiss.

Cleo did not swat him.

Cleo leaned forward and sniffed his nose.

Jimmy’s entire soul left his body.

From the other balcony, Max said, “Oh, you little idiot.”

Jimmy did not care.

Cleo had touched noses with him.

Jimmy was never going home again.

Then the balcony door behind Cleo opened.

The woman in the cardigan stepped out.

For a second, everyone froze.

Jimmy looked up.

The woman looked down.

Cleo sat beside him, serene and innocent, as if she had personally invited him for tea.

“Oh,” the woman said.

Max, from the other balcony, said, “I am so sorry.”

The woman looked across.

Jimmy turned his head.

Max was standing on his own balcony with one hand braced on the railing, hair messy, wearing an old Red Bull T-shirt and the expression of a man whose cat had just ruined his life.

The woman blinked.

Then she smiled.

It was a nice smile.

Jimmy noticed because Max noticed.

Max always noticed things like apexes, tyre degradation, and people smiling at him.

“Is he yours?” the woman asked.

Max looked at Jimmy.

Jimmy sat down beside Cleo.

Cleo’s tail curled around her paws.

Max exhaled through his nose. “Unfortunately.”

Jimmy did not know what unfortunately meant, but Max used it often when talking about people he loved.

The woman laughed.

Max’s expression changed.

Not a lot.

A little.

Jimmy knew Max’s faces. Max had many faces even though humans often thought he only had three. There was angry Max, sleepy Max, race Max, cat Max, soft Max, and the very rare Max who had just realized someone pretty was laughing at something he said.

This was that one.

“He seems very sweet,” the woman said.

Max looked at Jimmy again.

Jimmy looked back with dignity.

“He is not,” Max said. “He is a menace.”

The woman crouched and held out her fingers.

Jimmy sniffed them politely.

Vanilla. Laundry soap. Flowers. Cleo.

Acceptable.

“Oh, he is sweet,” she said.

Max snorted. “He waited five days to break into your balcony.”

“Determined, then.”

“Stubborn.”

“Romantic.”

Max paused.

Jimmy’s ears twitched.

The woman smiled down at Jimmy. “He came to visit Cleo.”

Cleo lifted her chin.

Yes. Obviously.

Max dragged a hand through his hair. “I should come get him.”

“I can pass him over.”

“No, no. He will act like you are murdering him. Better if I come around.”

The woman stood. “I’m in 42B.”

“I know,” Max said, then immediately looked annoyed with himself. “I mean—not in a weird way. It is just next door.”

The woman’s smile widened.

Jimmy thought Max was doing badly.

This was surprising. Max was usually good at things. Driving. Cats. Looking angry at people. Opening food pouches.

Flirting, apparently, required Jimmy’s supervision.

“I’m Élise,” the woman said.

“Max.”

“I know.”

Max’s eyebrows lifted.

Élise looked amused. “Not in a weird way. It is just next door.”

Max stared at her for half a second.

Then he laughed.

Jimmy had heard Max laugh many times. Loudly, with his friends. Softly, at his phone. Breathlessly, when Sassy fell off the sofa and pretended she had meant to do it.

This laugh was different.

It came out surprised.

Jimmy was very proud of himself.

He stayed beside Cleo while Max disappeared from the balcony and reappeared a few minutes later at Élise’s front door.

Jimmy heard the bell.

Then footsteps.

Then Élise opening the door.

Then Max saying, “Hi.”

Then Élise saying, “Hi.”

Then nothing for a moment.

Humans were so inefficient.

Jimmy leaned toward Cleo and sniffed her cheek.

Cleo allowed it.

Best day of his life.

Max appeared on the balcony through Élise’s apartment, looking around like he was trying very hard not to look around too much.

“Nice place,” he said.

“Thank you,” Élise replied. “Cleo has allowed me to decorate it.”

Max glanced at Cleo. “Generous of her.”

“She’s very strict.”

“I have one like that. Her name is Sassy.”

“Is she the one who judges everyone from the window?”

Max nodded gravely. “That is her main job.”

Jimmy was offended. Sassy had other jobs too. Hitting him. Sitting in boxes. Refusing food until Max became concerned, then eating it when he turned around.

Élise crouched beside Jimmy again. “And this one is?”

“Jimmy.”

Jimmy lifted his head.

The way she said his name was nice.

“Jimmy,” Élise repeated, stroking one finger gently between his ears. “You are very handsome.”

Jimmy closed his eyes.

Yes.

Finally.

Recognition.

Max muttered, “Don’t encourage him.”

“I think he has excellent taste.”

Cleo, as though she understood that she was being admired, tucked her paws under her chest and became a cloud.

Max looked at Élise.

Élise looked at Max.

Jimmy opened one eye.

Ah.

There.

The thing.

Humans had it too, apparently.

The slow blink.

Only with more awkwardness.

Max cleared his throat. “Sorry again.”

“It’s fine. Cleo enjoyed the company.”

Jimmy perked up.

She did?

Max picked Jimmy up.

Jimmy considered protesting.

Then he remembered he was in Max’s arms, which was one of the safest places in the world, and chose magnanimity.

Élise walked them to the door.

Cleo remained on the balcony like a queen receiving departing guests.

“Maybe next time he can come through the front door,” Élise said.

Max stopped.

Jimmy felt him stop.

“Next time?” Max asked.

Élise’s mouth curved. “For Cleo, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

Jimmy looked between them.

Max was not looking at Cleo.

Élise was not looking at Jimmy.

Interesting.

“I can give you my number,” Élise said. “In case he escapes again.”

Max’s hand shifted under Jimmy’s paws.

“Yes,” Max said. “That would be good.”

Jimmy purred.

He was a genius.

When Max carried him back into their apartment, Sassy was waiting in the hallway.

Her tail flicked.

Max shut the door behind him, still looking faintly pleased with himself.

Jimmy wriggled until Max set him down.

Sassy walked up to him.

Jimmy lifted his chin.

He had touched noses with a goddess.

He had crossed a balcony.

He had helped Max acquire a number.

He was untouchable.

Sassy sniffed him.

Then she smacked him so hard he sat down.

“Sassy,” Max said, distracted, still looking at his phone.

Jimmy shook his head and glared at her.

Sassy turned and walked away, tail high.

She was jealous.

Obviously.

Over the next week, Jimmy escaped three more times.

The second time was through the window above the balcony doors, which Max had not realized opened far enough for a cat until Jimmy proved that it did.

The third time was when a delivery man arrived and Jimmy slipped between Max’s feet with the grace and determination of a professional criminal.

The fourth time was, admittedly, Sassy’s fault.

Jimmy stood by this.

Sassy had pushed a throw blanket off the sofa, distracting Max for exactly four seconds.

Jimmy used those four seconds to slide through the balcony door and make his way to Cleo.

Sassy later denied involvement by pretending to be asleep.

Max did not believe her.

“I am being outsmarted by cats,” Max said that evening, standing on Élise’s doorstep with Jimmy tucked under one arm like a furry handbag.

Élise leaned against the doorframe. She was wearing soft trousers and a jumper with the sleeves pulled over her hands.

Jimmy liked her. She always smelled kind. She always scratched his chin properly. She did not speak to him in a silly voice unless she thought no one was listening.

Cleo liked him too.

Probably.

She allowed him to sit near her. Sometimes she touched his tail with her paw. Once she had groomed his ear for six full seconds before deciding he was beneath her again.

Jimmy was prepared to be patient.

Great love required sacrifice.

“You look very defeated for someone who drives cars very fast for a living,” Élise said.

Max gave her a flat look. “The car usually listens to me.”

“Does it?”

“No,” Max admitted. “But more than Jimmy.”

Élise laughed.

Jimmy purred in support.

Max looked down. “You are the reason I am here.”

Jimmy blinked innocently.

Élise reached out and stroked his head. “Maybe he just misses Cleo.”

“He saw her two hours ago.”

“Love has no schedule.”

Max opened his mouth, then closed it.

Élise’s smile became smug.

Max huffed. “You are enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“You could pretend to be annoyed.”

“I could,” Élise said. “But then you might stop coming over.”

Max went still.

Jimmy felt it.

A tiny shift.

A change in breathing.

A moment where Max, who was usually so fast at everything, needed a second.

Élise looked suddenly less smug.

Jimmy looked between them again.

Humans.

Hopeless.

Max said, “I could come over without him escaping.”

Élise’s cheeks changed colour.

Jimmy’s ears flicked.

Oh.

Interesting.

“Yes,” Élise said. “You could.”

Max nodded once, like he had just received important strategy instructions.

“I could bring wine,” he said.

“I like wine.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Jimmy waited.

Max waited.

Élise waited.

Cleo appeared behind Élise’s legs and gave a small, delicate meow.

Jimmy immediately forgot the humans existed.

He wriggled.

Max tightened his grip.

“No,” Max said.

Jimmy wriggled harder.

“Absolutely not.”

Cleo meowed again.

Jimmy made a desperate little sound.

Élise put a hand over her mouth.

Max looked personally betrayed. “Do not laugh. He knows when people laugh.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You are.”

“I’m smiling supportively.”

“You are enabling him.”

“I am supporting love.”

Max looked at Jimmy.

Jimmy looked at Cleo.

Cleo blinked.

Max sighed. “Five minutes.”

Jimmy loved Max.

Max put him down.

Jimmy trotted to Cleo with great dignity.

Behind him, Max and Élise remained near the door.

“So,” Élise said. “Wine?”

“Tomorrow?” Max asked.

“I’m free tomorrow.”

“I’m free after training.”

“Is that afternoon or evening?”

“Depends if my trainer wants to kill me.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“No. He usually fails.”

Élise laughed again.

Jimmy settled beside Cleo.

This was excellent.

The following afternoon, Max spent too long choosing a shirt.

Jimmy knew this because Max changed three times.

Max did not usually change three times. Max usually wore the first thing that did not smell unacceptable. Sometimes even that standard was flexible.

Sassy sat on the bed and watched him with cool disdain.

Jimmy sat beside her.

They were united, briefly, in judgment.

Max held up a dark shirt.

Sassy blinked.

Max held up a lighter one.

Jimmy yawned.

Max looked at them. “You are no help.”

Sassy began washing her shoulder.

Max wore the dark shirt.

He smelled nervous, though he would have denied this under oath.

He picked up the wine bottle from the counter, then put it down, then picked it up again.

Jimmy followed him to the door.

“No,” Max said immediately.

Jimmy sat.

Max pointed at him. “You are not coming.”

Jimmy looked wounded.

“You are the reason this is happening,” Max said. “You do not also get to attend.”

Jimmy meowed.

Max crouched. “No.”

Jimmy meowed again, softer.

Max’s face changed.

Jimmy knew this face.

Victory was close.

Then Sassy walked over and smacked Jimmy on the back of the head.

Max stood. “Thank you, Sassy.”

Sassy accepted this praise with the regal indifference of someone who had done it for herself.

Max left.

Without Jimmy.

This was unforgivable.

Jimmy sat by the door for three minutes.

Then he went to the balcony.

Sassy followed him.

The lights were on next door. Through the glass, Jimmy could see Max standing in Élise’s kitchen while Élise poured wine. Cleo was on the bar stool, which Jimmy admired because Max never let him sit on the bar stools unless Max did not see him do it.

Max looked more relaxed now.

Élise was smiling.

Cleo flicked her tail.

Jimmy pressed one paw to the glass.

Sassy sat beside him.

For once, she did not hit him.

They watched.

Max laughed at something Élise said. Élise touched his arm. Max looked down at her hand, then back at her face.

Jimmy did not understand everything humans said.

He understood tone.

He understood warmth.

He understood Max looking like the apartment had become a little less empty while he stood in someone else’s kitchen.

Sassy’s tail brushed his.

Jimmy leaned into her side.

She allowed it for seven seconds.

Then she bit his ear.

Normal.

Max came home very late.

Jimmy was waiting in the hallway.

Sassy pretended she was not.

Max opened the door quietly, stepped inside, and looked down at them.

“You two are creepy,” he said.

Jimmy smelled Élise on him.

Wine. Vanilla. Flowers.

Also Cleo.

Jimmy immediately forgave him.

Max locked the door, kicked off his shoes, and bent to scratch Jimmy under the chin.

“She asked if you can come over tomorrow,” Max said.

Jimmy perked up.

“For Cleo,” Max added.

Jimmy purred.

Max smiled faintly.

Then he looked at Sassy. “She asked about you too.”

Sassy stared at him.

Max grinned. “Yes, I told her you are horrible.”

Sassy turned and walked away.

Jimmy thought this was fair.

The visits became regular after that.

Sometimes Jimmy went to see Cleo.

Sometimes Cleo came over to see Jimmy, carried in Élise’s arms like royalty visiting a lesser court.

The first time Cleo entered Max’s apartment, Sassy acted as though an enemy nation had invaded.

She sat on top of the bookshelf and glared down at the white Persian with magnificent hatred.

Cleo did not care.

Cleo walked directly to Jimmy’s favourite blanket, sniffed it, and sat on it.

Jimmy nearly fainted.

Sassy hissed.

Cleo blinked slowly.

Sassy seemed offended by the elegance of the response.

Max, standing beside Élise, whispered, “This is going better than expected.”

Élise whispered back, “Sassy looks like she is planning a coup.”

“She always looks like that.”

“Has she ever attempted one?”

“Several.”

Élise laughed softly and leaned into Max’s side.

Max went still for one tiny second before his arm moved around her waist like he had been doing it for years.

Jimmy saw.

Sassy saw.

Cleo probably knew already.

Cleo knew many things.

Later, when Élise and Max sat on the sofa with wine glasses on the coffee table, Jimmy lay on the rug beside Cleo. Sassy remained on the bookshelf, refusing to participate in diplomatic relations.

Élise’s voice was soft.

“I’m glad he escaped,” she said.

Max hummed. “Jimmy?”

“Yes.”

“He is very pleased with himself.”

“He should be.”

Max looked at Jimmy.

Jimmy closed his eyes and pretended not to listen.

“He is still a menace,” Max said.

Élise said, “Maybe. But a useful one.”

Max was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “Yes.”

Jimmy’s chest warmed.

He did not know what useful meant, exactly.

But Max’s voice was soft.

That was enough.

Cleo shifted closer until her side touched his.

Jimmy stopped breathing.

Sassy, from the bookshelf, made a noise of disgust.

Jimmy ignored her.

His sister could be mean.

Max could be stubborn.

Humans could be very slow.

Glass doors could be cruel.

But Jimmy had known love when he saw it.

White fur glowing in afternoon sun.

A gold bell.

A slow blink from a balcony.

And now, Max laughing softly beside Élise while Cleo slept next to Jimmy on the rug.

Jimmy had crossed kingdoms for this.

He had escaped four times.

He had been smacked by Sassy, carried by Max, praised by Élise, and blessed by Cleo’s presence.

Worth it.

Completely worth it.

Then Cleo opened one rainwater eye and gently placed her paw on top of Jimmy’s.

Jimmy purred so loudly Max looked over.

Élise smiled.

Sassy jumped down from the bookshelf, marched across the room, and smacked him.

Jimmy barely felt it.

Lando held up his arm, twisting his wrist so the customized sapphire casing caught the morning light filtering through the tinted windows. He wore a grin so smug it bordered on insufferable. "Custom one-of-one. Matte black with papaya accents. Skeleton dial. Do you like it?"

"Did McLaren give you that for the podium in Budapest?" Oscar asked, taking a slow sip of his water, trying to calculate the retail value in his head and failing.

"No," Lando said happily, resting his chin on his hand and gazing across the room. "Y/N bought it for me."

Oscar choked slightly. He grabbed a napkin, coughing into it before staring at his teammate. "She bought you a two-million-dollar watch?"

"I was a very good boy this month," Lando stated, utterly shameless, adjusting the strap with a reverent touch. "I didn't break any of her antique vases while streaming in the living room, I finished all my media duties without complaining, and I let her pick the movie three nights in a row. So, I got a treat."

Oscar just stared at him, blinking slowly. "You know everyone can hear you, right? You sound like a kept man."

"Oscar, mate," Lando patted the younger driver's shoulder with profound sincerity. "I am a kept man. It’s fantastic. You should try it. The pressure is completely off. If I total the car tomorrow, my sugar mama can literally just buy the team and fire everyone who yells at me."

Across the room, you were standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, completely ignoring the bustling mechanics and catering staff. You had a sleek earpiece in, your posture rigid, eyes narrowed at the live market data scrolling across your iPad. You were dressed impeccably in a sharp, tailored charcoal suit that screamed effortless power, the jacket unbuttoned just enough to hint at a black silk camisole underneath.

"I don't care if the European Central Bank is raising rates," you said into the earpiece. Your voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a lethal, cutting edge that made a passing aerodynamicist flinch and quicken his pace. "I told Sterling to liquidate the telecom assets by Friday. If he wants to drag his feet, tell him he has until noon to pack up his desk. I’ll replace him with an algorithm that actually understands liquidity."

A beat of silence. You smirked, a dangerous, thrilling expression. "Good. Have the contracts on my desk by Monday."

You tapped the earpiece to end the call, slipping the iPad under your arm. The fierce, boardroom expression softened the exact second your eyes locked onto Lando across the room.

Lando practically melted into his chair. "God, she’s so hot when she destroys people's careers," he whispered to Oscar, a dopey, lovesick smile spreading across his face.

Oscar shook his head, picking up his plate. "I'm going to engineering. You two are terrifying."

As Oscar retreated, you walked over to the table. The atmosphere in the room always seemed to shift when you moved—people naturally parted, giving you a wide berth out of a mixture of deep respect and lingering intimidation. You trailed a hand over the back of Lando's chair before resting it heavily on the nape of his neck.

His eyes fluttered shut for a brief second as he leaned back into your touch, instantly pliant. All the cheeky bravado he had shown Oscar evaporated, replaced by a quiet, absolute devotion.

"Everything alright, darling?" Lando asked softly, tilting his head back to look up at you upside down.

"Just some corporate deadweight," you murmured, your fingers gently playing with the short, soft curls at the base of his neck. You gave the strands a light, grounding tug. "How is your focus this morning? Are you ready for FP1?"

"Always," he beamed, looking up at you like you hung the moon in the sky. He reached up, his fingers wrapping gently around your wrist to keep your hand exactly where it was.

"Good," you praised, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "Because if you put it on pole tomorrow, I have something else picked out for you. Something a little faster than a watch."

Lando’s eyes widened, the dark pupils blown out. "Really? Is it the vintage Porsche? The silver one?"

"Don't push your luck, pretty boy," you teased, leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek. "Get in the car and do your job first. Then we'll discuss your allowance."

"Yes, ma'am," Lando breathed, already scrambling up to grab his helmet, more motivated for a practice session than he had been all season.

The qualifying session had been an unmitigated disaster. Red flags, terrible timing out of the garage, and a catastrophic miscommunication on the pit wall meant Lando was knocked out in Q2. He would be starting P14 for Sunday’s race.

When he stormed into his private driver's room at the back of the McLaren motorhome, the door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the hinges. He was pacing like a caged animal, the top half of his fireproof race suit peeled down and tied aggressively around his waist. His hands were pulling at his sweat-damp curls, his chest heaving as he spiraled. The heavy, crushing weight of self-criticism was dragging him down into a dark, frantic headspace.

"I had the pace!" Lando ranted, kicking his Puma race boot against the base of the small sofa. "I had the fucking pace, and they kept me in the garage for thirty seconds too long! It’s a joke. The whole strategy was an absolute joke. I'm going to be stuck in a DRS train all afternoon tomorrow because no one knows how to look at a weather radar!"

You were sitting calmly in the leather armchair in the corner, a stark contrast to his hurricane of anxiety. You had anticipated this. You watched him pace back and forth for exactly two minutes, letting him get the initial, explosive burst of adrenaline out of his system.

When he finally kicked his heavy carbon-fiber helmet bag, sending it sliding across the carpet, you decided he was done.

"Lando."

You didn't raise your voice. You didn't need to. The low, authoritative tone cut straight through his panic like a knife through silk.

He froze, his shoulders rigid, but he didn't look at you. He was staring at the wall, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. "What? They ruined the lap, Y/N. I can't even—"

"Lando. Look at me."

It was a command, not a request. Slowly, reluctantly, his eyes dragged over to meet yours. The sheer panic in his gaze made your chest ache slightly, but your face remained an unreadable mask of absolute control.

"Come here," you ordered smoothly, dropping your hands to rest on your thighs.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, the adrenaline still screaming at him to fight or flee, before he crossed the small room. He stopped a foot in front of your chair, looking down at you, still vibrating with nervous, angry energy.

"Sit." You pointed a single manicured finger to the floor right between your knees.

Lando swallowed hard. The defiant, furious driver who had just been screaming at his race engineer over the radio completely vanished. Without a single word of protest, he dropped to his knees, slotting his body between your legs.

You leaned forward, taking his face in both of your hands. Your grip was firm, holding him completely still. You forced him to hold your gaze, projecting an unwavering, terrifyingly calm aura until you felt the rigid tension in his neck begin to loosen.

"Breathe," you instructed softly but firmly.

He took a jagged, shaky breath in.

"Again. Slower. From your stomach."

He followed your instruction perfectly, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as your thumbs began a slow, deliberate stroke over his cheekbones.

"You are spiraling over something that is already in the past," you said, your voice a dark velvet purr that wrapped around him, demanding his complete attention. "Look at me. Did you make the strategy call to stay in the garage?"

"No," he whispered, his eyes opening to lock onto yours.

"Could you control the traffic in sector three?"

"No."

"Did you overdrive the car, or did you do exactly what was asked of you with the track position you had?"

"I did what I could," he answered, his voice dropping in pitch.

"Then you are wasting my time and yours by throwing a tantrum over variables outside of your control," you stated, your tone brooking no argument. "You are one of the best drivers on this grid. You will start P14 tomorrow, you will carve your way through the midfield, and you will bring home points. Do you understand me?"

The absolute certainty in your voice washed over him like a heavy, comforting blanket. He didn't have to think; he just had to listen to you. He didn't have to carry the weight of the strategy failure; he just had to obey you. The submission grounded him entirely, pulling him out of his own head.

"Yes," he murmured, his hands coming up to grip your thighs, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your trousers as he sought an anchor.

"Yes, what?" you corrected gently, applying a slight pressure to his jaw to tilt his chin up higher.

A dark, appreciative flush crept up his neck, and a spark of clarity returned to his eyes. He leaned his weight forward, resting his chest against your knees. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good boy," you praised, a slow, genuine smile finally curving your lips. You leaned down and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to his forehead. The storm had passed. "Now, get up, go shower, and put on the navy suit I laid out for you. We have a dinner reservation with Zak and the sponsors in an hour, and you are going to smile and be perfectly charming."

Lando stood up smoothly, the frantic energy completely drained out of him, replaced by a focused, devoted calm. The anger was gone, leaving only an intense loyalty.

"Whatever you want, Y/N."

-

The Monaco Winter Gala was the undisputed highlight of the off-season. It was a suffocating sea of flashing bulbs, inherited wealth, and exorbitant diamonds. Usually, Formula 1 drivers were the undisputed stars of these events, strutting down the carpet with models on their arms, soaking up the adoration.

Not tonight.

You stepped out of the blacked-out Maybach looking like a goddess of war descending from Olympus. You wore a backless, emerald-green Tom Ford gown that fit you like liquid glass. The sharp cut of the silk emphasized your posture, and your expression was cool, regal, and entirely untouchable as the cameras erupted into a blinding frenzy.

Lando stepped out right behind you. He was wearing a sharp, custom-fitted velvet tuxedo that accentuated his broad shoulders, but what caught everyone's attention wasn't his tailoring. It was what he was holding.

In his left hand, he casually dangled your small, heavy crystal-encrusted clutch. In his right, draped carefully over his forearm, was your black faux-fur coat.

A reporter thrust a microphone over the velvet rope as you both walked down the carpet, the press aggressively vying for his attention. "Lando! Lando! How are preparations going for the new season? Are you aiming for a championship run this year?"

Lando stopped, offering the reporter a brilliant, carefree smile. He subtly stepped slightly behind you, a deliberate physical shift to ensure you remained the focal point of the cameras.

"Oh, you'll have to ask Andrea about the car," Lando laughed, gesturing vaguely with the hand holding your diamond clutch. "I'm strictly off the clock tonight."

"But surely you have thoughts on the new aerodynamic regulations?" another reporter pressed, bewildered by his casual dismissal of his own career.

"Honestly?" Lando leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially as if sharing a secret. "I have no idea. I’m just the arm candy tonight. I’m here to hold my partner's coat, tell her how gorgeous she looks, and drink the expensive champagne."

The reporters blinked, completely disarmed. Most men in his position—especially elite athletes—would be fighting to assert their dominance, desperate to prove they weren't overshadowed by their older, hyper-successful partner. The fragile masculinity of the paddock dictated that the driver was always the sun, and the WAGs were merely orbiting planets.

Lando didn't care. He actively reveled in your shadow, perfectly content to orbit you. He knew exactly who was in charge, and he loved it.

You paused a few steps ahead, looking over your bare shoulder at him with an elegantly arched eyebrow. "Are you coming, darling, or are you going to gossip with the press all night?"

"Coming, boss!" Lando chirped happily, utterly unfazed by the nickname slipping out in public.

He jogged a few steps to catch up with you, slipping his free arm smoothly around your waist. As you walked toward the grand entrance of the casino, away from the screaming press, you tilted your head slightly toward him.

"You're enjoying this way too much," you murmured, your lips barely moving.

"Are you kidding?" Lando whispered back, his breath tickling your ear. He squeezed your waist affectionately. "Half the men on this carpet are completely terrified of you, and the other half wish they were me. I’m living the absolute dream."

You smirked, running a manicured fingernail lightly over the velvet lapel of his tuxedo, feeling his breath hitch slightly at the contact. "Keep acting like such a good boy, and I might just raise your allowance."

Lando’s eyes darkened instantly. The playful puppy-dog energy morphed into something hungrier, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he followed you inside the venue.

"Yes, ma'am."

The doors to the Monaco penthouse clicked shut, instantly silencing the dull roar of the city below. The gala had been a triumph. You had successfully backed two rival hedge fund managers into a corner, secured a verbal agreement on a multi-million dollar tech merger, and looked flawless doing it.

You let out a long, slow exhale, dropping the Iron Lady persona the moment the deadbolt slid into place. You kicked off your Tom Ford stilettos, the crystal-embellished heels hitting the plush carpet with a soft thud.

Before you could even reach for the clasp of your gown, Lando was there.

He had already shed his velvet tuxedo jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of a pristine white armchair. He stepped up behind you, his hands warm and steady as he gently brushed your hair over your shoulder.

"Tired?" he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the bare skin of your shoulder blade.

"Exhausted," you admitted, closing your eyes and leaning back against his chest. "Marcus Thorne talked at me for forty-five minutes about cryptocurrency. I almost threw my champagne in his face."

"You were incredibly restrained," Lando praised, his fingers finding the hidden zipper at the base of your spine. He pulled it down with agonizing slowness. "And incredibly intimidating. Did you see the way the CEO of OmniCorp looked at you when you corrected his quarterly projections?"

"He’s an idiot who over-leverages his assets," you hummed, letting the heavy silk of the gown pool around your ankles. You were left in nothing but your black lace lingerie and a diamond necklace.

Lando’s hands immediately moved to your waist, holding you with a reverence that bordered on worship. In the high-stakes world you inhabited, men constantly tried to prove they were smarter, louder, or richer than you. Lando never tried to compete. He simply existed to support you, content to be the soft place you landed after going to war.

"Come here," he whispered, guiding you toward the plush velvet sofa in the center of the living room. "Sit."

You raised an eyebrow at his use of your favorite command, but you complied, sinking into the cushions with a sigh of relief.

Lando didn't sit beside you. Instead, he dropped to his knees on the thick rug, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt. He took your bare right foot in his hands, his thumbs pressing firmly into the aching arch.

A quiet groan escaped your lips, your head falling back against the sofa. "God. That’s exactly it."

"I know," he smiled, his eyes fixed on his task. He massaged the soreness away with practiced, rhythmic precision. "You carry the whole world, Y/N. You're allowed to let me carry you sometimes."

You opened one eye to look down at him. The dim lighting of the penthouse cast shadows over his sharp jawline, his curls slightly messy from the long night. He looked beautiful, entirely focused on pleasing you.

"You make a very good trophy husband, Lando Norris," you murmured, reaching down to trace the line of his cheekbone with your fingertips.

Lando leaned into your touch, turning his head to press a kiss into your palm. "It’s the best job in the world. The perks are amazing, the boss is brilliant, and the bonuses are highly motivating."

"Speaking of bonuses," you said, your voice dropping an octave, sliding effortlessly back into the commanding tone that made his breath hitch. You tapped his chin with your index finger, tilting his face up so his dark eyes met yours. "I recall promising you a raise in your allowance if you behaved tonight."

Lando swallowed hard, his hands stilling on your calves. The playful energy completely vanished, replaced by a heavy, devoted anticipation. "I was very good, Y/N. I held your coat. I didn't say anything stupid to the press."

"You were perfect," you praised smoothly, sliding your hand into his curls and giving a firm, grounding tug. "Take off my necklace, Lando. Then we can discuss exactly how you're going to earn that vintage Porsche."

Lando’s eyes darkened, completely entirely captivated by you. He leaned forward, his hands trembling just slightly as he reached for the diamond clasp at the nape of your neck.

"Yes, ma'am," he whispered.

© 2025-2026 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

"Chin up, love," Lando whispered, his hand finding the small of your back as you navigated the entrance to the McLaren end-of-season gala. He squeezed gently. "You look incredible."

You offered him a tight smile. "I look like I’m chaperone to the prom king."

"Don't start," he teased, though his eyes held a flicker of worry. He knew what the comments section looked like.

Gold digger. She’s having a mid-life crisis. Does he pay for her wrinkles cream? Obviously using him for the lifestyle.

The narrative was exhausting. Because you kept your professional life aggressively private under your maiden name, the world assumed you were a "professional girlfriend." They saw the designer gowns and the paddock passes and assumed Lando footed the bill.

They didn't know how to act around you. The WAGs, mostly in their early twenties, treated you with a polite, terrified distance, as if catching up simply wasn't possible. The sponsors looked right through you, assuming you were just decorative arm candy with an expiration date.

The gala was in full swing. You had separated from Lando so he could do a round of interviews. You stood near the bar, sipping sparkling water, checking emails on your phone.

"Enjoying the free champagne?"

You looked up. It was the wife of a minor sponsor—a woman who had made her disdain for your relationship very clear in the past. She offered a saccharine smile.

"It's water," you said calmly.

"Oh, pacing yourself? Smart," she swirled her wine. "It must be exhausting, keeping up with someone... of Lando's energy. I honestly don't know how you do it. I’d feel so guilty, dragging him down."

You set your jaw. "Lando makes his own choices."

"Does he?" She stepped closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Look, we all know how this works. You get the bags, the trips, the exposure. But don't you think he deserves someone who isn't... well, looking for a retirement plan?"

The insult was so sharp, so blatant, that for a second, you were stunned.

Before you could respond, a booming voice cut through the noise of the party.

"Y/N? Is that Y/N L/N?"

The atmosphere shifted. A man in a sharp tuxedo was beelining toward you, flanked by two assistants. The sponsor's wife’s eyes went wide. It was Sir Marcus Thorne—a tech mogul and one of the wealthiest men in the room, a whale that McLaren had been trying to court for sponsorship for three years without success.

He walked right past the sponsor's wife, ignoring her completely, and stopped in front of you with a beaming smile.

"It is you," Thorne said, extending a hand. "My assistant said you might be here, but I didn't believe it. I’ve been trying to get a meeting with your firm for six months."

You shifted modes instantly. The girlfriend mask dropped; the CEO stepped forward. You shook his hand firmly. "Hello, Marcus. My team told me you reached out. We’re currently restructuring our Asian portfolio, so my calendar has been... unforgiving."

The sponsor’s wife looked like she had swallowed a lemon. "You... you know each other?"

Thorne glanced at her with annoyance, then looked back at you with reverence. "Know her? This woman is the reason my company didn't go under in 2019. Her venture capital firm led the Series B funding when everyone else laughed at us. She’s the sharpest mind in fintech."

He turned back to you. "Y/N, seriously, the merger proposal. I need your eyes on it. Name your price for a consultation."

"I'm on holiday, Marcus," you said smoothly, a small smirk playing on your lips. "But call my office Monday. If you’re willing to meet my terms regarding the sustainability clause, we can talk."

"Done," Thorne said immediately. "Whatever you want."

Suddenly, a warm arm wrapped around your waist. Lando appeared, looking between the stunned sponsor's wife and the eager billionaire.

"Everything okay over here?" Lando asked, his tone protective.

"Lando!" Thorne exclaimed. "You didn't tell me you were dating the Iron Lady of Venture Capital. I’ve been trying to get McLaren to sign with me just to get close to her network."

Lando blinked, then a slow, cheeky grin spread across his face. He looked at you, his eyes dancing with absolute delight.

"Yeah, well," Lando shrugged, pulling you closer. "I keep telling people she's the sugar mama, not me. No one listens."

The silence from the critics was deafening.

Later that night, back in the hotel room, you were taking off your earrings while Lando sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling through Twitter. He started laughing.

"What?" you asked, tired but happy.

"The narrative is shifting," he grinned, turning the phone to you.

The headline read: Norris's Partner Revealed as Tech Mogul: Is Lando the Trophy Boyfriend?

Lando fell back onto the mattress, arms spread wide. "Finally! I've always wanted to be a trophy husband. Do I get an allowance?"

You crawled onto the bed, hovering over him, and kissed his nose. "If you're good," you teased. "I might buy you that vintage kart you were looking at."

"I love you," he murmured, his hands finding your waist. "And I love that you're terrifyingly successful. But mostly I just love you."

"I love you too, Lando."

"Good," he smirked. "Now, about that allowance..."

The morning after the gala revelation, the vibe in the paddock had shifted. You noticed fewer judgmental stares and significantly more respectful nods. But the biggest change was waiting for you inside the McLaren hospitality unit.

You and Lando walked in, looking for a quick lunch before his engineering briefing. Lando had his arm draped casually over your shoulders, humming a tune, while you checked the FTSE 100 on your phone.

"Lando! Y/N! Perfect timing!"

Zak Brown didn't just walk over; he practically bounced towards the table. He was holding a stack of papers in one hand and an iPad in the other. He ignored his star driver almost entirely, focusing his laser-beam intensity on you.

"Good morning, Zak," you said, slipping your phone into your pocket. "Everything alright?"

"Better than alright. I was doing some reading," Zak said, dropping the stack of papers onto the table with a thud. "I didn't realize that you were the architect behind the restructuring of the Omni-Global merger last year. That was a masterclass in asset reallocation."

Lando grabbed a bread roll from the basket, looking between the two of you. "Here we go..."

You smiled politely. "It had its challenges. Why do you ask, Zak?"

Zak pulled out a chair and sat down uninvited, leaning in close. "Okay, hypothetically speaking. If someone—let's call him a Team Principal—was trying to navigate the complexities of the cost cap while trying to maximize wind tunnel investment without triggering an audit, how would you approach the amortization schedule?"

Lando choked on his bread. "Zak, are you asking my girlfriend to do our accounting?"

"Not accounting, Lando. Strategy," Zak corrected, waving a hand dismissively at Lando. He turned back to you with puppy-dog eyes. "We have a board meeting on Tuesday. I’ve got three different financial models, and none of them feel 'aggressive' enough. Just a ten-minute look? Your fee is covered, obviously. Or I can pay you in papaya merch?"

You laughed, a genuine, rich sound that made Lando grin. The power dynamic had completely flipped. Usually, Zak was the boss, the authority figure. Now, he was looking at you like you held the keys to the kingdom.

"I don't need merch, Zak," you said, reaching for the iPad he was offering. "But if I find a loophole in your Capital Expenditure forecast, I want that vintage Senna poster from your office for Lando’s birthday."

Lando’s eyes went wide. "Wait, the signed one? He never lets anyone touch that!"

Zak hesitated for exactly one second. "Deal. It’s yours."

You swiped through the spreadsheet on the iPad, your brow furrowing as you switched into work mode. The table fell silent. Lando just sat there, chewing his lunch, watching you work. He looked incredibly smug.

A young mechanic walked by and paused, confused by the sight of the Team CEO nervously waiting while the driver's "older girlfriend" critiqued the team's financial future.

"Here," you said after two minutes, tapping a cell. "You're categorizing this software upgrade as an operational expense. If you reclassify it as R&D under the new sustainability exemption clause 4.2, you free up about $1.5 million in the cap."

Zak stared at the screen. He zoomed in. He blinked. Then, he looked at you with pure awe.

"That... that is brilliant. That’s an extra front wing upgrade." He stood up, looking like he wanted to hug you but settling for a firm handshake. "Y/N, you are a genius. You are welcome in this garage anytime. Anywhere. Do you want a headset? You can have a headset."

"I'm good, Zak. Just get the poster framed," you teased.

As Zak rushed off to call the finance department, screaming "I found a million and a half!" into his phone, Lando leaned over and kissed your cheek.

"You're so hot when you talk about amortization," he whispered.

You rolled your eyes, picking up your fork. "Eat your pasta, Trophy Boy. I've got to earn your birthday present."

Lando sighed contentedly, leaning back in his chair. "Best relationship ever."

Lando was slumped in a beanbag chair, tossing a grape into the air and trying to catch it in his mouth. He missed. It bounced off his nose.

"Lando," a serious voice interrupted his game.

Lando looked up. Carlos was standing over him, arms crossed, looking intense. Beside him, Max was leaning against the wall, and George was holding a notebook. It looked like an intervention.

"What?" Lando asked, sitting up. "I didn't touch your hair gel, Carlos."

"This isn't about hair," Carlos said, crouching down to be at eye level. "It's about yields."

"Yields?" Lando blinked. "Like... yielding the corner?"

"No, mate," Max chimed in, grinning. "Financial yields. We heard about what your missus did for Zak. Word is she’s the Wolf of Wall Street but, you know, prettier and without the crimes."

George tapped his notebook with a pen. "I’ve been looking into emerging markets in Southeast Asia, specifically regarding lithium mining for EV batteries. I assume Y/N has discussed the volatility of that sector with you over dinner?"

Lando stared at them blankly. "We talked about what kind of pizza to order last night. She likes pineapple. It’s controversial."

"Don't play dumb, cabrón," Carlos pressed, looking around to make sure no one was listening. "I have some assets I want to move. Should I go into bonds? Or is real estate in Monaco still the safe bet given the inflation rates?"

Lando panic-swallowed his grape. "Uh... she mentioned... 'bulls' once?"

"Bull market!" George wrote it down furiously. "She thinks we're in a bull market. bullish on commodities? Or tech?"

"I think she was talking about a Red Bull," Lando mumbled, but they weren't listening.

"And what about crypto?" Max asked, eyes wide. "Is it dead? Tell me it's not dead."

Lando looked at three of the best drivers in the world, hanging on his every word as if he were an oracle. He decided to wing it. He tried to remember words he’d heard you say on conference calls while he was playing Call of Duty in the background.

"Okay," Lando said confidently. "You guys need to... diversify your... liquidity? And leverage the... syrup."

"Syrup?" Carlos frowned. "Is that code for Canadian oil?"

"Yes," Lando lied. "Exactly."

Just then, the door opened. You walked in, wearing a VIP guest pass and holding Lando's sunglasses which he’d forgotten in the motorhome.

"Lando, you forgot your—" You stopped.

The scene before you was bizarre. Lando was in a beanbag. Carlos, Max, and George were huddled around him like disciples.

"Y/N!" Carlos stood up immediately, smoothing his shirt. "Thank God. Lando was just telling us to invest in Canadian syrup."

You raised an eyebrow, looking down at Lando. He gave you a desperate, wide-eyed look that screamed help me.

"Maple syrup futures are actually down this quarter due to the climate patterns in Quebec," you said effortlessly, without missing a beat. "If you're looking for stability, I'd suggest looking at blue-chip tech stocks or green energy infrastructure in the Nordic region. If you're looking for high risk, high reward, talk to me about biotech."

The room went silent. George was writing so fast smoke was coming off his pen.

Max whistled. "Okay, yeah. She’s the real deal."

You walked over to Lando and placed the sunglasses on his face. "And what did you tell them, darling?"

"I told them to ask you," Lando grinned shamelessly from behind the shades.

You looked at the drivers. "If you want advice, my consultation fee is expensive."

"I'll pay it," Carlos said instantly.

"Me too," George added.

"I'll wash your car," Max offered.

You smirked. "I'll take it under consideration. But right now, my client needs to get on a parade truck and wave at people." You tapped Lando on the shoulder. "Up you get, Trophy Boy. Look pretty."

Lando scrambled up, wrapping an arm around your waist and beaming at his friends. "You heard the boss. I have to go look pretty. You guys worry about your... syrup."

As you walked him out toward the truck, you heard Carlos muttering behind you.

"I cannot believe he landed her. It makes no statistical sense."

Lando leaned in close to your ear. "They're just jealous."

"They should be," you laughed. "Now go wave."

The meeting had been going on for forty-five minutes, and the condescension in the room was thick enough to choke on.

Lando was sitting at the mahogany table, dressed in a smart polo and slacks, looking over a contract for a potential partnership with a high-end luxury watch brand. You sat beside him, silent, a notebook in front of you. You had introduced yourself simply by your first name, and the two executives—Mr. Sterling and Mr. Vance—had barely spared you a glance, assuming you were there to hold Lando's phone.

"So, as you can see, Lando," Sterling said, offering a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We’ve structured the deal to be very... simple. For you."

"Simple is good," Lando said, his voice polite but his brow furrowed. He tapped a paragraph on page four. "But this section about 'Exclusivity of Likeness.' Does this mean I can't wear my own Quadrant merch on stream?"

Vance, the younger of the two executives, chuckled. It was a patronizing sound. "Lando, look. We’re talking about a seven-figure deal here. You don't need to worry about selling t-shirts online anymore. We’re elevating your brand. You leave the business details to the adults, yeah? You just drive the car and wear the watch."

Lando’s jaw tightened. He looked at you. You hadn't moved. Your face was a mask of bored indifference, though under the table, your hand rested calmingly on his knee.

"I understand the deal," Lando pressed, trying to hold his ground. "But my streaming is part of my connection with fans. If I sign this, clause 6B says you own all digital appearances. That sounds like you own my Twitch channel."

"It's standard boilerplate language, son," Sterling waved a hand dismissively. He looked at his watch—ironically, the brand they were trying to sell. "Look, we have a dinner reservation. Just sign the LOI (Letter of Intent). It’s a great opportunity. You don't want to overthink it and lose it."

Vance leaned forward, his tone turning slightly aggressive. "Honestly, Lando, we’re doing you a favor. Most drivers would kill for this offer. Don't let your... lack of experience... ruin a good thing."

That was it.

You closed the leather folder in front of you. The sound was not loud, but in the sudden silence of the room, it sounded like a gunshot.

"Gentlemen," you spoke for the first time since the introductions. Your voice was low, smooth, and terrifyingly cold.

Sterling blinked, looking at you as if the furniture had started talking. "I'm sorry, Miss...?"

"You can address me as Ms. L/N," you said, standing up slowly. You didn't look at Lando; you kept your eyes locked on Sterling. "And you are not doing him a favor. You are attempting to strong-arm a twenty-six-year-old into signing away his IP rights in perpetuity for a fee that is, frankly, insulting."

Vance scoffed. "Excuse me? This is a standard contract."

"It is standard for a rookie with no leverage," you corrected, walking around the table. "Clause 6B grants you ownership of all digital media. Clause 9A allows you to terminate without cause if he doesn't finish in the top three of the championship, yet locks him in for five years. And the equity offer? Zero point five percent? That’s not a partnership. That’s theft."

Sterling’s face reddened. "Now look here, young lady, I don't know who you think you are—"

"I think," you cut him off, leaning your hands on the table and looming over him, "that I am the Managing Partner of Obsidian Capital, which currently holds a twelve percent short position on your company's stock because your Q3 earnings were embarrassing."

The color drained from Sterling’s face instantly. Vance’s mouth fell open. They knew the name. They knew the firm. They just hadn't realized the woman sitting quietly in the corner was the one who ran it.

"You... you're that Y/N?" Sterling stammered.

"I am," you smiled, and it was a shark's smile. "And I advise my client—Mr. Norris—to walk away. Because if you think you can bully him because he’s young, you have severely miscalculated his support system."

You turned to Lando, whose eyes were wide, a mixture of shock and absolute adoration on his face.

"Lando," you said softly. "Do you want to sign this?"

Lando stood up, buttoning his jacket. He looked at the two sweating executives, then back at you. He smirked. "I think I’ll stick to selling t-shirts online. The lady says it's a bad deal."

"Wise choice," you said. You looked back at Sterling. "Gentlemen. If you ever contact him with a contract this predatory again, I will make it my personal mission to ensure your board knows exactly why you lost the McLaren partnership. Have a lovely dinner."

You turned on your heel and walked out.

Lando scrambled to follow you. As the heavy glass doors closed behind you, the silence in the hallway was broken by Lando’s burst of laughter.

"Oh my god!" Lando grabbed your hand, swinging it. "Did you see their faces? Vance looked like he was going to cry!"

You let out a breath, the "Iron Lady" persona dropping as you smiled at him. "They were trying to take advantage of you. I wasn't going to let that happen."

Lando pulled you to a stop in the middle of the corridor. He stepped in close, wrapping his arms around your waist and looking down at you.

"You were scary," he whispered, his eyes dark with intensity. "Like, really scary."

"Too much?" you asked.

"No," he shook his head, leaning his forehead against yours. "Just right. God, you're incredible. Remind me never to get on your bad side."

"You're safe," you promised, kissing him briefly. "As long as you don't try to short-sell my affection."

"I'm long on you, Y/N," he grinned, the finance term clumsy but earnest. "All in."

"Come on," you laughed, pulling him toward the elevator. "Let's go get burgers. I'm starving, and you just saved ten percent of your future earnings."

"Burgers are on me," Lando declared proudly. "Since I'm still rich."

The silence in the room was heavy. It wasn't the silence of an empty track; it was the suffocating, polite silence of old money.

You were standing in the center of a circle of three banking CEOs and a Member of Parliament, discussing the implications of new trade tariffs on luxury imports. You looked regal in a deep velvet gown, your hair swept back, holding a glass of vintage red wine like a weapon. You were in your element—sharp, commanding, and terrifyingly adult.

Lando stood next to you, his hand tucked into the pocket of his tuxedo. He had been smiling and nodding for two hours, but the smile was starting to fracture.

"Quite," the MP said, turning his gaze to Lando. "And what is your take on the current volatility in the Asian markets, Mr. Norris? I assume Y/N has briefed you?"

Lando froze. He knew about tire degradation. He knew about fuel loads. He knew how to take Copse Corner flat out. He did not know about the Asian markets.

"I... uh," Lando cleared his throat, shifting his weight. He looked at you, panic flaring in his eyes. "I think... it's... tricky?"

The MP gave a thin, patronizing smile. "Indeed. Tricky."

He turned back to you immediately, dismissing Lando as if he were a piece of furniture.

Lando took a step back. Then another. He felt the heat rising in his neck. He felt young. Painfully, visibly young. In the paddock, he was a superstar. Here, he was just the boy standing next to the woman who mattered.

He murmured an excuse about needing the restroom and slipped away.

Ten minutes later, you found him on the terrace overlooking the Thames. The winter air was biting, but Lando was leaning against the stone railing without his coat, staring down at the dark water.

You closed the glass door softly behind you, muffling the sound of the string quartet inside.

"You're missing the auction," you said softly, walking up to the railing beside him. "They're selling a bottle of whiskey older than the United States."

Lando didn't look at you. He let out a sharp, self-deprecating huff. "I bet I couldn't afford it."

"Lando," you warned gently. "You make millions."

"Not like them," he gestured vaguely toward the hall. "Not real money. Not serious money." He finally turned to look at you, and the insecurity on his face broke your heart. "I feel like a kid playing dress-up, Y/N. Everyone in there is talking about things that actually matter—economies, laws, history. And I drive a car in circles."

He looked down at his polished shoes. "I saw how they looked at me when I couldn't answer that question. They think I'm stupid. They think I'm just your... boy toy."

You set your wine glass down on the stone ledge with a decisive clink.

"Turn around," you said.

"Y/N, I don't want to—"

"Lando. Look at me."

He turned, his shoulders slumped. You reached out and fixed his bowtie, which had gone slightly askew, your fingers brushing the warm skin of his neck.

"Those people in there?" you said, your voice low and fierce. "The MP? He cheated on his taxes three years ago. The banker on the left? He inherited his father's firm and has nearly bankrupted it twice. I am currently bailing him out."

Lando blinked. "Really?"

"Yes," you continued, stepping closer, invading his space until he had to look you in the eye. "They talk in big words to hide the fact that they are terrified of losing their relevance. But you?"

You placed your hands on his cheeks, holding his face.

"Lando, there are eight billion people on this planet. Maybe twenty of them can do what you do. You have a skill that is so rare, so dangerous, and so precise that it defies physics. You make decisions in milliseconds that would make those men inside have a heart attack."

Lando’s breathing hitched. He leaned into your touch.

"You are not a child," you whispered. "You are an elite athlete at the pinnacle of human performance. Do not let a bunch of old men in dusty suits make you feel small just because you don't follow the Nikkei index."

"I felt stupid," he admitted, his voice small.

"You're not stupid. You're just specialized," you smiled, stroking his cheekbone with your thumb. "And frankly, you look better in a tux than any of them."

A small, genuine smile finally tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah?"

"Oh, definitely," you teased. "I've been distracted all night. I missed half of what the MP said because I was looking at your shoulders."

Lando laughed, the tension finally leaving his body. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your perfume.

"I hate these parties," he mumbled against your skin.

"I know," you soothed, rubbing his back. "Twenty more minutes. We have to make an appearance for the dessert course, and then we can leave."

"Can we get McDonald's on the way home?" he asked hopefullly.

You pulled back to look at him, feigning shock. "Lando Norris, you are wearing a four-thousand-pound suit."

"So? Chicken nuggets don't care about fashion."

You laughed, kissing him softly. "Fine. Twenty minutes. Go back in there, stand tall, and if anyone asks you about the markets, just tell them you prefer to invest in 'high-speed assets.' I'll handle the rest."

"High-speed assets," Lando repeated, grinning. He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. "Okay. Let's go."

He offered you his arm, not as a nervous boy, but as your partner.

"After you, boss."

The sun was streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Monaco penthouse, but the blackout curtains in the master bedroom were drawn tight.

On the nightstand, your phone vibrated for the tenth time in as many minutes. The screen lit up with names that usually made people tremble: Board of Directors, VP of Operations, Marcus Thorne.

You didn't even look at it. You reached out a hand, blindly found the device, and flipped it face down.

"You should answer that," a raspy voice croaked from the pile of pillows beside you.

You turned over. Lando was buried under the duvet, only his curly hair and bruised nose visible. He had hit the wall at Turn 4 yesterday—a mechanical failure, not his fault—but the impact had been 20G. He was cleared by the medical center, but today he was a map of bruises, stiff muscles, and a sore neck.

"No," you whispered, shifting closer to him. "I shouldn't."

You weren't wearing the tailored Armani suit or the velvet gala gown. You were wearing soft, oversized silk pajamas and messy hair. The Iron Lady of Venture Capital was officially off the clock.

Lando shifted, wincing as his sore ribs protested. "It's the quarterly merger meeting, Y/N. You've been prepping for this for three weeks."

"And you currently have the mobility of a turtle," you countered gently. You reached out, your cool fingers brushing the hair away from his forehead to check his temperature. "The merger can wait. Or they can do it without me. If they can't manage one meeting without my oversight, I should fire them all anyway."

Lando let out a small, pained chuckle. "You're terrifying."

"I'm efficient," you corrected. "Do you need more ice for your shoulder?"

"No," he sighed, closing his eyes. "I just need... you. But I feel guilty."

"Don't."

"But you're losing money," he mumbled, half-asleep.

You propped yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him. The age gap often meant you were the one navigating the complex world while he drove, but moments like this leveled everything. He looked so young when he was sleeping, but he carried so much physical pressure.

"Lando," you said softy. "I have enough money. I can buy an island. What I can't buy is the peace of mind of knowing you're okay. I'm not going to sit in a boardroom in London worrying if you can reach the glass of water on the nightstand."

Lando opened one eye. "I could reach it. Eventually."

"Shh," you soothed, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose, careful to avoid the bruising. "Let me take care of you. It's a luxury for me, too, you know. To just... stop."

Lando’s hand emerged from the duvet, his fingers wrapping loosely around your wrist. "Okay. But I get to choose the movie we watch later."

"If you say Cars again, I'm going to work," you threatened without heat.

"It’s a classic!"

"We are watching a documentary or a rom-com. Something where cars do not talk," you stated firmly, settling back down against the pillows.

You pulled the duvet up, tucking it around his shoulders. Lando shuffled closer, resting his head carefully on your chest. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him securely.

Your phone buzzed again on the table.

Lando tensed slightly.

You sighed, reached over, picked up the phone, and held down the power button until the screen went black.

"There," you said into the silence. "The world has stopped."

Lando let out a long, contented breath, his body finally relaxing against yours. "Thanks, Y/N."

"Go to sleep, Lando."

"I love you."

"I love you too. Even when you crash my schedule."

Within minutes, his breathing evened out into deep sleep. You lay there in the quiet dark, holding the fast, chaotic, wonderful boy who had turned your orderly life upside down, thinking that this was, without a doubt, the best business decision you had ever made.

© 2025 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

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❤ tag list charles: @rebelwrites @ilovereadingsm08

🧡 tag list oscar: @teamnovalak

You looked up from your phone.

Not because he said your name.

But because he said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Not really in Monaco,” he continued, completely unaware that everyone was listening. “I mean, I love Monaco, but I don’t know. I’d want our kids to grow up somewhere quieter.”

Your eyebrows lifted.

“Our kids?”

Lando glanced at you, confused.

“What?”

“You’re already planning children?”

He shrugged, looking at you with genuinely confused look.

“Of course!”

Then he looked back at Max.

“But it depends on what Y/n wants, obviously. It’s not just my decision. Maybe she wants something completely different.”

And somehow, that made it even worse.

Because he wasn’t joking.

He wasn’t trying to sound romantic.

He was genuinely just talking about a future where you were already there.

“Man, I’m so excited to have kids,” he added with a laugh. “Actually, maybe I should retire right now.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop smiling.

Later that night, when you were alone, you finally brought it up.

“Do you realize you do that?”

Lando looked at you.

“Do what?”

“You talk about the future like it’s already guaranteed.”

He frowned slightly.

“I do?”

“Yes. The house. The kids. Marriage. You say things like they’re already happening.”

A small smile tugged at his lips.

“And it isn’t guaranteed?”

You looked at him.

“I mean… yes, I really hope so, but what if we break up?”

The smile disappeared immediately.

“Nope.”

You laughed.

“Nope?”

“Not happening.”

“Lando—”

“I’m never letting you go.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Is that a threat?”

He thought about it for a second.

“Kind of. Yes.”

You laughed.

“I’d lock you in the basement if needed.”

“Lando!”

“What? I’m just saying I have options.”

You shook your head, still laughing.

But secretly?

You loved it.

Because Lando didn’t talk about a future with you because he was trying to convince himself it would happen.

He did it because, in his mind, there was never a version where you weren’t in it.

OSCAR PIASTRI . ˚ Oscar was usually the calm one.

The organized one.

The person who had everything planned before anyone else even realized there was something to plan.

Which was why you were slightly concerned when he was running around the apartment like he had forgotten how leaving the house worked.

“We’re leaving in ten minutes,” you reminded him.

“I know.”

“You’re still not ready.”

“I am ready.”

You looked at him.

He was standing in the middle of the room, looking around like he was trying to remember what humans normally took with them when they left.

You smiled. “Are you sure?”

Oscar ignored that.

“Do you have everything?”

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yes.”

He started counting on his fingers.

“Enough clothes? Shoes?”

“Yes, Oscar.”

“Your charger?”

“Yes.”

“Sunglasses?”

“Yes.”

He pointed at you.

“Good. Because we are not buying you another pair, baby.”

You laughed.

“It happened one time. Don’t be dramatic.”

“A very expensive one time,” he reminded you.

It was the one time you had accidentally lost your only pair of sunglasses in the paddock, and Oscar had insisted on buying you a new pair.

Of course, he then spent the entire day complaining about how much they cost.

You shook your head, amused.

Then you looked at him.

“Okay, but do you have everything?”

Oscar paused.

You immediately noticed.

“Everything you need for a triple header? Passport? Wallet? Team stuff? Everything you need to actually start a race?”

“Yes.”

The answer came too quickly.

You narrowed your eyes.

“Oscar.”

“Yes?”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

He said it very calmly.

Which somehow made it less convincing.

You watched as he grabbed his bag and started checking through it.

A few seconds later, he stopped.

The silence said everything.

You crossed your arms.

“What?”

Oscar looked up.

“I might have forgotten something.”

You smiled.

“Let me guess.”

He sighed.

“My paddock pass.”

You couldn’t help laughing.

The one thing he actually needed. The one thing that would make starting the weekend slightly difficult. You reached into your own bag and pulled it out.

His eyes widened.

“When did you get that?”

“When you left it on the counter five minutes ago.”

Oscar took it from you, shaking his head.

“You packed it?”

“Yeah.”

A small smile appeared on his face.

“That’s why I love you.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide your smile.

Because that was Oscar.

He spent so much time making sure you had everything you needed that sometimes he forgot to check if he had everything himself.

And somehow, without either of you realizing it, you had started doing the same for him.

CHARLES LECLERC . ˚ It wasn’t something Charles announced or even seemed aware of.

It was just… something he did.

Every single time you walked together.

The moment you stepped onto the sidewalk, his hand would gently find yours as he guided you to the inside, taking the side closest to the road without saying a word.

The first few times, you assumed it was a coincidence.

Until one afternoon, when you deliberately switched sides.

Not even five seconds later, Charles quietly guided you back.

You looked at him.

“Charles.”

“Hm?”

“You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always make me walk on the inside.”

He glanced at where you were standing before looking back at you.

“…Yeah?”

“Why?”

He frowned slightly, genuinely confused by the question.

“So you’re farther away from the cars.”

You smiled.

“I know, but… why?”

Charles shrugged.

“I don’t know. In case something happens and you don’t end up under a car.”

You looked at him for a second, unable to stop yourself from smiling.

Aww.

“That’s so cute.”

He tilted his head.

“Isn’t that normal?”

You laughed.

“No.”

“It isn’t?”

“No, Charles.”

He looked genuinely surprised.

“I thought everyone did that.”

You shook your head, trying not to laugh.

“No, that’s just you.”

He was quiet for a moment before giving a small shrug, as if he still didn’t quite understand why it was worth talking about.

“But,” you said, slipping your hand into his, “it’s very gentlemanly of you.”

A small smile appeared on his face.

“Well… good.”

And just like that, without thinking about it, he gently switched places with you again the next time you crossed the street. It was simply what he did.

What he always would do.

MAX VERSTAPPEN . ˚

Being with Max meant getting used to time zones.

Some weekends, he was halfway across the world while you were still at home in Monaco, trying to remember what country he was in that week.

This weekend, it was Baku.

Max knew about your plans. He always did. You had the habit of telling him everything, especially when he was away. Earlier that day, you told him you were going out with the girls.

His reply was simple.

Okay. Have fun.

And that was pretty much the end of the conversation.

Or so you thought.

By the time you got home, it was well after midnight. Your feet hurt, your makeup was smudged, and all you wanted was to collapse into bed.

You had barely kicked off your heels when your phone started ringing.

Max

A small smile spread across your face before you even answered. “Max?”

His voice was sleepy, rough around the edges.

“Hey, schat. You home?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, sinking onto the edge of the bed. “I just took off my shoes.”

You could practically hear him smile through the phone.

“Good.”

A small pause followed.

“Did you have fun?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re okay?”

“I’m okay,” you assured him softly.

Then you did the math. It was three in the morning in Baku.

“Max…” you said quietly. “You have a race tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“I know.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head.

“Then why did you call?”

He sounded genuinely confused.

“To make sure you got home.”

Your chest tightened.

“You could’ve just texted.”

“I wanted to hear your voice.”

You smiled, your heart warming instantly.

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too, schat.”

“You’re going to be exhausted tomorrow.”

“I’ll survive.”

You let yourself fall back onto the bed, smiling at the ceiling.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For checking on me.”

Max was quiet for a moment.

“I always will.”

And somehow, you believed him without a second thought.

No matter what country he was in. No matter what time it was. If you were out, Max would always make sure you got home safely. Every single time.

f1

liked by user and 5.4M users

f1 Look who dropped by the paddock today! ✨🌴🏁 Welcome to Miami, @ ynuser!

user SHES GLOWING!!! TTPD era but she looks so happy 😭

user Need to know which garage she is visiting immediately

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redbullracing

liked by ynuser and 3.4M users

redbullracing We have a very special guest in the garage today. Great to have you, Y/N! 🏎️💨

user THE WAY HE IS LOOKING AT HER??? HELLO???

user Max Verstappen smiling like that on a race weekend is actually unprecedented. She cast a spell on him

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maxverstappen1

liked by ynuser and 6.1M users

maxverstappen1 Simply lovely weekend 🏆🦁

ynuser Simply the best 🧡

redbullracing Winning on and off the track

user THE HARD LAUNCH OMG IM SCREAMING

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ynuser

liked by maxverstappen1 and 12.3M users

ynuser I wrote TTPD when I thought my world was ending, wrapping myself in old memories on this tour just to feel safe. But sometimes, when you least expect it, someone comes along and shows you how to drive out of the dark. This is a story about finding light at the end of the tunnel, about moving fast, and loving fiercely. My new album, "The Life of a Showgirl", is out at midnight 🧡💚

sabrinacarpenter So incredibly proud to be a part of this 🥺💖 Let’s go Showgirls! ✨

ynuser @ sabrinacarpenter Love you so much!! We really did that 👯‍♀️🤍

maxverstappen1 Beautiful. So proud of you 🧡🔥

redbullracing We are streaming The Life of a Showgirl in the garage today 🎧🧡💚

user OMG IT'S FINALLY HAPPENING!!! 💗 A NO-SKIP ALBUM I CAN FEEL IT.

user Eldest Daughter is going to destroy me, I just know it. 😭 My therapist is not ready.

user CAN'T WAIT FOR Wi$h Li$t!!! The dollar signs???

user The collabs are always major 🔥 Sabrina Carpenter featured? Yes please

user The visuals are INSANE. We are not ready for this era

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maxverstappen1

liked by ynuser and 7.8M users

maxverstappen1 Track 7 on repeat 🤍🏆

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ynuser

liked by maxverstappen1 and 13.9M users

ynuser The tour continues, the music is yours, and my heart is completely full. Thank you for loving The Life of a Showgirl as much as I loved surviving it to make it for you. See you next weekend, Monaco! 🇲🇨✨

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ynuser

liked by maxverstappen1 and 19.8M users

ynuser In the middle of the loudest crowds and the fastest cars, I found the quietest, safest kind of love. The showgirl finally got her happy ending. A million times yes, forever 🏁🧡✨

maxverstappen1 My absolute biggest win. I love you 🦁❤️

sabrinacarpenter THE SHOUT I JUST LET OUT!!! The showgirl is getting married!!! 😭🥂💖

charles_leclerc Congratulations to you both! Welcome to Monaco 🇲🇨🙌

redbullracing From the garage to the podium, and now to forever. Congratulations Max & Y/N! 💍✨ Y/N, you’re officially stuck with us at the track now!

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"Hello," Bella says, staring straight ahead at the road, not blinking. "Welcome to Box, Box. The only show where I hold people hostage in very fast cars until they tell me their secrets. Today, I am driving a McLaren 720S. I didn't buy it. I borrowed it. From my guest’s boyfriend, who probably doesn't know I have it."

Y/N laughs, reaching up to adjust the sun visor. "He definitely knows. He made me sign a waiver before I got in here with you."

"Legal jargon," Bella dismisses with a wave of her hand, shifting gears. The car growls. "With me today is Y/N. WAG, academic weapon, and the only person who can tolerate Oscar Piastri for more than four consecutive days. Welcome."

"Thank you, Bella. It's an honor to be in Oscar's car with you."

Jump cut.

They are stopped at a red light. Bella turns her head slowly to stare directly at Y/N. The silence stretches for a full four seconds.

"You went to university," Bella states flatly.

"I did," Y/N nods, playing along perfectly with the awkward tension. "I studied Architecture."

"Architecture," Bella repeats. "So, you like looking at buildings."

"I like designing them, yeah."

"Right. Have you ever considered designing a better track for Monaco? Because I think the cars are getting a bit wide."

Y/N snorts, covering her mouth. "I'll put it on my to-do list. Right after I finish my current project."

"Good." Bella hits the gas as the light turns green, throwing them both slightly back into the bucket seats. "So. You and Oscar."

"Me and Oscar," Y/N smiles, a soft, involuntary thing that happens whenever his name is brought up. The comments section of this video is going to absolutely melt over it.

"You are high school sweethearts," Bella says, reading from a crushed piece of paper she pulled from her pocket. "You met in Australia. You’ve been together since before he had a driver's license. Which means you knew him when he had bad hair and took the bus."

"I did," Y/N confirms, grinning now. "I actually had to drive him around for a good six months because I got my license before he did."

Bella pauses, looking genuinely intrigued. "You chauffeured a Formula 1 driver?"

"In a beaten-up Toyota Yaris, yes. He was a terrible passenger. Always telling me I was braking too late."

"Did you ever just... leave him at a petrol station?"

"The thought crossed my mind," Y/N laughs. "But he used to buy me snacks, so I kept him around."

Jump cut.

They are cruising down a scenic, tree-lined road. The lighting is golden hour perfect.

"Are you not bored?" Bella asks abruptly.

Y/N blinks. "Of?"

"Him. You’ve been together for years. Most people our age change relationships like they change tires during a wet race. What is the secret to not getting the ick?"

Y/N leans her head against the headrest, smiling softly at the dashboard. "I think we just grew up together. Instead of growing apart, we just figured out how to fit into each other's weird, chaotic lives. Plus, he's actually really funny. Not just internet-funny, but actually funny."

"He has the emotional range of a very polite robot," Bella observes dryly.

"That's just what he wants you to think," Y/N teases, leaning slightly toward the camera. "Behind closed doors, he's basically a golden retriever."

Bella looks directly into the GoPro lens. "I am trying to picture Oscar Piastri fetching a tennis ball, and my brain is actively rejecting the image."

Y/N bursts into laughter, the sound filling the small cabin of the McLaren, right before Bella aggressively shifts gears again and the engine roars, drowning them out.

Jump cut.

The camera angle has shifted slightly. They are now parked in a drive-thru line, inching forward. Bella is staring blankly at the car in front of them.

"You studied Architecture," Bella says, not looking at Y/N. "Which hospitality building in the paddock is the ugliest? You can be honest. I can blur your mouth."

Y/N laughs, a hand covering her face. "I can't answer that! I have to eat in those buildings."

"Coward," Bella deadpans. "Fine. Which one has the best structural integrity for when a driver inevitably throws a tantrum and throws a chair?"

"McLaren, obviously," Y/N smiles smoothly. "Papaya is a very load-bearing color."

"Good PR answer. Zak Brown is wiring you fifty quid right now."

Jump cut.

They are back on the open road. The 720S purrs as Bella takes a sweeping bend, shockingly adept at handling the supercar despite her relaxed posture.

"What is the worst thing about living with an F1 driver?" Bella asks. "Does he try to hit the apex when he's pushing a trolley around Tesco?"

"Yes, actually," Y/N nods, completely serious. "Grocery shopping is a nightmare. He treats the dairy aisle like it's Parabolica. If someone is moving too slow with their cart, I can literally see him calculating the overtake. I have to physically hold his jacket to stop him from slipping up the inside of an old lady."

Bella blinks slowly. "Has he ever asked for DRS on a straight piece of pavement?"

"No, but he did complain about dirty air once when we were walking behind a group of tourists."

"He's sick in the head," Bella concludes.

"A little bit, yeah."

Jump cut.

Suddenly, the harsh, generic ringing of an incoming call echoes through the car's Bluetooth system. On the sleek center console, the name osc 🧡 flashes brightly.

Bella glances at the screen, then at Y/N, then back to the road. She presses the button on the steering wheel to accept the call.

"You're on Box, Box," Bella announces flatly. "State your emergency."

A beat of silence. Then, Oscar’s very calm, very Australian voice fills the cabin. "Why is my McLaren app telling me that my car is currently doing sixty in a thirty zone?"

Y/N instantly bursts into laughter, leaning out of the frame slightly.

Bella doesn't even flinch. "Your app is broken. We are stationary. I am a very safe driver."

"I can literally hear the engine, Bella," Oscar sighs. The long-suffering tone is palpable even through the speakers. "Hi, darling."

"Hi," Y/N says, grinning at the dashboard. "I'm alive. She hasn't crashed it yet."

"That's reassuring," Oscar says dryly. "Could you kindly remind the host of this kidnapping that she promised to bring it back with a full tank?"

"I don't believe in petrol," Bella says to the steering wheel. "It's a construct. Goodbye, Oscar."

Bella aggressively hits the hang-up button. The cabin returns to the low hum of the engine. She looks at Y/N.

"He seems needy."

Y/N is still wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. "So needy."

Jump cut.

The car is now parked in an empty, scenic layby overlooking the city. The engine is finally off. Bella turns her entire torso to face Y/N, clasping her hands together in her lap.

"Y/N. It has been a pleasure having you in your boyfriend's car. Do you have any final words for the internet?"

Y/N smiles, looking right into the GoPro. "Don't let Bella borrow your car."

"Spiteful," Bella mutters. "And what about Oscar? Any message for him?"

Y/N softens just a fraction, the golden hour light catching her eyes. "I'll see you at home. I'll bring snacks."

"Disgusting," Bella says, deadpan. "I'm ending the video now. Get out."

Y/N laughs, the sound fading perfectly as the screen abruptly cuts to black.

-

The screen remains black for a few seconds before simple, white text appears: BONUS FOOTAGE (Because McLaren’s PR team threatened to sue me)

Jump cut.

The GoPro is back on, but the car is moving at an agonizingly slow pace. Bella is attempting to parallel park the 720S between a skip bin and a very battered Ford Fiesta.

"You have about two inches on your left," Y/N instructs, leaning out of the passenger window, squinting. "Wait, no. That's a spatial illusion. You have zero inches."

"I am an apex predator of the road," Bella mutters, white-knuckling the carbon-fiber steering wheel. "I don't need inches."

"Bella, if you scratch this car, Oscar won't yell at you, but he will just stare at you with immense disappointment, and I promise you that's much worse."

Bella hits the brakes, freezing the car in place. She stares blankly at the dashboard. "I can't handle the disappointed Australian sigh. I'm leaving it here. We are walking."

Jump cut.

Bella and Y/N are sitting in the parked car eating chips out of a greasy paper bag.

"So," Bella says, chewing thoughtfully. "Does he sleep in his race suit?"

Y/N chokes on a chip, coughing into her hand. "No, Bella. He wears normal pajamas. Or sweatpants."

"I bet they have sponsors on them."

"They don't."

"Are you sure? Have you checked the waistband for a stray Dell logo?"

Cut to black.

Later That Evening

The heavy front door of the apartment clicked shut. Y/N dropped her keys into the small ceramic bowl by the entrance, the satisfying clink echoing through the quiet hallway.

"I'm alive," Y/N announced to the apartment. "And I brought the snacks I promised."

"In the kitchen!" Oscar’s voice called out, followed by the sound of the fridge closing.

Y/N walked in to find him leaning against the kitchen island, wearing a grey hoodie and looking infuriatingly relaxed. He raised an eyebrow as she placed a crinkled bag of his favorite crisps on the marble counter.

"You survived," Oscar observed, his lips twitching into a small smile as he pulled her in by the waist. He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "More importantly, did my car survive?"

"Barely," Y/N laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck. "She tried to parallel park near a dumpster. I had to use my architectural degree to calculate the angles so we didn't scrape the paint."

Oscar let out a quiet, genuine laugh, shaking his head. "I knew I shouldn't have given her the keys. But she cornered me in the paddock, and it’s very hard to say no when she’s staring at you without blinking."

"She asked me if you sleep in your race suit."

"What did you say?"

"I told her you had a Pirelli logo stamped on your lower back."

Oscar groaned, letting his head drop forward to rest against her shoulder. "The internet is going to run with that. Lando is never going to let me hear the end of it."

"Oh, it gets better," Y/N teased, running her fingers lightly through the hair at the nape of his neck. "I also told her that behind closed doors, you have the personality of a golden retriever."

Oscar lifted his head, narrowing his eyes at her in mock offense. "I am a ruthless competitor, Y/N. I am a fierce, cold-blooded racing driver."

"Mhm. Sure you are," Y/N smiled, reaching up to pinch his cheek. "Now, are we going to open these snacks, or is the ruthless competitor too cool for salt and vinegar?"

Oscar looked at the bag of crisps, then back at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I suppose even fierce racing drivers need a snack break."

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It was a futile effort. Lando Norris had a terrifying gleam in his eye and a magnum of Ferrari Trento already popped. He didn't just spray it; he aimed with the precision of a sniper, soaking the back of her race suit until the chilled champagne soaked right through to her fireproofs.

To her left, Oscar Piastri was methodically shaking his own bottle, looking entirely too calm for the ensuing warfare. He waited until Lando was distracted by Y/N's retaliation before absolutely drenching his teammate from the side.

It was a perfect afternoon. The car had been flawless, the strategy immaculate, and sharing the podium with her two best friends on the grid was the dream. But as Y/N wiped the stinging champagne from her eyes and looked down into the sea of papaya and neon green below, her eyes snagged on one specific figure standing near the media barriers.

Jenson Button.

He was in his Sky Sports uniform, microphone in hand, watching the podium antics with a wide, crinkling smile. When he caught Y/N looking, he raised a hand, giving her a pointed, proud thumbs-up.

Y/N’s heart did a ridiculous, entirely un-aerodynamic flip. She waved back, feeling a flush creep up her neck that had absolutely nothing to do with the exertion of a seventy-lap race.

"Staring is rude, mate," a voice yelled into her ear.

Y/N jumped, nearly slipping on the champagne-slicked podium. Lando had sidled up next to her, his arm slung heavy and wet over her shoulders. He followed her line of sight, his grin widening into something distinctly devious. "Though I suppose when it’s Jense, we can make an exception."

"Shut up, Lando," Y/N muttered, elbowing him in the ribs.

"I’m just saying," Lando sing-songed, dodging her elbow with practiced ease. "You won the British Grand Prix. If there was ever a day to finally ask him out, it’s today."

"I am not asking him out. He’s... he’s Jenson Button. And he sees me like a kid sister."

"He sees you like a phenomenal driver who is currently making heart-eyes at him from a literal pedestal," Oscar chimed in, having somehow materialized on her other side. He took a casual sip straight from his champagne bottle. "Just put yourself out of your misery, Y/N. The pining is exhausting for all of us."

"I don't pine," Y/N argued, though the argument lost some of its heat as she snuck another glance down. Jenson was already turning away, talking to a producer, completely oblivious to the fact that he was the main topic of conversation on the podium.

An hour later, the adrenaline had faded into a bone-deep, satisfying exhaustion. Y/N was sitting on the small sofa in her driver room inside the Ferrari motorhome, dressed in a fresh team t-shirt and sweatpants, aggressively towel-drying her hair.

There was a soft knock on the half-open door before a familiar face poked in.

"Just wanted to give my congratulations in person before the madness of the evening sets in."

Y/N nearly dropped the towel. Jenson leaned against the doorframe, looking effortlessly handsome in his crisp white shirt. The sheer unfairness of how good the man looked after spending hours in the hot paddock made Y/N’s throat dry.

"Thanks, Jense," she managed to say, forcing her voice to stay level. "It was a wild one out there."

"You drove brilliantly," he said, stepping into the room. His eyes were warm, full of that genuine pride that always made Y/N feel ten feet tall. "Your tire management in the second stint was textbook. I was watching your onboard; you didn't put a foot wrong."

"I had a good car under me," she deflected modestly, though she couldn't stop the beam that spread across her face.

"Don't downplay it. You earned that top step." Jenson reached out, giving her shoulder a fond, brief squeeze. The warmth of his hand lingered long after he pulled away. "You kids go have fun tonight. Don't let Lando get you in too much trouble."

"No promises," Y/N laughed, ignoring the way her pulse fluttered at the physical contact. "Have a good flight back."

"Will do. See you in Hungary, Y/N."

With a final, devastating smile, he turned and headed down the corridor. Y/N let out a long, pathetic breath, sinking back into the sofa cushions and burying her face in the towel.

"You are so painful to watch."

Y/N whipped the towel away to see Lando standing in the doorway, Oscar right behind him.

"How long have you two been standing there?" she demanded.

"Long enough to see you basically melt into a puddle because he touched your shoulder," Lando snorted, walking in and throwing himself onto the armchair opposite her. Oscar took the spot next to Y/N on the sofa, looking at her with a mix of amusement and pity.

"It's not my fault he's perfect," Y/N grumbled, tossing the damp towel at Lando's face. He caught it effortlessly. "And it doesn't matter anyway. You heard him. 'You kids go have fun.' He thinks I'm a child."

"He thinks you're twenty-something, which you are," Oscar corrected sensibly. "And he's a polite, professional guy who isn't going to hit on a younger driver in the middle of the Ferrari motorhome."

"Exactly," Lando agreed, leaning forward, the devious glint back in his eyes. "Which is why he needs a gentle push. A push in a more... relaxed environment."

Y/N narrowed her eyes at her teammate. "Lando. What did you do?"

"We are going all out tonight," Lando declared, completely ignoring her question. "Podium sweep calls for a massive celebration. I've booked out the VIP section at The Box. And I've made an executive decision regarding the guest list."

Y/N felt a sense of impending doom. "Tell me you didn't."

"I ran into Jense while he was leaving," Lando beamed, looking far too pleased with himself. "Told him the team was having a relaxed get-together to celebrate the sweep, and that it would mean a lot to you if he came for a drink."

"Lando!" Y/N groaned, burying her face in her hands.

"He's meeting us there at eleven," Lando finished smoothly. "You're welcome. Now go do your makeup. You have a World Champion to woo."

The vibrant scarlet of Y/N’s Ferrari race suit hung in the corner of her hotel room, a stark contrast to the sleek, black silk dress she had just pulled from her suitcase. It had been a historic day for the Scuderia, winning at Silverstone, but the "sweep" Lando had been bragging about was a purely personal one. Y/N in first for Ferrari, with her two McLaren best friends flanking her in second and third.

A sharp knock on the adjoining door pulled her from her nerves.

"Come in, Charles!" she called out, struggling with the clasp of her necklace.

Charles Leclerc pushed the door open, already dressed in a sharp designer jacket, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He walked over, gently batting her hands away to clasp the delicate gold chain around her neck himself.

"You look incredible," Charles said, his reflection meeting hers in the mirror. "Though, I assume the extra effort isn't just to celebrate bringing the trophy back to Maranello?"

Y/N sighed, leaning back against him slightly. "Word travels fast."

"Lando texted me. In all caps. He is very proud of himself for inviting Jenson," Charles chuckled, patting her shoulders before stepping back. "Don't stress, mon ange. Button is a gentleman, and you are a Grand Prix winner. Just be yourself."

"Myself is currently terrified and wants to hide under the duvet," Y/N admitted.

"Well, you are not allowed to hide. I need my teammate to look triumphant tonight." Charles offered her his arm. "Come on. Let's go meet the McLaren boys before they drink the club dry."

By the time Y/N and Charles arrived at the VIP section of The Box, the music was a physical weight in the air, pulsing with heavy bass. Lando and Oscar were already installed in a plush semicircular booth, surrounded by sparklers and an absurd amount of vodka.

"There she is! The woman of the hour!" Lando cheered over the music, practically vibrating with excitement. He patted the empty leather seat next to him. "Sit, sit. He isn't here yet."

"If you make this weird, Norris, I swear I'll put you in the wall in Budapest," Y/N threatened, though she slid into the booth anyway, accepting a glass of champagne from Oscar.

"I'm the perfect wingman," Lando insisted, looking offended.

Ten minutes later, the velvet rope lifted, and Y/N’s heart plummeted straight into her stomach.

Jenson looked devastating. Away from the bright paddock lights and team gear, he wore a simple, perfectly tailored dark button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He navigated the crowded club with effortless charisma, shaking a few hands before sliding into the booth—right into the empty space on Y/N's other side.

"Evening, lads," Jenson greeted, his voice a warm rumble over the heavy beat of the music. He turned his attention to Y/N, and the crinkles around his bright blue eyes appeared as he smiled. "And there's the race winner. I see you managed to get all the champagne out of your hair."

"It took three washes," Y/N laughed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was sitting. His knee casually brushed against hers, sending a spark of electricity shooting up her leg.

"Well, you look lovely," Jenson said effortlessly, pouring himself a drink. "Congratulations again, Y/N. A Ferrari win at Silverstone is something special."

"Thank you, Jense."

Y/N took a desperate sip of her champagne. He was too charming, too close, and smelled incredible—like expensive cologne and clean rain. She needed to calm down. She needed a strategy.

Liquid courage, her brain supplied unhelpfully. Just one shot to take the edge off.

One shot of tequila, generously poured by Lando, turned into two. Two turned into a vodka cranberry handed to her by Charles, who was now deep in conversation with Oscar.

By 1:30 AM, the edge wasn't just taken off; it was thoroughly obliterated. Y/N felt loose, bold, and incredibly warm. The heavy bass of the club felt like a heartbeat, and the anxiety that had been choking her all evening had evaporated, replaced by a hazy, affectionate confidence.

"You know," Y/N slurred slightly, leaning heavily against Jenson's side so he could hear her over the track. Her hand somehow found its way to his bicep, her fingers giving the solid muscle an experimental squeeze. "You're really, really pretty."

Jenson paused mid-sip, his eyes widening slightly before a soft, amused chuckle vibrated against her shoulder. "Thank you, Y/N. That's very kind. But I think you might have had a bit too much to drink."

"No, I haven't!" she protested indignantly. She tried to sit up straight to prove her sobriety, but the sudden movement made the room tilt wildly.

Jenson’s arm instinctively shot out, his large hand wrapping firmly around her waist to steady her before she could topple into the table. The firm, protective contact sent a dizzying jolt straight through her hazy brain.

"Whoa there, careful," Jenson murmured, his tone shifting from casual amusement to gentle concern. He kept his arm securely around her.

"I'm just... being honest," Y/N insisted, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. "I wanted to tell you something very important. A secret."

She leaned in, her lips hovering inches from his ear, entirely intent on confessing her undying love right there in the middle of a London nightclub. But as she inhaled, a sudden, overwhelming wave of dizziness washed over her. The flashing strobe lights became blinding, and instead of a smooth confession, she let out a soft groan and dropped her forehead heavily against his shoulder.

Across the table, Lando was trying—and failing—to muffle his laughter into his sleeve, while Charles suddenly looked very protective, leaning forward.

Jenson caught Charles's eye and gave a gentle, knowing shake of his head, silently communicating that he had it handled.

"Alright, I think the Ferrari star has officially hit her limit," Jenson said smoothly, his voice cutting through the noise. He stood up, keeping a steadying grip on Y/N’s arm and carefully bringing her to her feet with him. "I'm going to get her back to the hotel."

"I can take her, Jenson, it's no problem," Charles offered, standing up as well.

"Don't worry about it, Charles. You boys stay and celebrate. You earned it," Jenson insisted warmly. He looked down at Y/N, who was swaying slightly, her eyes closed as she clung to his shirt. "I've got her."

Lando grinned, raising his glass in a silent, triumphant toast.

"Come on, sweetheart," Jenson coaxed softly, wrapping his arm around her waist and supporting most of her weight. "Let's get you out of this noise."

The blast of cool London air outside the club was a welcome relief against Y/N's flushed skin, though it did absolutely nothing to sober her up. She stumbled slightly on the uneven pavement, but Jenson’s arm was a solid, unwavering band of steel around her waist, keeping her upright as he hailed a black cab.

"Careful, I've got you," he murmured, his hand securely on the small of her back as he guided her into the leather backseat.

Y/N slumped against the upholstery, letting out a long, dramatic sigh. Jenson climbed in beside her, giving the driver the name of her hotel before settling back. He didn't pull away; instead, he let Y/N rest her heavy head against his shoulder. The car smelled faintly of leather, but beneath it was the distinct, comforting scent of Jenson.

"You smell nice," Y/N mumbled into his shirt collar, her lack of filter fully taking the wheel. "Like... rain. And expensive things."

Jenson let out a rich, quiet laugh, the sound vibrating against her cheek. "I'll take that as a compliment. How are you feeling?"

"Dizzy," she admitted, closing her eyes. Her fingers loosely curled into the fabric of his shirt. "I think the champagne and the tequila decided to go to war in my stomach."

"That sounds about right for a podium celebration," he said gently. He reached over, his hand resting lightly over hers to keep her from tugging a button off his shirt. His thumb stroked her knuckles—a small, soothing gesture that made Y/N’s heart ache with how much she liked him.

The rest of the ride passed in a comfortable, sleepy blur. When they arrived at the hotel, Jenson expertly navigated her through the quiet, dimly lit lobby and into the elevator. Y/N leaned most of her weight against him, giggling softly when she couldn't figure out the latch on her small clutch to find her room key.

"Allow me," Jenson said with an amused smile, taking the bag from her hands and smoothly extracting the keycard.

He swiped them into her room, the heavy door clicking shut behind them to block out the rest of the world. He guided her straight to the edge of the large, plush bed, easing her down until she was sitting.

"Okay, let's get these off," he instructed softly, kneeling in front of her. He carefully unbuckled the straps of her heels, slipping them off her feet and setting them aside.

Y/N watched him through half-lidded eyes, the hazy alcohol fog making everything feel warm and surreal. He was a Formula 1 legend, a World Champion, and here he was, carefully taking off her shoes and pulling the duvet back so she could sleep. He didn't seem annoyed or burdened; he was just entirely focused on making sure she was safe and comfortable.

He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, returning with a glass of water and a cool, damp washcloth. He set the water on the nightstand next to two ibuprofen pills.

"Look at me," he murmured, stepping into the space between her knees.

Y/N tilted her head up. Jenson gently cupped her jaw with one hand, using the damp washcloth in his other hand to carefully wipe away the smudged eyeliner and glitter from under her eyes. His touch was feather-light, almost reverent. She let her eyes flutter shut, leaning into the warmth of his palm.

"Why are you so nice to me?" she whispered into the quiet room, her voice vulnerable and thick with exhaustion.

Jenson paused, his thumb gently brushing across her cheekbone before he pulled the washcloth away.

"Because I care about you, Y/N," he replied simply, his voice low and incredibly soft. He guided her shoulders down until her head hit the pillows, pulling the thick duvet up to her chin. "Now, get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."

Y/N woke up to the sensation of a jackhammer working directly behind her forehead. She groaned, throwing her arm over her eyes to block out the harsh morning sunlight filtering through the gap in the curtains.

"Good morning."

Y/N froze.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Slowly, painfully, she lowered her arm and peeked out.

Jenson was sitting in the small armchair by the window. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, dressed in the same shirt as last night, though it was slightly rumpled now. He looked entirely too put-together for someone who had babysat a drunk driver until the early hours of the morning.

The memories of the previous night came rushing back in agonizing, technicolor flashes. Calling him pretty. Squeezing his bicep. The taxi ride. Him wiping off her makeup.

"Oh my god," Y/N croaked, immediately dragging the duvet over her face to hide. "Please tell me I didn't say half the things I think I said."

Jenson chuckled, the sound rich and warm. She heard his chair scrape against the carpet, followed by the dip of the mattress as he sat on the edge of her bed. He gently pulled the duvet down just enough to reveal her mortified face.

He handed her a fresh cup of tea from room service and tapped the pills still sitting on the nightstand. "Drink. And take those."

She obeyed, swallowing the pills with a wince before clutching the warm mug in her hands. She couldn't meet his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Jenson. I made an absolute idiot of myself."

"You didn't," he assured her, his tone completely genuine. "Though I have to admit, having a Ferrari driver call me 'really, really pretty' did wonders for my ego."

Y/N flushed a deep, violent shade of scarlet, staring down at the tea leaves swirling in her cup. "I meant it," she mumbled, deciding she had already hit rock bottom and had nothing left to lose. "But I didn't mean to dump it on you while I was completely hammered. Lando kept teasing me about it, and I wanted to finally say something, but I got nervous and... well. Tequila happened."

She finally took a deep, shaky breath and forced herself to look up at him. "I really like you, Jenson. Have for a long time."

The room went quiet. Y/N braced herself for the polite, gentle rejection. The speech Charles had promised wouldn't happen, the one about how she was great but he just saw her as a friend.

Instead, Jenson shifted closer. He reached out, his large hand gently covering both of hers around the mug. His thumb lightly stroked her knuckles, just like it had in the taxi. Y/N looked at his face, completely surprised to find him smiling—a soft, incredibly fond expression that made her breath hitch.

"I know," he said softly.

Y/N blinked, her hangover temporarily forgotten. "You knew?"

"Well, Lando isn't exactly subtle. And honestly, Y/N, neither are you." He laughed lightly, shaking his head. "But I didn't want to overstep. There's an age difference, and I work for the media while you're racing... I didn't want to make you uncomfortable if I had misread the situation, or if it was just a passing paddock crush."

"It's not," she said quickly, her heart doing a frantic, joyful leap.

"I'm very glad to hear that," Jenson murmured. He reached up, his free hand gently tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. The air between them shifted, the casual, friendly tension melting into something far more intimate and real. "Because I really like you too, Y/N. Have for a very long time."

Y/N couldn't help the massive, disbelieving grin that broke out across her face, despite the pounding in her head. "So... no more liquid courage needed?"

Jenson laughed, leaning forward. His lips pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, sending a rush of warmth straight to her toes.

"No more liquid courage needed," he promised, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. "Now, finish your tea, try not to move your head too fast, and let me take you out on a proper, sober date tonight."

That evening, the chaotic bass of The Box was replaced by the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of silverware at a dimly lit, private Italian restaurant tucked away in Mayfair.

Y/N felt a different kind of nervous this time. There was no racing adrenaline to hide behind, and absolutely no tequila to blur the edges. She was completely sober, painfully aware of every time Jenson’s hand brushed hers across the crisp white tablecloth, and entirely mesmerized by the way the candlelight caught his eyes.

"You're very quiet," Jenson observed with a fond smile, taking a sip of his wine. He had insisted Y/N stick to sparkling water for the first half of the dinner, a decision her recovering head had deeply appreciated. "Regretting letting me take you out?"

"Not even a little bit," Y/N admitted quickly. She traced the rim of her water glass, a shy smile pulling at her lips. "I just keep waiting to wake up. Yesterday I was convinced you only saw me as Charles's annoying younger teammate."

"Never annoying," Jenson corrected smoothly. "Intimidatingly fast, occasionally reckless on turn four, but never annoying. And for the record, I’ve wanted to take you to dinner since Miami. I just... needed a sign that I wouldn't be crossing a line."

"Well," Y/N laughed softly, a blush warming her cheeks. "I'm pretty sure slurring 'you're really pretty' into your collar was less of a sign and more of a billboard."

"It was highly effective," he teased, his eyes crinkling. He reached across the table, his fingers gently wrapping around hers. The simple contact sent a thrill straight to her chest. "Best post-race debrief I've ever had."