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Formula 1 🦞

● Max Verstappen

Good luck, babe!

HOT! TO! GO!

Starboy interlude

● Charles Leclerc

Something sweet, something simple

Peaky Blinders 🐠

● Tommy Shelby

My love is wider, wider than Victoria lake

My love is taller, taller than the Empire State

Million dollar man

● John Shelby

After The Storm

Saltburn 🪼

● Felix Catton

Come to Saltburn

Harry Potter 🐙

● Theodore Nott

“You’re just everywhere huh?” Max scolded. He’s not a big fan of loud parties and short talk. So he left too. And met you here. Right where he thought he could have some peace.

Max rolled his eyes at your dismissive tone. Without hesitation, he swiped the cigarette from your lips and crushed it under his boot again. Just like the first time during your rookie years when he found you depressed about family pressure and neglect, smoking behind the stadium.

“Not in the mood, Verstappen” you warned. Usually you would have a nasty comeback ready to shoot at him, but not today. You only bring the cigarette closer to your mouth and take a puff.

"You're gonna burn holes through your lungs" he muttered, didn’t look at you. Just stared ahead like he was suddenly deep in thought which was rare for him.

“About what?” You said with that dismissive tone you didn’t mean to use. You’re just having a lot on your plate right now. Max turned his head slowly, jaw tight. That look in your eyes, the one that said you were done, exhausted, pissed him off more than anything. About what? Really? He exhaled sharply through his nose and finally snapped.

"...We should talk.”

"The fucking crash! What else?" His voice rose slightly before he caught himself, glancing around to see if anyone was listening. Lower now: "We both went out like idiots." A beat of silence. Then quieter still:

“You’re being ridiculous” you turn away, not wanting to even maintain eye contact, when usually, you would be staring Max nervous with your eyes. Max lets out a small “tch”, turning fully toward you now. His fingers tapped impatiently against his thigh, annoyed, frustrated.

"You scared me.”

"Ridiculous? I'm not the one who nearly spun into a wall because he was too busy trying to push me off track like a damn amateur!" He leaned in slightly, voice dropping but still intense.

"You used to race with your head. Now you're just reckless and it's pissing me off." Not because he cared or anything. Definitely not that.

“It was only one race. One, Verstappen. Don’t bristle yet” you scolded. Questioning why he’s getting all worked up when you hardly even care about your performance today. Max narrowed his eyes, studying your face, the way you avoided looking at him, the tension in your jaw. One GP? That’s all it was? Bullshit.

He knew you better than that, even if he’d never admit it out loud. You didn’t suddenly start driving like a maniac over one race.

"Cut the crap, L/N" he said flatly. "You’ve been off for weeks." It’s just Max being... weirdly serious for once.

Max blinked, then immediately scowled, his cheeks betraying him with the faintest pink tint. Damn it.

“One day without my trash talk and you're already missing me? Geez Verstappen” you joked with a faint smirk. Trying to avoid the bitter seed blooming inside of you. You didn’t want your rival to know you have been doing like shit lately.

"Missing you? Are you high?" He shoved your shoulder lightly, but there was no real force behind it. Still... that smirk of yours, the one he secretly loved hit him right in the chest like always. He crossed his arms, turning his face away to hide the stupid half-smile trying to crawl onto his lips.

“Still…I'm glad you crashed into me. Felt like I couldn't keep driving with that aching head” you shrugged.

Max went completely still. The city lights blurred below, but his focus snapped entirely to you, your voice, your words. You were glad he crashed into you? That hit harder than any impact on the track. For a second, he didn’t know what to say. No sarcastic comeback ready. No smug remark about how he saved the day. Just... silence. Then quietly, so quiet it barely carried over the hum of Singapore at night:

"...Why?” His voice sounds almost soft.

“None of your business, stickybeak” you snorted, breaking the tense atmosphere entirely by a stupid nickname you said.

"Don't give me that." he said slowly. "You don’t just say something like that and then shut down." His thumb brushed lightly over your cheekbone, briefly soft before his usual cocky mask tried to slide back on.

Max's jaw twitched. Stickybeak? Really? He leaned back, feigning offense but the corner of his mouth twitched. Only you could call him that and live. Still... he wasn't letting this go. Not now. Without warning, he grabbed your chin, gentle but firm and turned your face toward his, forcing eye contact under the dim glow of the rooftop lights.

“And why would I tell you about my stuff?” You scolded.

Max’s eyes flashed, annoyed, frustrated, but not angry at you. Never really at you. He dropped his hand from your face and exhaled sharply through his nose like a bull about to charge.

"Because I care, okay?" The words burst out before he could stop them. Then immediately…oh shit, he stiffened. Did he just say that? His ears burned. He looked away fast, jaw clenched tight like if he didn’t move a muscle, the world wouldn’t notice what just happened. But it was too late. The admission hung heavy between you both under the Singapore night sky.

Max’s lips crashed onto yours before his brain could catch up, fueled by nerves and that stupid I-care confession hanging in the air like a grenade with the pin pulled. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t slow or sweet. It was Max, reckless, desperate to shut you both up and now his heart was hammering so loud he swore you could hear it.

“Oh really?” You raise an eyebrow, a faint smirk at the admission.

When he finally pulled back an inch, both of you breathless, he didn't say anything. Just stared at your mouth like…what did I just do? And then... panic flickered across his face for half a second before he braced himself for your reaction.

“…seriously?” You muttered. Stunned? Yes, turned on? Also yes. You love it when he gets mad and starts doing stupid things that make himself regret later. It’s cute. Even this.

Max’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. He looked like a deer in headlights, actually nervous, which was so rare for him. He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze for exactly three seconds before forcing himself to meet it again.

"...Had to do it." he said quietly, voice lower now, less defensive, more honest. No smirk. No sarcasm. Just raw Max being weirdly vulnerable on a hotel rooftop after kissing his rival like an idiot who couldn't handle feelings.

Then, because silence was killing him:

"I've wanted to... since Las Vegas.”

Max blinked, then his face exploded in embarrassment. Consent? Right. Yeah. That was a thing people talked about. He opened his mouth, then closed it like a fish out of water, brain short-circuiting because…oh god, did he just kiss you without asking? His confident, cocky Red Bull persona cracked right down the middle.

“...Ever heard of consent?” You can’t help but tease your favourite person in the world again. Just by being with him makes you forget what you are mad about in the first place.

"I—" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I mean..."

Then, with zero grace:

"...Can I try again?" Voice quiet now, uncertain in that rare way only you ever got to see.

Max’s eyes narrowed…oh, you were enjoying this. Absolutely loving watching him squirm. And that pissed him off. Not because he was mad at you, but because his stupid heart kept racing and now he looked like a kicked puppy who just got rejected on live TV. Without a word, he turned sharply on his heel and took two steps away from you, arms crossed, shoulders tense. Full-on sulk mode activated. Mostly because he can’t handle such a level of embarrassment. But he can’t run away from you either, you two will still be rivals for as long as you race. The city lights reflected in his glare as he stared straight ahead at nothing important... pretending very hard that the kiss never happened.

“No?” You snorted. You just want to mess with him a little, poking more into his embarrassment.

Petty? Yes. Max? Also yes.

Max was still sulking, chin high, arms locked like a stubborn child when you suddenly yanked him back around. His breath hitched as your hand grabbed his arm and spun him to face you. For a second, he just stared, caught off guard by the sudden contact. And then... that tone. That stupidly cute playful voice of yours, the one that always made his stomach flip no matter how much he tried to fight it. All the fake anger drained from his face in an instant. Before he could say anything or overthink this, Max closed the gap between you and kissed you this time. Properly. Slowly. Like he’d been wanting to for months but was too scared or too proud to admit it until now.

“Nooo I’m just kidding, Verstappen. I wanted to kiss you too” you chuckled and whined to him. That ridiculous voice of yours only deepens Max’s annoyance.

The soft click of the elevator opening somewhere below the hallway made both of you freeze mid-kiss. Max’s lips hovered just an inch from yours, his entire body tensing like a soldier on high alert. He didn’t pull away completely, but his head tilted slightly toward the sound, ears straining. Footsteps. Light ones. Probably some late-night caretaker.

For a second, neither of you moved, heartbeats loud in your own chests and then Max slowly turned his face back toward yours with narrowed eyes that clearly said: ...Should we care?

"You look good, Verstappen" You look Max up and down, admiring his perfectly tailored suit he got for the gala night. Your fingers brushed against his chest, adjusting the tie he’d been fidgeting with all night. He wasn’t used to this, being touched so casually by you, of all people. Not during a race weekend. Not when you were supposed to be rivals glaring from across paddock garages.

The suit was black, sleek, F1 event formalwear but right now, it felt way too stuffy compared to the adrenaline rush of kissing you on a rooftop. His cheeks warmed under your touch and he stayed perfectly still, letting you fix what was already straight… because honestly? He just liked having your hands on him.

"Thanks." he mumbled, unusually shy for someone who usually had a sarcastic comment ready.

You both drove with that same relentless fire, Red Bull’s golden boy versus Mercedes’ rising star. No one else could touch #1 or #2, it was always one of you two fighting for the top spot. Max remembered how much he hated losing to you... but also how badly he wanted to beat you every single race because you were the only rival who truly matched him.

When did this…rivalry started? The memories never left Max’s head, those early days at 17, wide-eyed and hungry. The two of you were always together back then: beating each other’s ass on track like immature kids, arguing over strategy during debriefs, pushing each other to go faster in practice.

Back then? He’d never admit it but there was respect beneath all that rivalry. Maybe even something more… though neither of you would’ve said it out loud.

You, fresh-faced and cocky in your Mercedes gear, had been staring at him from across the garage during pre-race prep. Not with curiosity or politeness, but with that targeting look. The one Max had only seen on other top drivers before: I’m coming for you.

Max remembered that first Australia GP like it was yesterday. His and yours debut.

And then post-qualifying interview? You didn’t even hide it. When the interviewer asks about your opinion on your same-age rival who is also a rookie.

"Verstappen’s fast." you’d said to reporters, "but I’ll be ahead of him by race five."

Cue Max scoffing through his own interview moments later: "We'll see about that."

He never forgot the way you relished in his mistakes. Every time he messed up a corner, every off-track excursion, every botched overtake, you’d be on team radio laughing with your engineers or worse… dropping some smug comment during an interview later. Your engineers only scold and tell you to focus on the track, they were old and mature, they knew teenagers like you can be nasty with words.

From day one, it was war and honestly? He loved every second of it.

"Verstappen had it covered... until he didn't." you'd say with that infuriating smirk, like you were above it all. And post-race? You’d seek him out just to rub salt in the wound. Leaning against the Red Bull garage door after podiums where he finished second and you were first:

"Better luck next time, red bull." It pissed Max off so much… but secretly? He admired how fearless you were. How unapologetically competitive. It fuels him to be better.

And Max? He’d be fuming, still sweaty from driving, adrenaline crashing but seeing you casually chatting with his mechanics? It lit a fire in him. Once he even snapped at an engineer: "Why is he here?"

Max’s jaw clenched so tight every time you showed up at the Red Bull garage, especially after a race where you’d outshone him. You weren’t even supposed to be there. No reason to linger, no team business… but you did it anyway. Just strolling in like you owned the place, helmet under one arm, that stupid cocky grin on your face.

His team just shrugged, you were very fun to be around. You are Mercedes's rising star, the media love having both of you together for drama.

Max’s face instantly flushed, bright red all the way to his ears. Cute? Anger? That was supposed to be intimidating! He wasn’t some pouting kid, he was Max Verstappen, Red Bull’s champion, a man who fought for every inch on track!

“You’re very cute when you’re angry, Verstappen” you smirked.

At 17, neither of you had the patience or emotional control to handle rivalry and whatever weird tension was simmering underneath. When you smirked that "cute" comment right in his face, Max’s last nerve snapped. In one swift motion, fueled by pure teenage rage and embarrassment he shoved you hard. Not a punch, not even violent… but a full-on push straight out the Red Bull garage door.

But hearing that word from your smug mouth while you were standing right there in his garage… it short-circuited him completely. He opened his mouth to snap back something sharp, a "Shut up!" or maybe even a threat but nothing came out. Just silence and that ridiculous blush he couldn’t control. So instead? He glared harder… which only made you smirk wider. He got that look that says he’s going to beat you with the helmet. But can’t because there are interviewers and too many adults there.

Or that after-party when Max is 21 and still can’t get your silhouette off his head. The club was loud, bass thumping, lights flashing and Max hadn’t wanted to come. Post-race parties weren’t his thing after a loss, especially when you had just taken P1.

You stumbled back into the hallway with wide eyes as mechanics froze mid-conversation and engineers dropped their clipboards in shock. The whole paddock would be talking about this tomorrow.

But the team dragged him along anyway: "Come on, Max! You need a drink!"

And then he walked in… and there you were.

Max froze near the entrance. Jaw tightening instantly. The ugly feeling curled in Max’s chest like smoke, hot and tight, unfamiliar. He was used to being the only one you paid attention to. Even if it was through trash talk or post-race arguments, it was still him. You were always watching him on track, reacting to his moves… hell, sometimes he thought your rivalry burned hotter than anyone else’s.

At 21 years old, you were already magnetic, the center of attention without even trying. A confident smirk on your face as you leaned against the bar with some girl’s arms around your neck… laughing at something she said while her fingers played with your hair. You’re a smooth talker with a to-die-for facecard, it’s not anything surprising that any girl would want you.

The jealousy twisted into something fiercer, something physical. Off-track, you two were always competing. Bikes at the training center? You’d race down the hill and Max would beat you by a hair’s breadth but then next time, you did. Weights? Arm wrestling challenges in the gym turned into full-on battles of strength. And after sessions when you were both drenched in sweat, gasping for air… that little ritual happened without either of them realizing it. You’d grab your water bottle and chug, then toss it aside without wiping the cap. Max always drank from his too… but sometimes he didn’t wipe his mouth first either and if their bottles ever got mixed up? Or worse: if Max took a sip from yours thinking it was his? That indirect kiss tasted like hot sandy salt and rivalry.

But now? Here you were, laughing with some girl who wasn’t even into F1 or knows about it like he does and completely ignoring he existed.

Max was still catching his breath, hair damp and sticking to his forehead from the champagne spray. The victory celebration had been loud, confetti, cameras flashing but he’d slipped away from it all to lean against the Red Bull garage wall in silence. He didn’t even hear you approach at first.

The Las Vegas Grand Prix weekend was legendary, crowds screaming like it was a rock concert. And there you both were: Max in Red Bull gear and you in Mercedes cyan, always side by side on track. No other rider could touch either of you. They even started joking about who would win… but secretly? You both thrived off each other's presence.

Then your voice, dry as ever, that classic "congrats? On P1?" with zero real enthusiasm, hit him like a splash of cold water. You stood there in your team race suit, arms loosely crossed… looking more like someone paying mandatory respect than actually celebrating his win. And damn if that didn't annoy Max more than losing would have.

"Wow." he deadpanned back, voice dripping with fake sweetness. "You came all this way just to say that?" A beat of silence passed between them in the dim garage lighting… heavy with unspoken everything.

He pushed off the wall slowly, still sticky from champagne, and turned to face you fully. That intense stare, the one he saved for rivals who pissed him off just right.

Max’s breath hitched. Room 1410. Your hotel room. That smirk of yours, the one that always meant trouble lingered in the air as you walked away, your boots echoing against the concrete floor toward Mercedes's garage without looking back.

“Nope. Room 1410. If the after-party ever bores you?”

Just as Max was about to slip away, already mentally calculating how fast he could ditch the party tonight and find Room 1410, the garage doors swung open. And there they were: his parents. Jos and Sophie Verstappen, dressed casually but with that proud parent energy radiating off them. They held a bouquet of flowers, probably bought last minute at some Vegas gift shop and smiled when they saw him.

Was it an invitation? A challenge? Or just you being you… teasing him like always but this time with a hotel room number attached? He didn’t move for a solid ten seconds.

"Max!" his mom called out, stepping forward first for a hug. His dad followed right after with an arm around his shoulders. "Great race today, boy"

Max groaned internally. His dad, a former racer, had that look in his eyes: the one where he wasn’t just coming for fun. He wanted to network, chat with sponsors, catch up with old teammates and engineers. All to expand Max’s connection and career. He is a demanding man.

The timing couldn’t have been worse.

And of course… his mom was already looping her arm through Max’s like she’d do at home, except this time it was at Red Bull garage and later on… Vegas afterparty full of loud music and champagne towers.

"Come on." she said cheerfully. "We're celebrating! Your P1 win! It’s not like we are always free to come to one of your races" They weren't asking if he could leave early, they assumed he'd stay right beside them all night. Cue Max’s soul leaving his body.

Max spent the entire night smiling through gritted teeth. Every time a sponsor approached, some energy drink exec, a tire company rep, or his dad’s old teammate, he had to shake hands and listen politely while they talked about market strategy, aerodynamics from 2015, or "Remember when I raced with your father?" Meanwhile, his eyes kept darting toward the party entrance… thinking about what his evening would be like if he showed up at your door.

His mom chatted happily with other parents. His dad laughed loudly with former rivals who hadn’t seen him in years. And Max? Stuck playing the perfect Red Bull racer son, even though all he wanted was to bail and drive back to the hotel to see you.

Your manager gave you a skeptical look when you said you had a headache, but the guy didn’t push it. Racetrack stress was a valid excuse. Back at the hotel, you slipped into your room, Room 1410 and kicked off your shoes. The suite was quiet, lights dimmed. He ordered room service: a bottle of vodka, just in case and some snacks. Fruits, mostly.

The minutes ticked by slowly. You lay on your back, arm behind your head, staring at the ceiling. The TV was on, replaying the race. The soft hum of the AC and distant city noise filtering through the windows.

By 10:05 PM, your patience wore thin. The quiet of the room started feeling less like anticipation and more like rejection. Max wasn’t coming, end of story. With a sigh, you sat up and grabbed your phone off the nightstand. No texts from Max either… not even a "Hey."

You’d showered, hair still slightly damp and dressed in loose gray sweats and a dark hoodie that smelled faintly like your cologne. You picked at them fruits in the bowl absently and the vodka sat half-finished on the nightstand beside you as you waited. And waited.

Without another thought, he got up and changed again, this time into baggy black jeans, a fitted dark shirt that hugs your muscles perfectly and slipped on leather boots.

A quick text to your manager:

"Going out." Then you left Room 1410 behind...and headed straight for one of Vegas’ hottest clubs.

The club pulsed with bass and neon, crowds dancing, bodies pressed close under flashing lights. Tonight? You needed distraction. Noise. Something to drown out the disappointment simmering in your chest. You just wanted to celebrate the win of Max after he trained so hard and still couldn’t beat you in the last few races.

"Hey." She said over the music, blonde hair with perfect blowout, thin two stripes silk dress that looks like it is about to slip off her perfect body… totally your type if you closed your eyes and ignored everything else happening right now inside of your chest. The girl leaned in closer, her smile widening as you gave her a once-over. She wasn’t bad-looking, confident, easy on the eyes and clearly knew how to approach someone.

You walked straight to the bar, ordered a strong drink without hesitation and before it even arrived, some guy had already sidled up next to you with a grin.

"First time here?" She shouted over the music after taking a sip of her own drink.

That night at Las Vegas was the fuel to Max Verstappen’s reckless action tonight on the rooftop. If he could come back in time…that would have been him on your bed.

On Birmingham streets, you walking home from work, Tommy passing by in his car with a nanny holding baby Charles. You don’t speak. Just stare. A glance that says too much and nothing all at once.

The party is in full swing, candles lit, champagne flowing, powerful men and women mingling under crystal chandeliers. Grace stands near Tommy’s side, beautiful in a pale gown, baby Charles in his arms. She laughs at something the general beside you says…

Then, a gunshot. The loud bang cuts through the conversations as everyone freezes. Grace gasps and then collapses. Right there on the marble floor… blood blooming across her dress like a grotesque flower.

You move fast but not toward the chaos. You step outside into the cool night air, away from panicked guests and screaming attendants. Pull out your phone. Within minutes, you’re giving orders to your men in low tones.

"Spread out. One-kilometer radius around the gala grounds.” you instructed coldly. "Find that hitman with the sniper." Pure focus like a predator locking onto prey.

You don't question your own actions, not fully.

Why am I doing this? You thought.

You could’ve ignored it. Could’ve stayed inside, let the police handle it like a normal person. But no. You're already mobilizing your men, giving orders with chilling precision, all because Tommy is involved. Because Grace just died shielding him. And deep down… where you never admit it aloud… yes. You still love Tommy Shelby. Too much to walk away when blood spills near him.

Tommy shuts down completely after Grace’s funeral. His vision drowned in silent, hollow grief. Then comes the drinking. Whiskey, rum, gin by the bottles at home. At meetings, where he used to be ice-cold composed, he now shows up reeking of liquor.

And when he’s not drunk? He’s planning revenge on whoever ordered that sniper shot… obsessively.

You observe from a distance, silent, watchful.

How Tommy becomes a ghost of himself: hollow eyes, perpetually holding a glass. The man who once commanded rooms with just his presence now stumbles through them like an echo.

Meanwhile…

Your men work relentlessly, interrogating dockworkers, tracking gun purchases near the gala location. They tear Birmingham apart brick by brick.

You sit in your dimly lit office, smoking, flipping through files of Birmingham’s most ruthless men. Names marked with red ink: enemies, rivals who’d benefit from Tommy’s downfall. All given by your private detective. You crossed out the weak ones, the small-time crooks without reach or motive. Then narrows it further to those with both power and a grudge against Tommy Shelby.

Your eyes lock onto the report, the name Angel Changretta marked by Solomon. The son of a powerful rival. Humiliated by John Shelby in a brutal beating weeks ago.

Motive? Plenty. The Changrettas have long hated the Shelbys, and Angel…pride shattered after that public humiliation would want revenge on Tommy’s family.

The detective, Solomon, an older man with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. He’s been working for you long enough to recognize the quiet intensity in his boss’s gestures. He sits in the armchair without being told twice, removing his hat as he does. The scent of lavender from your candle mingles with tobacco smoke lingering in the room. Files are spread across every surface by Solomon: maps, photos, lists of names… all evidence leading toward Angel Changretta.

“Tell me more about the Changrettas” you leaned back onto the armchair, not really looking at Solomon but staring holes into the wall.

The detective leans forward, lacing his fingers together as he begins explaining.

"The Changrettas are old-school Italian. Mostly bootlegging, racketeering, and extortion. Very traditional, very connected to the underworld." He takes a file from the stack, a photo of Angel’s father: a broad-faced man with cold eyes.

"Vicente Changretta rules their empire with an iron fist. And Angel? He was always his favorite… until John Shelby beat him half to death over territory."

“Can you keep a close eye on them?”

The detective doesn’t flinch at the risk. He’s done this kind of work before, shadowing dangerous families, gathering intel in the dark.

"Of course," he says simply, voice steady. No hesitation. He knows what this means: following Changrettas means walking into a lion’s den. One wrong move and they won’t just catch him, they’ll make an example out of him. But you trust him… and vice versa.

“Thank you…that’s enough for today” you always try to make meetings as short and efficient as possible to avoid being suspected.

Solomon gives you that look…the one. Not quite affection, not quite pride… but something close. A quiet devotion born from years of loyalty.

He’s seen you grow into a sharp, powerful man, one who commands respect without needing to shout. And though your relationship is strictly professional on paper… there’s more in how the old detective watches you leave sometimes. You can’t quite put your fingers on. How his gaze seems to linger.

Now, he just nods and stands quietly, ready to vanish back into Birmingham’s shadows for surveillance duty. You take the phone call and slowly grab your jacket and visit the warehouse to inspect the newfound problem.

Tommy stumbles through the fog, drunk, coatless, his usual sharp posture collapsed into a swaying shuffle. The rain soaks him instantly, but he doesn’t care. Muscle memory takes over… guiding him not back to the Shelby manor or any bar, but straight to your warehouse.

That night under the moonlight, the quiet talk, the shared silence haunts him now. A time when things were simpler… before Grace died. He reaches the heavy metal door and leans against it weakly, catching his breath.

“Did I hear someone outside?” you cautiously take a look around the warehouse and then the door.

The worker, a broad-shouldered man with a thick accent, shakes his head.

"Probably just rats, boss. Or wind."

But you frown slightly. The warehouse is isolated at this hour, no one should be out here in the rain unless they meant to be. You grab an oil lamp from the desk and strides toward the door, wiping your hands on your trousers before pushing the door open slowly, light spilling onto Tommy’s drenched form outside.

Your eyes lock, really meet for the first time in weeks. Tommy looks wrecked. Hair damp and messy, suit wrinkled, his usual cold composure shattered by grief and alcohol. The Tommy Shelby everyone fears is gone… replaced by a broken man standing in the rain. You don't speak immediately. Just stares, taking in every detail of him: the hollows under his eyes, the tremor in his jaw… all that pain on display because he showed up here, somewhere familiar when things were good.

The lamp casts warm light over Tommy’s face, illuminating the exhaustion and sorrow etched into his features. You step closer, your own coat dry from being inside and without a word, you shrug it off. Then, gently… you drape it around Tommy’s shaking shoulders. You close the warehouse door so your worker won’t poke nose into your business.

You see the crack on Tommy's expression. He's getting weaker. Fueled by alcohol and sorrow. "You should go home. Let me call my chauffeur" but before you could turn away. Tommy steps closer. He doesn’t hug you. Just rests his forehead heavily against your shoulder, damp hair dripping rainwater onto your shirt. It's a vulnerable gesture… something Tommy Shelby never does. Silent collapse, grief and alcohol finally winning as he sags slightly against you, seeking warmth without asking for it outright.

“Thomas…” you sighed. Completely unprepared for this level of intimacy from Tommy.

You're not used to being the one someone leans on like this. Your hands hover awkwardly at your sides for a second before, slowly, cautiously you lift one and rest it lightly on Tommy’s back. Not pulling him closer… not pushing him away either. Just letting the contact exist… while rain drips around them and the lamp flickers in your other hand.

Your voice is gentle but firm as you nudged Tommy, not pushing, just guiding. Tommy shivers harder now that the initial warmth from your coat wears off. He looks even worse up close: pale, lips slightly white from cold.

"Thomas…let’s go home." You say softly, not unkindly, but with clear worry underneath. You lift your free hand to signal one of your men inside the warehouse after creaking the door open abit… silently asking them to call for a car without making it obvious this is about Tommy Shelby.

Tommy clings tightly like a drowning man grabbing driftwood now. Arms locked around your middle, face buried in your shoulder, murmuring “I missed you” over and over between hiccuping breaths. Drunk words, slurred but achingly sincere.

The man who used to share quiet nights with you under moonlight is now drunk and clinging to you like you're the only solid thing in his crumbling world. You almost wonder if he is missing you…or missing Grace.

“It will be alright, Thomas…” you muttered. Tommy melts at the sound of his name from your deep voice, each syllable vibrating through him like a physical touch. He’s never drunk this much. Never lost control like this before… and it shows. His knees buckle slightly, forcing him to press even closer to you for balance, lips parted in a dazed, tipsy haze. The alcohol has stripped away all his usual restraint. Right now, he just wants you. To stay here. Forever.

You don't know if the wetness on your shirt is rain or Tommy’s silent tears but you pat his back anyway. A slow, rhythmic motion meant to soothe. The words are soft, maybe even a lie, but one you say anyway because Tommy needs it right now. You can’t promise that Grace’s death won't haunt him forever… but for tonight? You’ll get him home safe.

Without another word, you gently guide Tommy toward where your driver has pulled up, the car idling quietly by the warehouse entrance.

You give a quiet order to the chauffeur. not Shelby Manor and instead directs him toward your own home. You don't explain. Don’t need to.

Back inside, you help Tommy out of the rain-soaked coat and guide him through the dimly lit house. Fancy decor, functional warmth. A living room with a couch, a fireplace already lit for comfort. Tommy sways slightly… still drunk but now safe from the storm outside.

“Miss Tarasov…you’re still up” you stated. Not asking. Miss Tarasov, her face lined with years of hardship but eyes kind, looks up from her knitting by the fireplace. She’s small, wrapped in a shawl, and though she doesn’t smile often… there’s warmth in her gaze when she sees you. After the war Tarasov, as a half Russian half British war nurse, was abandoned and found her way back to England. Traveling until her feet give up in Birmingham, right outside of your warehouse. So you took her in, and she began to treat you like you’re her son.

"Ah." She says softly in a thick Russian accent. Then her eyes land on Tommy Shelby, drunk and disheveled and she blinks slowly. She stands quietly… already sensing this is not a normal guest arrival.

“I thought you had to be asleep by now” you commented as you settled Tommy down on the warm couch. Miss Tarasov nods, adjusting her shawl slightly.

"I was waiting." she admits simply, her voice quiet but steady. She doesn’t question why you are bringing a drunk man home at this hour. Instead, she moves with practiced efficiency, grabbing a clean blanket from the nearby chair and heading toward the kitchen without another word. Within minutes, she returns with a glass of water and a clean towel.

“I told you before...you don't have to, yes?” you sighed. You’re like an owl, work late, leave early. She tried to adapt to your schedule somehow.

Miss Tarasov pauses, the glass of water in her hands. She looks at you, not with defiance, but quiet stubbornness. Then she explains softly. "You gave me home… I take care of you." A simple truth from an old woman who knows gratitude better than most. She places the water on the side table near Tommy before stepping back, letting you handle whatever comes next without interference.

Tommy stirs slightly, half-conscious, his face slack with exhaustion and alcohol. He mumbles something incoherent but obediently takes the glass when you nudge it toward him. He drinks slowly, water dripping down his chin a little as he swallows. It’s probably the first clear liquid he’s had all night besides heavy liquor. The firelight flickers across Tommy’s face as you carefully wipe his damp skin with the towel, gentle strokes over his forehead, cheeks, jaw. Tommy leans into it slightly, still dazed but comforted by the warmth and touch. The alcohol is starting to burn off slowly… replaced by exhaustion. Miss Tarasov quietly disappears upstairs after making sure you’re settled, giving you privacy in the quiet living room where only crackling flames fill the silence now.

“Come on…don’t fall asleep here.”

Tommy stumbles as you help him up, legs unsteady, head lolling. He’s seconds from passing out right there on the couch. You loop Tommy’s arm over your shoulder, supporting most of his weight as you two shuffle toward the stairs. Each step is slow… careful… because Tommy keeps nearly toppling sideways like a drunk sailor. He is.

You work efficiently, stripping Tommy out of his drenched suit with minimal fuss. The expensive fabric hits the floor with a wet thud. Tommy barely helps, just swaying slightly as you pull off his shoes and dress him in simple sleepwear, a white tank top and loose shorts that hang just right on Tommy’s frame.

You lie on the couch, staring at the ceiling in the near-darkness and letting Tommy rest on your bed. The oil lamp’s glow is faint, just enough to see shapes but not details.

You wonder why you brought Tommy here… why you're letting him stay. This isn’t logical. Tommy is a married man…well, widowed now, drunk, and you have your own life.

But why? guilt? Pity? Old feelings? Whatever it is… it is stupid.

The question lingers in the dark, heavy and unanswerable. Did Tommy ever love you? Not just as a friend… not just as someone he kissed under moonlight… but truly, deeply?

You remember all the times Tommy looked at you, those rare moments when his usual icy mask slipped. The way he lingered after conversations and how you'd always show up when he called. But love? That’s something neither of you two ever said out loud.

The faint rustling of fabric and the soft creak of floorboards wake you. 4 AM. Tommy’s always been an early riser, even after drinking himself into a stupor. You blinked awake, squinting through the dimness to see Tommy moving quietly, carefully gathering his dried suit from where it was hung overnight. He dresses swiftly in silence… like he doesn’t want to wake anyone.

“Thomas…?”

Tommy freezes when he hears your sleepy voice. Your hair is messy from the couch cushions, wearing your suit still. He guessed you must have fallen asleep and forgotten to.

For a second, Tommy just stares at you. Then quietly:

"...Sorry," he murmurs, not for waking you up… but for being here, maybe.

“Don’t even…” you huffed.

Tommy exhales, almost a humorless laugh and finishes buttoning his shirt. The room is quiet except for the faint ticking of an old clock somewhere in your house. He doesn’t apologize again. Doesn’t explain why he left so early or why he didn’t sleep properly. Just… stands there, fully dressed now, looking like his usual composed self, except for the shadows under his eyes from grief and alcohol.

Tommy moves quickly, no hesitation, no lingering. He grabs his tie, knots it in the mirror with practiced efficiency, adjusts his cufflinks… every motion precise and automatic. No eye contact with you. No "how are you" or "thanks for last night." Just the silent urgency to leave like being here is suddenly too painful now that he’s sobered up. Tommy finishes getting ready, tie perfectly straight, suit impeccable again as if last night’s vulnerability never happened. He pauses by the door for half a second… maybe expecting you to say something. Anything. But when he hears no movement from the couch, sees nothing but silence… he opens the door and steps out without a word. The click of it shutting echoes softly in your empty bedroom.

You stay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, jaw tight with frustration, not at Tommy… but at yourself. At the stupid hope that maybe you two could’ve talked. That maybe something could’ve been fixed. But no.

You’re not a man who builds love over graves, especially not Grace’s fresh one.

So you let Tommy walk out without chasing after him… because some things aren’t meant to be mended right away.

The funding event is a sea of polished shoes and forced smiles, wealthy donors mingling to support Grace’s legacy fund. Tommy moves through the crowd effortlessly, holding baby Charles in his arms for photo ops with influential women who coo over the toddler.

He’s charming, smiling, laughing politely but it all feels performative. The second business talk starts… he hands Charles off to a nanny without missing a beat. No glance back at the child as he strides toward serious negotiations.

The nanny, Changretta’s planted agent smiles sweetly as she carries baby Charles toward the exit, blending seamlessly with staff. No one notices. Not the guests chatting, not Tommy mid-negotiation… certainly not his distracted bodyguards. But your private detective does. From across the room, in a suit that makes him blend in with the businessmen, he watches her load Charles into a waiting car and drive off smoothly. His pulse spikes… but he doesn’t panic yet.

Meanwhile…

Your office is tense, logistics workers hunched over maps and paperwork, some rubbing their temples in frustration. Then your eyes land on it: a sealed letter with red wax, official Changretta family insignia pressed into the seal. No name written… just that ominous mark. The kind of delivery that means trouble. You pick it up slowly, turning it over once before breaking the seal with careful fingers. Your blood runs cold as you read the letter.

The Changrettas knew. They knew about your detective, knew you hired him to investigate them. And now… they have him. The threat is clear. Come alone to rescue your man by midnight at the old dockyards… or he dies screaming. No signature, no proof of life yet but the red wax seal confirms this is legit. A trap waiting for you. You almost drop the letter in complicated feelings.

Your assistant confirms it once you call, the detective hasn’t checked in at his usual time. That silence is worse than any bad news. It means the Changrettas have him… and they’re moving fast. You exhale sharply through your nose, jaw tightening as you stare at the letter again. The dockyards by midnight, barely a few hours from now. No backup plan yet… just a race against time to save one man who might already be dead.

The little warehouse owned by the Changrettas. You move like a ghost through the shadows, knife and gun hidden beneath your trench coat. No backup… no plan to call for help if things go south. You're alone because they demanded it, come alone or your detective dies. So here you are, walking straight into enemy territory at 10 PM like a man heading to his own execution.

Every instinct screams at you to turn around, to walk away, call the police, rally a team instead of charging in blind. But you don't.

Your feet keep moving forward, past the iron gates, left slightly ajar… like they expected you, down a dimly lit hallway lined with Changretta guards who don’t stop you. They know you're coming. This was their plan all along.

Your gaze locks onto Father Hughes, standing stiffly near the desk and then to the baby boy in another woman’s arms. The realization hits you like a bullet: This isn’t about rescuing your detective anymore. This is a setup. The Changrettas lured you here under false pretenses… and now you're trapped inside their den with no backup. You have expected it. Your mind runs plenty kilometers per seconds, taking in the sight of the warehouse.

“Where is he…” you can feel the cold metal of the gun pressed firmly against your skull, no hesitation, no warning. A thug stands behind you, finger already on the trigger.

Father Hughes doesn’t flinch. The woman holding the baby just watches silently… as another man steps forward, a heavy-set thug with a sneer.

"You came alone like we asked," he says mockingly. "Good man."

You frowned “Where is Solomon?”

The thug grins wider, clearly amused by your confusion. "Solomon?" he repeats, voice dripping with sarcasm. "There is no Solomon."

Father Hughes finally speaks, calm but chillingly composed: "We never had your detective. We just know there has been a British rat following us."

The woman holding the baby shifts slightly… and now you realized, this entire room was staged to lure you here. The letter was fake. Three of their men had been beaten half to death by Solomon and they couldn’t kidnap Williams, your loyal worker who knows everything about your business, so they targeted baby Charles, after finding out your emotional conflict with Thomas by a little tea party with the nuns.

“What do you want?” Your voice is firm, masking the growing fear in your heart. There’s no time to be scared and tremble right now.

Priest Hughes smirked. He likes straight forward men who know their places.

"Your next shipment from Russia." he says smoothly. "The one arriving at your warehouse tomorrow night."

Your stomach drops. They know about the Russian cargo… and they want it destroyed. No theft, maybe to sabotage you financially or politically. And to serve the Changrettas’ benefits.

Father Hughes folds his hands, watching silently as the thug adds:

"You’ll call off security for that delivery… and destroy the lorries."

Father Hughes follows your gaze to the baby and smiles. A slow, cruel thing. He steps forward deliberately, reaching out to gently touch the infant’s cheek as he speaks:

"That little Shelby… so fragile. One wrong move from you, good man… and poof." He mimics an explosion with his fingers. The threat is clear: Charles’s life depends on you obeying every Changretta demand from now on.

“Fine, deal...it will be arranged” you scold before the priest can get under your skin further. But a plan was formed in your mind. They can be 2 steps ahead, but you are several.

The Changretta enforcer’s smirk widens, victory written all over his face.

"Smart man." he purrs, lowering the gun slightly but not fully holstering it yet.

Father Hughes nods once, approval granted and steps back. The woman holding the baby doesn’t relax… she just keeps staring at you like a hawk tracking prey.

Now they wait for you to prove your cooperation by sabotaging that Russian shipment tomorrow night… with Charles’ life hanging in the balance.

The thug roughly shoves you toward a wooden chair, still keeping the gun trained on you as he forces you to sit down.

Father Hughes takes a seat across from you, calm and collected like this is just another business meeting. The woman with the baby remains standing near the priest. No one offers you water or coffee. Just cold silence and the weight of what you just agreed to press down on your shoulders.

Father Hughes picks up the old-fashioned phone and dials a number, your office’s where you printed on your business card with each turn, then hands it to you without a word.

The line rings twice before Williams answers, voice groggy from falling asleep on the office table and forgetting the world exists.

"Boss?" the man asks, clearly confused why he’s getting called. Hughes watches you like a hawk… waiting for you to give the order that will betray your own people.

“Anderson, my good man”

Williams’s voice shifts instantly, no longer groggy. The code "my good man" triggers an alarm in him. And the way you intentionally call him the wrong name is signalling him too. It’s a code you taught your workers to signal each other if bad things ever happen.

"Yeah, boss?" he responds carefully… too calmly for someone who just woken up. His mind is already racing: you’re in trouble.

Father Hughes doesn’t react to the tone change. He just leans back, arms crossed, waiting for you to say the words that will doom your own shipment.

“Tomorrow's day off. reschedule the patrol team number 505” you said calmly.

"Understood, boss" he replies flatly… but his mind is screaming. Code 505, was to signal for Williams to listen closely to what’s coming next carefully as you tap on the phone morse code, each nail tap noise was recognized by Williams right away. An address. The whole secret code thing was taught by Solomon, he knew you can be reckless sometimes and brought it up in advance to look out for you. Now you’re silently thanking him in the head.

Father Hughes gives a small, satisfied nod, thinking you just caved to their demands without resistance. The woman holding Charles shifts uncomfortably… this feels too easy.

“Loud and clear?” You glare at Hughes as you lower the phone. Hughes meets your glare with icy indifference, unfazed by the hostility in your eyes.

"Loud and clear." he confirms, voice smooth as polished stone. The thug finally lowers the gun completely now that Hughes is satisfied with your "cooperation." Silence stretches again, thick and suffocating. No one tells you you can leave yet… They're waiting for something else?

Your mind maps out everything. Two armed thugs, one who held the gun, one by the door. Father Hughes is unarmed but dangerous. The woman with Charles doesn’t seem like a fighter… probably just hired help. Four total in the room. You keep breathing evenly, hands loose, posture non-threatening but your mind races through escape plans or possible distractions.

Then the room: every exit, every object that could be a weapon. The heavy brass lamp on the table, potential. The glass statue is the size of a cup. The fireplace poker nearby, long, sharp. Glass windows… fragile but loud if broken. Your gun has exactly 5 bullets. You’ll need to make each shot count. No sudden moves yet… just waiting for an opening, a distraction, the perfect second to strike first.

The moment the thug tugs the gun in their pocket, the room erupts into chaos.

Two shots, clean, right in the forehead drop the first two thugs instantly, blood splattering across the wall behind them. Father Hughes roars and lunges at you like a feral animal, tackling you toward the bookshelf. The gun is knocked loose in their scuffle… skidding across the floor. You two crash into each other with brutal fists flying, Hughes swinging wild punches at your face.

You weren’t a fistfight man, your strength lies in strategy, not brawling, your reflexes are sharp, but Father Hughes is bigger and fueled by rage. The gun clatters away after the scuffle… out of reach now. You dodged a wild punch only for Hughes to grab you by the collar and slam you into the wall again. Hughes doesn’t speak, just snarls through gritted teeth as he raises his fist for another strike. The woman with Charles finally moves, rushing toward where the pistol fell. Hughes wore rings on his fingers, so every punch landed sure made a number on you.

Your eyes widen as you squirm under the priest's pin when he tries to use weight to make you hit the ground. You roll over to dodge the bullet the woman fired, her hand trembling, clearly not knowing how to handle a gun. Just as calculated, you reached for the cup-sized glass statue on the table and smashed it against the priest's head, and then lunged for the gun in the woman's hand.

The woman fires again in panic, trembling hands still manage to pierce your rib with a fired bullet. Pain flares… but you don’t stop. In one fluid motion, you dive for the gun still clutched in her trembling hands and wrenches it away from her with brutal efficiency. Now you're armed again.

You don't waste a bullet on her. In one brutal motion, you yank the screaming baby from her arms, holding Charles securely against your chest with one arm while the other fist grips the woman’s hair. Then you slam her face-first into the glass window several times. A sickening crack echoes, not sure if it's glass or bone breaking first. The woman crumples instantly, unconscious… blood trickling from her nose as she slides down to the floor.

Your breath comes in shallow, pained gasps, every inhale a stab of agony from the bullet pierced through your ribs. Blood soaks into your vest, warmth spreading too fast. But you don't drop Charles. The baby wails softly in your arms, tiny fists flailing as if sensing the danger. Father Hughes groans on the floor… dazed but not out cold yet. The two dead thugs lie motionless nearby, their blood mixing with that of their fallen lady near the window. You sink down on the ground, still sharing body warmth with the trembling baby as your head spins. Damn those rings on Hughes, making your head bleed messily now. You lose consciousness for a few minutes until…

The screech of tires outside makes you freeze, every muscle locked in terror.

Changretta reinforcements? Your own men? You can't tell. The baby’s cries are loud now, drawing attention… and you’re bleeding, injured. Footsteps approach the front door, heavy boots. No knocking. Just the handle turning. You tighten the grip on Charles, gun trembling slightly in your other hand as shadows stretch across the floor from whoever just entered. Your heart stopped.

The door swings open and there stands Tommy, face pale with panic, eyes wild as they lock onto you covered in a pool of blood and holding Charles.

Behind him are Arthur, Michael and…Solomon? Tommy doesn’t speak at first. Just stares, horror dawning as he takes in the carnage: dead bodies, unconscious woman by the window… and you injured badly but still standing like a shield over his child.

The detective steps forward first, taking in the scene with sharp eyes. "Jesus Christ" he mutters at the corpses on the floor. But Tommy moves faster, striding straight to you without hesitation. His hands hover like he wants to grab you but is terrified of hurting him further.

Arthur takes Charles instantly, cradling the baby against his chest with surprising gentleness, despite the chaos.

Michael steps in right behind Solomon, face grim as he surveys the bloodshed. His eyes locked onto the priest, who once molested him when he was younger… then to Tommy holding you in his arms.

"Bloody hell" Arthur mutters under his breath. He doesn’t ask questions yet, just assesses how bad this is about to get with Charles sobbing in his arms.

Father Hughes’ dazed eyes widen as Michael Gray steps forward with a knife glinting in the dim light. With no hesitation, Michael drives the blade straight into Hughes’ chest, once… twice… hard, fueled by years of pent-up rage for what this priest did to him as a child. The room falls silent except for Hughes’ choked gurgles before he goes still forever.

Tommy’s expression shatters the second you cough and blood gushes out more from your rib. He doesn’t think. Just moves. “Y/N…easy, easy," he murmurs, voice tight with panic as he helps you up on your feet.

Tommy hurried to the car, his arm tight around your shoulders, half-carrying you. Arthur is already in the driver’s seat, engine running. Michael silently climbs into the back with Charles still cradled safely against his blood stained arms. Solomon opens the passenger door for Tommy and you before sliding in too and closes the door.

Tommy’s grip tightens as he notices your breath going slower and slower. The blood loss is worsening, soaking through your vest and Tommy’s own sleeve where your arms press together. Your breaths are shallow, uneven… like each inhale might be your last.

"Stay awake." Tommy orders hoarsely, voice cracking despite himself. He shakes you slightly, but you don't respond properly. Tommy grabs the flask of whiskey he kept and pour it on you. You gasp sharply through clenched teeth as the alcohol hits the wound, burning pain flaring across your ribs. Tommy doesn’t hesitate, pouring more despite your pained reaction. It needs cleaning before they can do anything else. Arthur glances back from the driver’s seat, wincing at your muffled groan. Michael stays silent in the backseat, holding Charles protectively while watching Tommy work.

Tommy ignores your weak plea “Thomas…stop!-”. Cleaning the wound is necessary, his own hands tremble slightly as he pours more alcohol over the bullet graze. You almost moan from pain, back arching off the seat, fingers twisting into Tommy’s coat like a lifeline. Your face twists in agony… but no sound comes out except those breathy gasps. Michael looks away, uncomfortable with witnessing such raw vulnerability between you two. Arthur keeps driving fast through Birmingham streets.

Solomon watches from the front passenger seat, his jaw clenched with helpless frustration.

He wants to do something, anything to ease your pain… but he’s not Tommy. He can’t touch him, comfort him, or even speak without overstepping. So he just sits there silently, eyes flicking between Tommy tending to the wound and you writhing in agony. Every flinch of pain from you makes Solomon’s chest ache. But he did his best, by informing Tommy about what he had witnessed and coming in time when Williams called.

Over the weeks, you slowly heal, Miss Tarasov fussing over you like a mother while Tommy becomes an almost constant presence. He checks on you every day, bringing medicine without being asked and occasionally sends a doctor directly to the house to check up. He sits quietly by your bedside during the worst of the pain… not saying much, just being there.

The wound scars eventually, pain fading into dull reminders rather than sharp agony. The rain stops… and sunlight starts creeping back in.

Those nights, watching you lie half-conscious, pale from blood loss, something in Tommy broke.For the first time in months, real fear gripped him. Not business fear, not grief over Grace… but raw terror of losing someone he couldn’t imagine living without. And then there was the weight of what you had done: saved Charles when no one else could have. Risked everything for his son. Tommy never cried but his hands shook sometimes when he thought about it too much.

No witnesses survived to tell the tale. The Changrettas were being erased from Birmingham slowly and violently by the Shelby brothers. People whispered about it. Even the Garrison bartender snorted: "Tommy’s gone bloody mad." Not over business. Not for power. But over love.

Under Miss Tarasov’s strict but loving care, you actually ate real meals instead of just coffee and cigarettes. She force-fed you porridge in the mornings when you would rather have a black coffee and a cigarette, stuffed you with hearty stews for lunch, and even made sure you had proper desserts like fruit tarts after dinner.

The result? You gained weight, healthy color returning to your face. Your wounds healed faster than expected because your body finally had the fuel it needed.

“Jesus, lady. My abs are shoving into one single pile of fat” your eyes widen, seeing miss Tarasov carrying a tray of dinner.

Miss Tarasov doesn’t even blink at your dramatic complaint, just plops the heavy tray onto your lap with a stern look.

"Abs are overrated…You were skin and bones when you came home. Now? Strong.” The tray holds roasted chicken, mashed potatoes with herbs, and steamed vegetables… and a small bowl of fruit for dessert, all doctor-approved nutrition packed into one meal.

“Of course...you're slavic after all.” You huffed. You do have a specific image of slavic people at that time: giants, fight bears and drink vodka cooled by the snow.

Miss Tarasov doesn’t hesitate. SMACK right on the back of your head with her wooden spoon.

"Slavic and your mama" she corrects sharply, eyes flashing. "So eat." She points sternly at the tray.

After making sure you ate every last bite, Miss Tarasov carefully peeled back the old bandages to check your healing wound. She worked in silence, gentle hands applying fresh salve and wrapping clean gauze around your ribs. No fuss, just efficient care. Once done, she kissed your forehead like a mother would and shooed you back under the covers with a "Sleep now." before quietly shutting the bedroom door behind her.

The giant mirror on the ceiling reflects only the bed, a weird design that makes you feel like you’re floating under an endless sky of your own room. You don’t know why the previous owner had it there instead of on the wall, but you bought the house anyway and thought it was sort of unique.

It’s peaceful. The soft light from the lamps glows gently onto you, and for once… there’s no pain distracting him. You watch your own face in the reflection, no tension, just quiet rest. For a moment, everything feels still. You slowly close your eyes.

The door creaks open, Tommy’s familiar presence filling the room. He steps in quietly, already changed into casual clothes, a rolled-up shirt and trousers. No suit tonight. Just Tommy coming to check on you like he does every evening. His eyes immediately find you awake in bed… and for a second, something unreadable flickers across his face before he schools it back to calm.

“Welcome home?” you teased, unsure of what to say. Tommy practically has been living in your house for a while. Sharing meals with Miss Tarasov even though he hates Russians, he changed his mind when he realized she's just another war victim just like himself.

Tommy huffs, almost a laugh at your tease.

"Yeah" he says simply, stepping further into the room and shutting the door softly behind him. He doesn’t complain about Miss Tarasov anymore, even sits through her lectures about eating properly without flinching. The way she glares at him like he’s another stray dog to fatten up… it almost amuses him now.

“You look happy” you snorted. Tommy’s expression softens at your words, relief, not happiness. It is over. The Changrettas are gone. Every last one of them, erased by Tommy and the Shelbys together. He sits on the edge of your bed without asking, exhaustion finally showing in his shoulders now that the violence is done.

“God...you’re smiling too. Are you the top dog of Birmingham now?” You chuckled, observing his expression. Tommy’s smile doesn’t fade, if anything, it grows a fraction wider at your playful scolding.

"Top dog?" He repeats, voice laced with dry amusement. "Always was." But there’s no real arrogance in his tone, just quiet certainty. He reaches out without thinking, brushing a stray hair from your forehead like an old habit.

“You're being weird. Is this my last day on earth?”

That made Tommy roll his eyes…dramatic little shit.

"Nah," he says, deadpan. "Just in a good mood." A rare thing for him… but true. No impending doom, no business crisis, just peace after bloodshed. Tommy leans back against the headboard like he owns it, which at this point…he basically does.

“good mood?! Then you’re about to bomb the city, I assume?” You can’t help but tease him again. Tommy snorts, not quite a laugh, but close.

"Bomb England?" he echoes, raising an eyebrow. "Christ." If anything’s getting bombed today… it’s probably just Arthur accidentally setting the kitchen on fire trying to prepare his cocaine. He shakes his head at your dramatics but there’s no real irritation in it. Just fondness.

Then Tommy’s movements are slow, deliberate, no hesitation as he turns to face you fully. His gaze lingers on your healed body, your steady breathing… and then the words come, quiet but heavy with meaning.

"The world out there may not tolerate us" he starts, voice low. "But here in Birmingham… my life is yours."

And then, he pulls out a delicate white gold ring from his pocket. No grand speech after that… just the offering of it.

“You just haveeee to do it on my death bed.” you pretended to roll your eyes and joke again. But in reality, you’re in shock. Just can’t find the correct word for it yet.

Tommy’s lips twitch, of course you would joke about this*. He doesn’t call him out on it. Just exhales through his nose, half-amused, half-exasperated… then does it anyway. Without another word, he slides the ring onto your finger, gentle but firm and holds your hand there for a second. Just Tommy Shelby claiming what was always meant to be his.

You huffed at the movement playfully “I didn’t even say yes”

Tommy’s expression doesn’t waver, unbothered. He already knows the answer. You wouldn’t have let him slide the ring on if it was a no. But… “I’m not asking. I’m taking” he muttered. No asking for permission. No waiting for verbal confirmation, Tommy leans in for a kiss. Just claiming what’s his, finally.

Tommy makes a low sound in his throat, surprised but pleased as you nip at his lip. The kiss turns hungry, messy with months…years? of unspoken tension finally breaking loose. Tommy’s hands find your cheek and rest his hand there. No hesitation now, just heat and the quiet understanding that this was always where they were headed.

Tommy’s kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against yours, hungry and insistent. He sucks lightly on your top lip before tilting his head to angle the kiss better… chasing more contact like he can’t get enough. Because It isn’t enough, not after all this time of holding back, of watching from a distance. Now that he finally has permission? Tommy takes it greedily.

Tommy breaks the kiss just long enough to yank your shirt off, fabric bunching in his grip as he sends it flying to the corner of the room, drawing a scold out of you. Skin meets skin now, warm and solid. Tommy doesn’t waste time before diving back in, mouth crashing onto yours again, hands already mapping the planes of your chest like he needs to relearn every inch. Once free of the layers, he takes a look at your naked state… mindful of your healing wound. He braces himself on his elbows to avoid putting full weight down.

“Don't...Miss Tarasov would hear” you nudged him back.

Tommy smirks, he knows. But Miss Tarasov is already asleep downstairs, her snores faintly audible through the floorboards. She’s a heavy sleeper. Still… Tommy presses his lips to your jaw instead of kissing you again, moving slow and quiet like a thief in the night. Every touch deliberate, every shift careful.

Your breath hitches as Tommy slips his fingers into your mouth, saliva slicking them before withdrawing to trail down your neck with teasing kisses. Then those same damp fingers start slow, firm strokes lower… deliberate and just right, not rushed, not desperate. Tommy takes his time like he has all night. His lips linger on the curve of your throat between soft bites and open-mouthed kisses.

He feels the subtle shift, you are getting harder in his palm and it sends a quiet thrill through him. He doesn’t tease… just keeps the same steady rhythm, warm and sure. His mouth softens against your neck, kissing now more than biting. The shyness radiating from you makes Tommy oddly tender, an unexpected vulnerability between you two that he wants to cherish rather than exploit.

Tommy’s kisses trail downward, the blanket pooling around him as he reaches your stomach, playfully grazing his teeth over those defined abs and V lines. He pauses there, looking up with a rare hint of playful curiosity in his eyes before asking:

"Have you been with any ladies lately?" His tone is light, not accusatory… just genuinely curious.

“Never” you muttered. It was true.

Tommy’s gaze darkens slightly at your answer. Pleased. He doesn’t comment on it… just exhales through his nose, something possessive flickering in his eyes before he ducks back down. Your thighs tensing, curling slightly around his head as he hovers just beneath the blanket. The air is thick with anticipation. Tommy doesn’t rush… but every slow breath he takes ghosts over sensitive skin, teasing without full contact yet.

Then, finally he presses a single, deliberate kiss right where it matters, testing your reaction first before committing further.

“Don’t tease me…” you groan, hand reach for Tommy’s hair and just rest your palm there.

Tommy smirks against your skin, deliberately taking his time, drawing out every second just to watch you squirm.

The groan, the restless shifting… It's adorable. And Tommy isn’t above enjoying this power dynamic. He slows down even more, switching to featherlight kisses now, barely there. A torturous pace designed purely to make you ache for more.

Tom’s breath catches at that single word escaped your mouth “Please…” It’s rare to hear you beg… and it does things to him.

Finally, finally he stops teasing. His mouth seals over the spot properly, nibbling at the tip there with firm intent instead of just ghosting touches.

The blanket shifts with Tommy’s movements, his head rising and falling in a steady rhythm, hidden from view but unmistakable in intent. You can feel every careful motion, the warmth of his mouth. It’s intimate… private just for them under the covers.

Tommy notices the clean scent, subtle, pleasant, no trace of sweat or neglect. Just your natural warmth mixed with whatever fancy shampoo Miss Tarasov made you use. It’s… unexpected for a man like you to care about such details. But Tommy appreciates it, the effort, the attention to hygiene that most blokes wouldn’t bother with. The experience becomes even more intimate because of it… something softer beneath the heat.

The quiet moans spilling from your lips are music to Tommy, each one a victory. Tommy adjusts his rhythm, throat flexing just right around you… learning what makes you gasp versus what makes you melt. Your chest rises and falls faster now, breath uneven. The pleasure is building and Tommy feels it in the way your body tenses beneath the blanket.

Tommy doesn’t mind the gentle grip in his hair, it’s grounding. Every time he takes you all the way down, his nose brushes against warm skin… a quiet reminder of how close they are. The intimacy of it isn’t lost on him. He keeps the pace steady, no gagging, no rushing. Just smooth, practiced movements that have you unraveling under him with every descent. His head bobs up and down in a rhythm, tongue swirls around the tip each time he pulls back for air before diving back into his meal. Your eyes locked into yourself in the mirror on the ceiling, dazed out by how good Thomas’s mouth was, sucking you with passion. Drinking in the sight of Tommy’s head bobs up and down, hollows his cheeks to give you the best head of your life.

Tommy feels the thighs clamping around his head, a clear sign you're close and he doubles down, not pulling away. He takes you deeper this time, nose pressing into your stomach as his throat works around your cock… no hesitation now. Just pure focus on pushing you over that edge. The room fills with nothing but your muffled noises and his slurping sound.

Tommy feels the conflicted tug in his hair. You want to stop but not really and he doesn’t relent. He keeps going, undeterred by the moan or the grip… reading it as overstimulation rather than a true demand to halt. The sensation builds until, finally, your body tenses, thighs locking tight around Tommy’s head despite his effort to pin it down the bed as everything crashes into release. Soft moans escape your lips as you throw your head back onto the pillow, sweats coaxing your skin.

Tommy pulls back slowly, breathing just as heavily, impressed by how long you lasted. Most men wouldn’t have held out that long… but then again, you aren't most men. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before crawling up to lie beside you, their shoulders brushing. No words yet, just catching breaths together in the dim light.

You nudge him the tissues grabbed from the nightstand “Thomas…spit it out” you feel embarrassed enough that Thomas didn’t pull out when you were close.

Tommy takes the tissue you offer even though he didn’t need it, he swallowed everything, and wipes his mouth out of habit anyway. Then, without missing a beat, he turns to you and says plainly:

"You lasted longer than I expected.” Delivered with Tommy’s usual deadpan honesty.

“Yeah?” You catch your breath in the meantime, wiping the sweats on your forehead with the back of your hand. It’s hard to ignore the burn you’re feeling in your stomach post-orgasm.

Tommy studies your face, the slight flush, the way your breathing is finally steadying and nods once.

"Yeah" he confirms quietly. Then, because it feels natural… he leans over and kisses you softly, just once before settling back against the pillows.

“I think I should get rid of the mirror…it’s kind of embarrassing having to watch” you muttered, staring at your naked state next to Tommy, who is fully clothed.

Tommy’s eyes flick up to the ceiling mirror, watching their reflection for a second. He doesn’t find it embarrassing at all. If anything… he thinks it’s hot. Seeing them together like that from above.

"Keep it." he says simply, voice low. No explanation needed, just his preference stated plainly. Then, because the view is still nice… Tommy leans in and kisses you again.

You didn’t ask if he is staying. The way his body relaxes on your bed tells you everything you need to know.

Thomas, who usually wakes at 4 AM sharp like clockwork, sleeps until 6 AM. Eight full hours. No nightmares, no business calls interrupting… just deep, uninterrupted rest curled around you.

When he finally stirs, it’s because sunlight is filtering through the curtains, not an alarm or duty pulling him up. He blinks awake slowly… still half-entwined with you in a way that feels oddly domestic for Tommy Shelby.

Tommy feels the soft brush of your fingers against his, gentle, almost hesitant and the nuzzle into his shoulder. It’s a quiet morning moment… nothing urgent, no demands. Just them waking up together slowly. Tommy doesn’t pull away or speak yet. Instead, he turns his head slightly to press a lazy kiss to your forehead, something affectionate and uncharacteristically tender for him. Tommy shifts slightly, aware of the discomfort in his pants, but doesn’t pull away entirely. Instead, he just adjusts his position a little… trying to lessen the pressure without making it obvious. It’s not ideal, but waking up tangled with you like this is worth enduring hardness in the pants. He’d rather stay close than untangle himself completely.

Miss Tarasov's voice can be heard "breakfast in 10 minutes, Y/N!" Her usual reminder. Tommy hears it clear, sharp and no-nonsense as ever. He exhales through his nose, not ready to face her yet… but they’ve already stayed in bed longer than expected. Reluctantly, Tommy sits up first, rubbing sleep from his eyes and glances at you. No words needed… just a silent agreement that breakfast is coming whether they like it or not.

The bathroom now has two of everything: double toothbrushes, two shampoos, your fancy scent one and Tommy’s plain, even two towels hung side by side.

It feels… domestic. Normal in a way that would’ve seemed impossible months ago for Tommy Shelby, a man who once lived alone with only alcohol and smoke as company. Thomas doesn’t bother asking you tk drive him home so he can put on his suits and go to work, he takes your clothes and wears it like it’s his own. How wonderful you two share almost the same size, you get to admire him in your perfect suit.

Tommy follows you downstairs, the smell of breakfast: eggs, grilled mini tomatoes, bacon, sausages, buttered toast already filling the air. Miss Tarasov is at the table setting three full plates with her usual stern efficiency. She doesn’t look up as they enter… just keeps plating. The clink of silverware and sizzle from the stove are the only sounds until she finally speaks: "Sit." There’s a bit of awkwardness during the meal. So you decide to break the silence “Miss Tarasov…what’s your plan for the day?”

Miss Tarasov chews her food thoughtfully before answering.

"Market" she says simply. "Need more flour, sugar… vegetables." A typical Tuesday for her, stocking up on groceries for the week ahead.

“I'm free this afternoon. Maybe I can take you down town, shopping a little.” You shrug. It’s been a while since you did something for Miss Tarasov so you offered to take her shopping. Looking for new dresses, maybe a scarf or trenchcoat. To thank her for taking care of you so attentively.

Miss Tarasov’s eyes light up, just a little at your offer. She doesn’t often go out to do something for herself, always busy cooking or cleaning.

"You… take me shopping?" she asks, as if making sure she heard right. Then nods slowly. "Da… that would be nice."

She rarely buys things for herself, clothes are practical, jewelry even more so but the thought of you helping picking something out for her is touching.

The Shelby office looms as the car pulls up, Pol and Arthur already chatting inside.Tommy gives you a quick, firm nod of goodbye, no public kiss, just a silent understanding between them. Then he strides inside to join his brothers. Your driver takes you next to the warehouse… where crates are being unloaded by workers under his foreman’s supervision. Business as usual. You two already kissed in the house before entering the chauffeur’s car.

After work, you come back home for lunch with Miss Tarasov and take her to shop afterward. As you two walk down the street, you stop in track at the jewelry shop, shopping bags full of Miss Tarasov's clothes in hand.

Miss Tarasov follows your gaze to the wedding ring display, gleaming under the shop lights. She doesn’t say anything… just watches you stare, her expression softening with quiet realization. The jewelry store is elegant, not flashy. Perfect for something meaningful. And after a beat, Miss Tarasov gently nudges your arm. a silent prompt to go in if you want.

The jeweler, a composed woman in her 40s, gives you a warm smile as they enter.

"Welcome" she says kindly, eyeing the shopping bags in your hands first before noticing where your gaze keeps drifting… toward the rings. She doesn’t rush you, just waits patiently to see if you’ll browse or ask about something specific.

“I’d like to see some..uhm… white gold designs” you finally speak up.

The jeweler’s smile stays polite and professional.

"Of course" she says smoothly, gesturing to the display case where several white gold rings gleam under soft lighting. She opens it for you, letting you get a proper look, some simple bands, others with subtle engravings or tiny gemstones along the band.

Miss Tarasov takes the shopping bags from your hands without a word, understanding that this is your moment and carries them to one of the plush couches near the entrance. She sits there, patiently observing as you make an important decision.

“This is…?” you finally pick up a ring that stands out the most in your eyes. Pointing at the white dots.

The jeweler follows your finger to the ring, white gold with tiny, evenly spaced diamonds embedded along the band.

"Ah," she says warmly. "That one is exquisite. The white dots are micro-diamonds…tiny but brilliant, catching light beautifully."

She carefully lifts it from the display and places it on a velvet tray for him to examine closer… admiring how elegant yet understated it is.

“I’ll take it, please.”. you said. Mind already falls in love with the ring at the first sight.

The jeweler’s face brightens at your decision. "Wonderful choice." she says, taking the ring to ring it up with care. She wraps it in a small velvet box, secure but elegant before sliding it in a bag. After handling payment, she hands him the package… and gives him a knowing smile that says…this is special.

Miss Tarasov walks beside you, chattering about the fabrics she bought, the sales at different stores, her voice lively for once. Then… casually, like it’s just another topic: "Who was it for?" She doesn’t sound nosy. Just genuinely curious, maybe even a little hopeful as she glances at the jewelry bag in your hand.

“Oh…uhm…this is for Thomas”

She reaches over and squeezes your arm affectionately. "Ah" she breathes, nodding like it all makes sense now. Then, after a beat: "Da…He’ll love it." Her voice is warm, proud of you for choosing something so beautiful for Tommy.

You stop in front of the food market. “Can Thomas and I have a date in?” Miss Tarasov follows you into the food market, brightly lit with fresh produce and butcher shops.

At your question, she considers it. A date night? With Tommy Shelby?

"Da." she says without hesitation, already scanning for ingredients. "I’ll make something special." No pressure on you to plan everything… just her offering to help set the mood.

Once the chauffeur drives them home, you help carry the bags into the house and head out again to pick up Tommy from work. She rolls up her sleeves and gets straight to work: chopping vegetables, prepping the salmon, setting a pretty table for two. The kitchen is filled with savory aromas.

Tommy stands by the curb, cigarette dangling from his lips, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jacket slung over one shoulder. The Changretta takedown had been brutal… but successful. Now he’s drowning in extra paperwork as a result of expanded territory. He spots your car approaching and takes one last drag before flicking the cig away. The tired lines on his face soften slightly at seeing him.

“Long day?” You turn to him.

Tom actually feels the difference, the eight-hour sleep and decent food from earlier helping more than whiskey and cigarette ever could. No hangover, no smoke haze fogging his mind… just tired in a normal way.

“Yeah” he said simply. He turns his head slightly to glance at you, appreciating that he’s not slumped over drunk like some of their Shelby brothers would be after a long day.

You sneak your hand closer and turn his palm up to properly intertwine their fingers. The chauffeur keeps his eyes firmly on the road, discreetly pretending not to notice… giving them this quiet moment together. No words. Just Tommy squeezing your hand gently, a small comfort after a long day of chaos.

The kitchen is dimly lit, candles flickering softly, casting a warm glow over the velvet red tablecloth. Miss Tarasov must’ve set everything up before slipping away to give them privacy… no sign of her now, just the delicious aroma of cooked food waiting in pots and the oven. Tommy pauses at the doorway, taking it all in, the effort clearly went through for their date night.

Tommy lets you lead him further into the kitchen, their fingers still linked, his usual hardened expression softened by the candlelight.

Tommy watches as you plate the food, everything looks and smells incredible. The salmon glistens with lemon, the corn pone is golden-brown, and even the Russian-style curry has that rich aroma he associates with Miss Tarasov’s cooking paired with sourdough slices.

He pulls out the chair for you first, a rare gesture, before sitting across from him at the candlelit table.

“So about yesterday...you gave me this.” you touch the ring on your finger nervously “... I wanted to give you something in return. Something I've picked myself”

You slip the velvet box out of your pocket and held it out opened

“...I love you Thomas. even in this city where there's no such thing as a happy ending. I beg to differ....Will you marry me?”

Tommy’s breath catches, just for a split second. The ring in the box glints under candlelight: white gold, elegant, with those same micro-diamonds you had chosen so carefully.

And then, your words. Not just "I love you" but a proposal, right here in their messy city where happy endings don’t exist… and yet you are defying it all.

Tommy doesn’t speak immediately. He just stares at the ring… then into your pretty watery eyes.

Tommy’s heart pounds, not from nerves, but from sheer weight of the moment. Years. Years of history between them… and here you are, holding out a ring like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Without a word, Tommy stands up slowly, chair scraping back and walks around the table to stand right in front of you. Then he takes your face gently in his hands… and kisses the goofy, dorky, deer-like smile off your face. Deeply. Like an answer.

Then he pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression uncharacteristically open, raw.

Voice low but clear, no hesitation:

"Yes."

And before you can react further… Tommy kisses you again, slower this time… sealing the promise with another kiss. There’s no turning back.

Tommy steadies you with a hand on your back, keeping you upright as the kiss deepens between you two. He crowds closer, knees pressing against the chair legs as he cups your face again… pouring every unspoken love into this moment. The candles flicker around you. The food cools and is forgotten. Nothing exists but Tommy and you right now… absolutely engaged.

Tommy watches, completely still, as you take the ring from the box, your hands steady now despite how emotional this moment is. You slide it onto Tommy’s finger… and it fits perfectly. For a second, Tommy just stares at his hand, the white gold catching the light. It feels foreign but right… like something he was meant to have all along.

Tommy immediately wraps his arms around you tight, securely pulling you into a proper embrace. No words needed. Just the warmth of your bodies pressed together, the quiet joy in Tommy’s chest as he feels the ring now on his finger. He rests his chin on top of your head for a moment… breathing him in. This is real. They’re engaged.

“No Thomas, the food is getting cold” you swat Tommy’s hand off, the one that is trying to unbutton your shirt.

Tommy chuckles against your neck, low and warm before reluctantly pulling back.

"Right." he mutters, straightening his tie with one hand while the other finally stops fiddling with your shirt button. He takes his seat again, picking up his fork… but not before shooting you a look that says we’re definitely continuing this later. The food is good, but so was kissing you.

Tommy digs into the food with appreciative focus, the salmon is perfectly cooked, the curry rich and fragrant. He eats like a man who hasn’t had a proper meal in hours… which isn’t far from true, considering how chaotic his day was. Between bites, he glances up at you, smiling faintly, grateful for this quiet moment together. The ring glints subtly on his finger as he lifts his fork.

The wine bottles are half-empty, glasses filled again and again as you two dine. Now, slightly flushed from alcohol but not drunk, Tommy and you just… look at each other. No pressure. No words. Just the comfortable silence of two people who’ve been through hell together, now sitting across a candlelit table as fiancés. Gazing lovingly at each other.

Tommy watches you drain your glass in one go, a bold move and raises an eyebrow, mildly impressed. The alcohol hits you both now, that warm buzz settling into their veins. Tommy reaches over and gently takes the empty glass from your hand… setting it aside. His movements are slower, more relaxed than usual, liquor loosening him up without making him sloppy.

“Let’s go up…” you muttered.

The house is quiet now, just the soft hum of the refrigerator downstairs. Miss Tarasov has long since rested in her room. You head upstairs together, Tommy’s hand finding your waist naturally… both a little tipsy but fully aware of where this is going.

The door clicks shut behind them, soft but final and you crash into Tommy’s lips again, all passion and warmth from the wine. Tommy kisses back eagerly, hands sliding under your shirt to feel your skin… no hesitation now that they’re alone in their bedroom. The ring on his finger catches the dim light, still a novelty but it doesn’t slow him down. Nothing does right now.

Tommy undoes each button of your shirt with deliberate slowness, no rushing, just savoring the process. His fingertips brush over warm skin as fabric parts… revealing more of you inch by inch. The kiss breaks only for Tommy to pull the shirt off entirely, letting it fall to the floor.

Tommy helps you peel off his own jacket, tie, and shirt, each piece discarded as messy kisses are exchanged between you. Lips meet again whenever there’s a pause in undressing… a sloppy but tender rhythm of fabric hitting the floor followed by hungry mouths reconnecting.

Tommy guides you backward onto the bed, gentle but firm until you're lying down, looking up at him. Then Tommy climbs over you, bracing himself on his forearms as their mouths find each other again… slower now, deeper. Your hands explore Tommy’s back and shoulders, learning every ridge of muscle beneath warm skin as you kiss like this is the first time all over again. A needy groan escapes you when he pulls back.

His hands work his belt with practiced ease, metal clasp clicking open, leather sliding free and the way you watch him makes Tommy’s pulse jump. He doesn’t rush. Just strips off the rest of his clothes… letting you look, because he knows that hungry stare burns hotter than any touch right now. Broad shoulders, defined arms… all on display under the bedroom light.

Then he kicks his pants the rest of the way off, his cock already half-hard, fully exposed now and your bitten lip tells him everything. No shyness here. Just raw attraction as Tommy crawls back over you on the bed… bare skin meeting bare skin. The heat between you two is palpable, charged with desire and that newfound engagement thrill making every touch electric.

Tommy lets himself be flipped by you, no resistance, landing on his back with a quiet exhale as you take charge. Each soft kiss pressed down Tommy’s chest, over his abs, then tracing the defined V-line of his stomach sends a shiver through him. His hands rest on your back… not roaming yet, just feeling every light brush of your lips like they’re branding him.

Tommy’s breath hitches sharply at the wet heat of your saliva spat on his cock, a teasing prelude before your mouth takes him in. No warning, just instant warmth and pressure, and Tommy arches slightly into it, a quiet groan escaping. His hands finally move, one tangling gently in your hair, not forcing, just holding while the other grips the sheet beside him. The vibration of your moan around him sends a jolt straight to Tommy’s spine. Tommy bites his lip hard, hips twitching instinctively… but he doesn’t push. Just lets you set the pace, enjoying the sinful heat and wetness surrounding him. His chest rises fast, breath uneven as pleasure builds with each bob of your head. You can feel him hitting the back of your throat, small tears forming in the corner of your eyes each gag.

He tugs your hair gently, not harshly to break the contact, then immediately yanks you up into a searing kiss. Your mouths collide, Tommy tasting himself on your lips as his hands roam down to grip your waist. No hesitation… just pure need now. He rolls you over again, reclaiming dominance, kissing deeper. His tongue slips in your mouth as he takes what he wants.

Once he pulls back to let you catch your breath, Tommy reaches for the condom box, four packets left from his pants pocket, tearing one open with his teeth without breaking eye contact. He doesn’t rush though, still kissing you between motions, hands wandering back to bare skin. Tommy uses the slick lube from the foil on his fingers, practical and efficient to stretch you gently while their kiss distracts you both. Warm pressure spreads as Tommy’s finger eases you open… slow and careful, checking for any tension before going further. The kiss stays deep, consuming, hiding any soft sounds between you.

Tommy positions himself between your legs, no hesitation now and slowly pushes in, both of you breathing out at the stretch. The alcohol has you relaxed but eager… bodies pliant and hungry. Tommy braces his arms on either side of your head as he sinks deeper.

Tommy notices your gaze flickering toward the mirror, watching his back muscles flex with every movement and it makes him smirk slightly. He rolls his hips just right, emphasizing the ripple of muscle along his shoulders and spine… knowing how turned on you are by it.

Tommy pins your wrists above your head with one large hand effortlessly, using the other to brace himself as he drives into you. Each thrust is deep, rhythmic… not brutal but insistent, creating that perfect friction that wrings those breathy moans from you.

The mirror reflects them: Tommy’s back muscles, sweat coaxing his skin, while you lie beneath him, flushed and beautiful under the dim light.

Tommy meets your teary, overwhelmed gaze, seeing every flicker of pleasure and helplessness there, and it wrecks him. The tight heat around him is maddening… but the way you look right now? Even better. Tommy leans down, kissing your forehead before capturing your lips again in a slow, searing kiss mid-thrust. Your legs wrap around his torso, keeping him close as Tommy maintains the same pace, his cock filling you up each thrust. His hips find that perfect angle, hitting deep with every thrust, making you arch beneath him. At the same time, his teeth graze your neck… not biting hard yet, just testing before leaving a faint mark there. A possessive claim without words. The room fills with their shared breaths and the slick sound of skin on skin… intimacy thick in the air.

The headboard thumps against the wall with each powerful thrust, rhythmic, loud and your whimpers grow louder, unrestrained. Tommy doesn’t care about noise. Let the whole house hear if it wants. He focuses on your face, the way your lips part with every gasp and keeps pounding into you relentlessly. No slowing down… just building that sweet friction until neither can hold back much longer.

Tommy smirks, not in a mocking way, but in pure satisfaction as he nails your prostate over and over with precise thrusts.

“Thomas!” Your moans climb higher, louder… unfiltered, no holding back now. Tommy loves it, the sounds spilling from you, the way your body squirms under him. He doesn’t let up. Just keep that same rough pace… determined to wreck you completely.

Tommy hisses at the sting of your nails, sharp little bites of pain but the smirk that follows is all arrogance and pleasure. He likes it. The marks, the possessiveness… proof this is real, not some dream. So he leans into it, thrusting harder now, letting you claw at him as much as you want while Tommy keeps chasing their shared high.

Tommy’s teeth sink into your shoulder, not enough to break skin, just possessive bites as his thrusts grow wilder, less controlled. Your head falls back against the pillow, exposing the throat further… a silent invitation for more and Tommy takes it. Each bite syncs with a deep roll of his hips, their bodies moving together in a messy, desperate rhythm now.

Tommy barely registers the phone ringing, too lost in the haze of pleasure until your breathless voice snaps him back. “Thomas…stop-!”

"What?" He glances at the nightstand where your old rotary phone sits… probably one of your men calling about business. A piss-off timing. With a grunt, his hips slow down.

“Might be my workers calling” you huffed. Tommy reluctantly slows his movements, annoyed but obliging and grabs the phone, handing it to you with a frown. He stays hovering over you, though… one arm braced beside your head while he waits. Still half on top of him, warmth lingering between their bodies. The call could be important… but Tommy hates being interrupted right now.

The voice on the other end, one of your warehouse employees comes through slightly staticky. "Boss, sorry to call this late… but we got a shipment delay at the docks. Customs is holding it up."

Meanwhile, Tommy takes advantage of you being distracted, pressing hot kisses along your collarbone and shoulder again, hips rolling in slow motion to build up pleasure… testing boundaries.

“Send Williams to handle it, yes?” You try to sound normal, annoyingly pushing Tommy’s by hand on his chest but he takes it and brings it to his mouth. Lips kissing the fingertips.

The employee stammers, clearly stressed on the phone:

"Boss, Williams is already there… but without the signed paperwork, they won’t release it. The driver lost them."

Tommy chooses this exact moment to snap his hips forward hard, slamming back in with deliberate roughness, knowing you can barely focus on work now. And then continue the same pace, skin clapping noises echo in the room.

Tommy loves the way you bite your lip to stifle sounds, it only fuels him more. He keeps thrusting, relentlessly… each movement calculated to make it harder for you to concentrate on the call.

The employee’s voice rises slightly: "They won’t move the truck without those papers. We need your signature here or someone with authority." His voice filled with urgency.

“Damn it…tell…Williams to get the red stamp in the second drawer…in my office” you managed to breathe out.

The employee says quickly on the line: "Yes, boss. I’ll send Williams right now." Then, hearing your tense tone and abrupt instructions, they add carefully "We’ll handle it. Apologies for the disruption." before hanging up.

Meanwhile… Tommy doesn’t let up at all, if anything, he thrusts deeper, taking advantage of you finally being off the phone.

“You fucking asshole” you huffed, glaring at Thomas. He only grins, unrepentant, smug in the return as the phone clatters to the floor. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t slow down either. Just crashes his mouth onto yours again in a messy kiss, swallowing your frustration. His hips snap forward harder now… punishingly, because if they’re both pissed about work interrupting them? Fine, he’ll make it worth your anger.

Tommy’s movements turn desperate, no finesse left, just pure urgency as he drives into you with deep, full-bodied thrusts. Each one bottoms out completely, hard and relentless, chasing his own release now. The friction is electric, every nerve in his body alight.

Tommy’s entire body tenses, then shudders as he spills into you, his release hitting him like a wave after holding back for so long. He doesn’t make noise… just bites down gently on your shoulder to muffle it, face pressed against your neck as pleasure rips through him. His hips stutter through the aftershocks, still connected, still close before slowly coming down from the high. Your nails dig onto the muscles on his back as you reach the high too, body trembles in pleasure beneath him.

Tommy melts slightly under your touch, fingers carding through his hair. A moment of softness after the intensity. His breathing evens out slowly, forehead resting against yours as you both come down from the climax. No rush to pull away… just quiet closeness now. The room smells like sex and sweat… but Tommy doesn’t care. He stays curled around you, skin-to-skin.

Finally Tommy carefully slips out, then grabs the condom, tying it off neatly before tossing it into the waste bin beside the bed. Then he stretches slightly before turning back to you, lying down next to you on the rumpled sheets. Exhausted. He turns his head, meeting your gaze, both of them flushed, hair messy from the bed sheets, skin still dewy with sweat.

“Are we going to shower or not?” You muttered. After drinking some water, you and Tom lie there, talking about yours and his favourite part of the sex, eyes lingers on each other naked, wrecked state. Tommy blinks, coming out of his drowsy haze at your voice.

"Shower" he agrees immediately, his own skin sticky with sweat too. He shifts carefully, finally slipping out before sitting up.

As they talk about what parts they liked earlier, Tommy mentioning how much he enjoyed fucking you on phonecall, it was honestly so sexy, the way you got all tense and squeezing his tip from the inside. Then he stretches and stands, offering a hand to pull you up.

Tommy watches your wobbly legs with a slow smirk, amused and undeniably turned on again as the shower water heats up. He steps closer, bracing one hand on the tub rim above your head… leaning down to murmur:

"You look good like this. Another round?" No pressure in his tone, just an offer, his eyes dark with renewed interest.

“How are you not tired?” You complained, raising an eyebrow at his sexy invitation. Tommy chuckles, low and unapologetic as he straightens up slightly, still caging you in against the tub.

"You know me." he says with a shrug "Shelby stamina." He’s always had high endurance… though even he’s impressed by his own energy right now.

“You Shelbys fueled on alcohol and cigarettes. I doubt that” you glared at him playfully. Tommy grins in return, unbothered by the glare.

"Maybe." he admits “but I’m also fueled by you." No boast. Just honesty… and faint smile before he closes the distance, kissing you properly, no shower water needed yet.

Tommy kisses you deeply, slow and lingering before pulling away to grab another condom from the nightstand drawer. He moves efficiently, not breaking eye contact as he tears it open with his teeth. The water’s still running in the shower… but they have time. Back at your side in seconds, Tommy presses close again, condom ready now. He turns off the running spray with a quick swift.

Then Tommy lifts you effortlessly, strong arms holding you up as their bodies press against the fogged shower glass. The warmth of the steam surrounds you, water droplets glistening on the skin… and Tommy kisses you hungrily, one hand supporting your weight while the other grips your hip. No rushing. Just slow, wet friction as they find each other again in this new position.

Tommy holds your gaze, his blue eyes, usually so guarded, soft now, letting you see the depth of them without any walls. Feels like you were staring into something vast and beautiful. The steam curls around them as Tommy leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away if you want but not kissing yet… just looking.

“Has anyone ever said you got ‘em pretty ocean eyes?” you smile faintly.

Tommy exhales, almost a laugh, but softer at the compliment.

"No." he admits quietly. People usually called his eyes cold, heartless, anything but pretty. He leans into your touch as those fingers brush his hair back… something tender in the gesture that makes Tommy’s chest tighten. Then, because he can’t resist… he finally closes the distance and kisses you, gentle this time.

Tommy sinks into you with a slow, deliberate motion, pushing himself with that perfect heat, the steam from the shower making their skin even slicker. No rush. Just savoring the sensation… how tight and warm you feel around him, how sexy this position is against the glass. His hands grip your ass securely as he starts moving, gentle rolls of his hips at first.

Tommy feels the subtle shift. You’re relying on him more, going gentle and adjusting instinctively, taking your full weight without complaint. You’re probably sore by now, wrapping around him and letting him do whatever he wants. Every soft kiss to your collarbone sends a shiver through you… sweet contrast to their usual roughness. Tommy keeps thrusting slow and shallow now, minimizing soreness but still giving pleasure.

“You’re strong…” you muttered, impressed by how he carries you and still balances against the glass wall.

Tommy’s lips quirk at the praise, simple but meaningful as he continues supporting you effortlessly, his strength showing in every controlled thrust. No flexing or bragging… just quiet pride that you acknowledge it. His thrusts stay steady, strong… unshaken by carrying all their combined weight. He presses a kiss to your temple, wordless gratitude for the compliment before returning to their rhythm against the glass.

Tommy’s control slips, just slightly as the tight heat around him sparks something primal. His thrusts grow rougher, less measured… hips snapping forward with more force now, chasing that friction. Still careful of your wound, but the rhythm turns harder, deeper, the pleasure overwhelming his usual restraint. He slips out almost the tip and slam back in again, punching a breathless, sweet moan out of you as you wrap your arms around his neck, sharing the harsh breath for air. The heat coils at your stomach as you stare into his ocean eyes.

Months ago you were kissing him at the cathedral, now he’s wrecking you in every way possible, engagement ring on fingers. On the Birmingham street, Thomas can be that criminal boss with a soul like the smoke and fog of the city, drifting further apart. But here in your manor, he will be the man who takes you apart and loves you for as long as this ring remains on this finger.

Tommy’s body tenses, then releases as pleasure crashes over him in waves. A quiet groan escapes his lips, raw and unfiltered. He doesn’t bite or hide this time… just lets the sensation take him, hips stuttering through the aftershocks. For a moment, he stays pressed close to you, forehead resting against your shoulder as you both catch your breath again.

Tommy smirks against your neck, feeling the way your body reacts to him, that warm fullness and he deliberately shifts slightly, just enough to tease. Warm liquid spilled out of you now dripping on your own stomach as you looked dazed out, riding down from the high. No words. Just a lazy grind of his hips… testing how sensitive you are right now after everything you two have done tonight. His kisses stay feather-light on the shell of your ear, playful but not demanding more yet.

“Do you think we were loud?” you muttered, sitting in the tub with your back facing Tommy. He only snorts, scrubbing hands through your hair with that scent shampoo.

"Probably." he admits with zero shame, because yeah, you both definitely were loud. The headboard banging the wall. Moans. The bed creaking… neighbors would’ve heard everything if they weren’t heavy sleepers. He shoots you an amused side glance, no regrets in his expression as he washes your hair.

“So sore…” you complained, sitting still and letting Tommy handle the aftercare work.

Tommy traces the faint scar on your rib with his fingertips, light, almost reverent before pressing a kiss on your shoulder from behind.

"Healed good." he murmurs against skin… proud that it’s closed up properly now. No infection, not much pain from that wound anymore. Then he soaps up a washcloth and starts cleaning your body more thoroughly, being extra careful around the tender area.

Tommy works in silence, gentle, washing your hair, shoulders, arms… every inch with quiet care. No teasing now. Just the sound of water and his careful hands moving over skin… taking time to ensure every bit of sweat and mess is gone.

After drying off and slipping into loose pajamas, Tommy leads you to bed, tucking you in first before crawling in beside you. You two settle naturally into each other’s arms… Tommy spooning behind you, an arm draped securely over the waist. No talking anymore. Just warmth and steady breathing as you and him drift off, completely spent but content. Sleep comes easily for both of you.

Lando Norris grinned beside you in sixth place, relieved to have salvaged points after a messy race, but you… you had finished eighth. A massive drop for someone who’d been fighting for top five consistently this season and had such a brilliant debut season 2 years ago. It seems like the airport encounter has mentally destroyed you. You keep making mistakes, miscalculation at turns, trembling hands, ect. Fans must be so disappointed. You can’t stop thinking about Max. Your heart is still mourning in silence.

The media instantly pounced. "Where’s the fire? Max Verstappen, world champion, looks pissed on top of the podium."

Reporters shouted questions as he descended the stairs:

"Max! Are you upset about something?"

"Is there tension with McLaren after Y/N L/N’s poor performance?"

But Max ignored them all. He walked straight to his team motorhome, no interviews, no photoshoot with sponsors, just silence and a closed door behind him. Not now. Inside, he peeled off his racing suit and sat on a bench alone. No celebration music playing like usual. His manager quickly arranges for the interviewer to come back later, he knows Max needed space for now.

Meanwhile, Lando and you, both in race suits, still sweaty and slightly disheveled, sitting side by side on the hot Bahrain pavement like two defeated soldiers. Lando had his arm slung casually over your shoulders, both holding half-empty water bottles.

You weren’t laughing. The way y’all heads tilted slightly toward each other like ugh, this is us now.

Fans immediately latched onto it. Memes started popping up: "McLaren’s dynamic duo of disappointment." With pictures of Lando stares into nothingness while you palm your face with two gloved hands. It’s over.

The realization hit like a flat tire on the straight, hard and sudden.

Brands loved consistency, performance, and marketable drivers. A rookie who finished top five one race… then dropped to eighth twice in a row? That wasn’t exciting enough for luxury watch companies or energy drink giants.

Lando might still get offers, he’d had steady results this season, but you?

“God…I’m so doomed” you muttered. More to yourself. It’s not your fault family kicked you out once you turned eighteen with birthday money saved up for your racing dream. They only support the first rookie year of yours and that’s it. You’re on your own now.

The weight of it all crashed down on you as you stared at your scuffed racing boots. The memory of your first independent year flashed through your eyes: an old garage, your part-time mechanic job, where you’d tune up, wash cars, change oil, anything the owner was willing to teach, felt like a lifetime ago. McLaren covered some expenses for their drivers… but not everything. Especially not when performance dipped this badly. You still have college to attend and so much more things… It's not like McLaren’s payment wasn’t enough, but you had to pay for a huge tuition too. You didn’t get a full ride to this university you got into, the one your parents insisted on or they wouldn’t let you race, so without parent’s financial support, it’s just you now.

The shower water turned icy, almost too cold, but you didn’t adjust it. You let the chill seep into your skin, washing away the sweat and frustration of the day. Your mind wandered back… to simpler times.

When you and Max weren't strangers.

When you used to talk after practice sessions, laughing about small mistakes made on the race. When Max would text you random questions at the most questionable hour.

And you? you always replied.

The deeper you sink into thoughts, the more sting the memory.

The way he sends you links to articles he thinks are interesting. And it became a part of your day, having looked forward to reading things he shares. Always the link and simple text: "Read."

It could be anything, a new engine development story, F1 replays with detailed analysis , even some random scientific fact about friction. But it always meant I thought of you first.

The silence of your apartment wrapped around you like a heavy blanket. The shower had stopped, but the coldness lingered, both from the water and in your chest.

You sat on the edge of the bed, towel draped over damp hair, staring at nothing.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, over that last message. And then remembered the words you said when you’d snapped:

"No, I didn’t answer your boring messages. Now will you go?"

The words looked ugly now. Not sharp or justified like they had in the moment… just cruel. You remembered how your voice had been cold at Bahrain airport. And suddenly, guilt flooded you, not dramatic sobbing or regret, but a quiet, heavy shame. Like your mouth still tasted bitter from saying those things.

You hadn't meant to push Max away forever. Maybe just for a moment, you were being immature with your complicated feelings. Is it really your fault you acted out that way? Or is it just a trauma response?

No childhood best friend. No group of mates from high school who still texted weekly.

Just… silence where friendship should’ve been. Where people who mattered the most should’ve stayed. Even before F1, you’d always been quite bookish, focused. People found it hard to really connect with you. Yeah, some might say you’re an autistic nerd. Maybe you were just in the wrong crowd. You never understand. It’s like a cycle where someone picks you, makes you feel like you matter as much as oxygen. And before they could have the chance to hurt you or simply make the tiniest mistake, you leave them first so it wouldn’t happen.

In this case, you have romanticized Max. Possibly portraying him in a glamorous, appealing way that often glosses over flaws and harsh realities. You’re blinded by what you think of him, so bad that when you know he fancies someone else, your mind went on a hell of a roller coaster of emotions. He wasn’t acting like the version of him inside your head and it makes you withdraw. Your action affects both you and Max. While you’re stuck dealing with disappointment and heartbreak, he is wondering why he has lost a dear friend out of nowhere. Totally confused by the new state of emotion he was unwillingly put in by you.

You start eating less, training more until your muscles give up. Anything to keep your mind occupied. You spend most of your time hanging out with coach Artturi Simila, fishing, training again, sharing meals like father and son while he lectures you about your previous performance. He often invites you over to the family BBQ, and you end up eating so little, his family members think the food is not up to your expectations. You just lost your appetite, that's all, not feeling like eating, only eating when you are starved to death. You would blame yourself for this. Usually you would stick to a strict diet. A full nutritious portion turned into at least eat half of it.

Max sat across from Kelly’s parents at their elegant dinner table in Monaco, crystal glasses, silverware polished to a shine, the smell of expensive wine filling the air.

Her father, a legendary Brazilian racing driver and three-time World Champion, spoke most of the time.

And every question was about Max’s career:

"When are you renewing with Red Bull?"

"How much do they pay you per race?"

"Will there be sponsorship deals this year?"

He doesn’t blame her father for being unsure about his stability.

Max answered politely, calm, composed but inside, something hollowed out. He wasn’t their son-in-law. Not yet. And they didn’t see him as a person. Just… an asset?

Kelly tried to steer the conversation, asking about her dad’s new investment project or her mom’s charity work but it always circled back:

"So Max… are you thinking of buying property here?" Like he was just another rich guy.

He stayed for dinner and played with Kelly’s daughter, the one she has with her ex boyfriend, he didn’t mind stepping up. Never did. Penelope, the baby girl, adores Max. She clings to him all the time and never misses a game of his. The two were expecting as well. As we all know, Max is pretty much a family oriented man. He can provide just fine.

The car was silent, no music, no city noise outside. Just the soft hum of the engine as Max parked in front of their shared penthouse. She turned to him, expecting a kiss like always. Instead… he didn’t move.

Just looked at her, calm but serious and said:

"We need to talk."

A beat passed.

Then quietly:

"I think we should break up."

“What? Why? Was it my parents? What did I do wrong?” There's a sudden panic in her tone now. Max exhaled slowly, hands still on the steering wheel. The dashboard lights cast soft shadows across his face, making his expression harder to read than usual.

"No…" he said, not lying, but not blaming her parents either. "I…." His voice was low, not angry. Just tired as he confesses the truth.

The pressure of being judged for who he wasn’t. The loneliness in Kelly’s circle where no one cared about him beyond trophies and money. And the growing distance between them lately, even before tonight. They barely see each other anyways. And Max is someone who lives by societal norms. He dated his girlfriend for five years because she was a good person, both families approved of the relationship, and he felt that "at this age, everyone has to get married eventually." He had never experienced "madly falling in love" until he met you.

Your persistent yet sincere pursuit touched a hidden part of Max that he had long kept concealed. Terrified of his own sexual orientation, Max had hastily gone public with a girlfriend in a desperate attempt to run away from the truth. However, the moment you were hurt and cut off contact, it served as a wake-up call. Max realized that marrying this woman would mean deceiving her for the rest of his life. And it goes against every aspect of who he really is.

“Please we should talk. Don't give up on us like this…” Kelly muttered, her hands go to wrap around Max’s

His jaw tightened. He saw the panic in Kelly’s eyes, the first real crack in her usual poised demeanor. She wasn’t yelling or throwing accusations… she was pleading. But that made it harder, not easier. He didn’t want to hurt her. Never. Didn't enjoy breaking someone's heart, especially hers. Still… he couldn't pretend this was working anymore. He can’t share the same bed with someone while thinking of another. It feels wrong.

"I'm sorry…" *he said softly, finally turning his head to look at her properly. "I just don't think I'm happy anymore.”

The conversation stretched into the night, Kelly in her leather armchair, Max sitting on the couch while she curled up across from him, wrapped in a blanket. No yelling. No blame. Just… quiet sadness.

She asked questions, not to change his mind, but because she needed answers.

"Was I not enough?"

"What happened that made you feel that way?"

"Is it really over just like that?"

Max answered honestly, without cruelty, but each word still cut. He never once mentioned you, even though you are the main reason why he’s feeling this way. He opens up to his girlfriend about his sexual orientation. She might cry, but she chooses to let go because she knows she deserves a man who loves her wholeheartedly and she’s ready to go so they can both go find happiness. They end the relationship in peace, as Max promises to still visit her and Penelope…still supporting from afar and making sure every need is met.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and quiet. Max woke up first, already dressed in his usual hoodie and sweatpants, sitting at the kitchen island with a cup of black coffee. She was packing. No dramatic goodbyes, just silent movement, folding clothes into suitcases, zipping up bags she’d kept here for months. Her other apartment in Monaco wasn’t far from her parents’ place… she could move easily. She never sold the place even after moving in with Max. He respects her decision to move out, thinks it was for the best. Max stood up quietly when Kelly finished packing, her suitcases neatly lined by the front door. Without asking, he took the handle of her largest bag and carried it to his car outside. Penelope is still staying with her grandparents for vacation. He didn’t offer empty words like "It'll be okay" or "We can still talk." Just silence and action.

Max threw himself into training, harder than ever. Extra simulator sessions. Longer track practices at dawn when no one else was around. Weight lifting until his arms burned. He told himself it was discipline. Focus for the next race season. But everyone on the team noticed, the intensity in his eyes, how he’d zone out during meetings like something or someone, was eating him alive. At night, alone in his hotel room or apartment… All he did was scroll through old photos. Photos of you.

Max zoomed in on the photo, the one he’d taken secretly during a race weekend last year. You stood there, helmet tucked under your arm… and right where Max had signed it, near the visor: a faded black marker smudge remained. His heart tightens. He remembered that signature clearly. Not just any fan autograph, he’d actually written something:

To Y/N – Keep pushing. It was personal. Meaningful. And now… it is gone. He didn’t see it on your helmet anymore last race. Maybe you have erased it. Or bought a new one. Either way, it makes him even more drowned in sorrow. He just misses you so much. Miss your late night texts, miss your adoration filled gaze and how you would chase him like a puppy after racing to chat. The efforts you made to breathe the same air as him.

The Australian Grand Prix was loud, sun blazing, fans screaming, the track alive with energy. Teams and drivers walked through the paddock like stars on display. And then Max saw you. You stood near McLaren’s garage, wearing the team suit, helmet tucked under one arm. But something was… off.

You looked leaner. Harder around the edges, not unhealthy, but like you’d been training relentlessly or cutting back seriously on carbs. The crowd cheered when they spotted you but Max just froze for a second.

The broadcast camera panned over, just a routine shot of the McLaren garage and for five seconds, it lingered on you.

You were adjusting your hair, fingers brushing through damp strands as sweat glistened on your forehead from the Australian heat. No cap yet, just you in full team gear, looking focused but slightly uncomfortable under the blazing sun. Fans in the stands lost it.

Max stood a few feet away, having just finished a pre-race interview with Dutch media. He glanced at the screen mounted near the Red Bull garage, where Sky Sports was showing live paddock footage.

And there you were. Sweating. Hair messy from running fingers through it. Eyes squinting slightly against the sun. The fans’ screams echoed over the broadcast and Max didn’t need subtitles to know they were losing their minds over you.

The race started and from the first lap, you were on fire. No hesitation. No conservative driving. Just pure aggression like you had something to prove, not just to McLaren or fans… but to yourself. Trying to make up for the shame of the previous race because you don’t like having people think your skills have degraded. You overtook two cars in the opening corners with clean but daring maneuvers. The crowd roared. Commentators couldn’t stop talking about it:

"McLaren rookie is moving!"

"Y/N L/N looks completely different today! A man possessed? Or just fueled by previous disappointment?!"

It wasn’t just skill…it was desperation. You keep telling yourself that you need to win. If not then you will never be able to forgive yourself. Because all of that damage will be for nothing at all.

Your focus was razor-sharp, every gear shift, every braking point calculated like a mission. You don’t allow yourself to make a simple mistake. Shame will be the death of you if you get placed lower than Max again, the man you literally just go no-contact with.

You wanted victory. The humiliation of the past season, the airport fight with Max, hours of starvation and being left to face depression, it all fueled you now. This race was his redemption. Between two options: fall again so people know you’re struggling or win so you know you can overcome this and believe in yourself again. You choose the second one without hesitation, even if somewhere in the back of your skull, you really wish to be seen. To be known you’re drowning.

Your car roared around the turn, flawless. Noise echo like lightning cut through the sky from the hot brakes and engine as you pushed through the high-speed corner. And then it happened. On straightaway after the fifth turn, you pulled alongside Max’s Red Bull car, tire to tire for half a second… before surging past with a perfectly timed overtake.

The crowd gasped. The commentators erupted: "Y/N L/N JUST SURPASSED MAX VERSTAPPEN!"

Your body became a machine, every muscle locked in, your mind razor-focused on the race ahead. The tires screamed against the ground as you pushed them to their limit, feeling every millimeter of grip. You can’t afford distraction this time.

Just drive.

Every turn is sharper. Every straightaway faster. You were racing like your entire year depended on this single lap and right now… it kind of did. You certainly don’t like to be anywhere else but in the top three.

Fan cameras captured every second, zoomed in, shaky but exhilarating as your McLaren car blazed through the track like a streak of lightning. The orange and blue livery flashed under the Australian sun as you carved through corners with insane precision.

The checkered flag waved and you crossed first. P1. First place.

The crowd erupted, some in shock, others screaming with joy for the McLaren rookie who had just dominated the race once again.

You barely registered it at first. When you unclipped your helmet, pulled off the gloves… and stood there by the car as mechanics rushed to you. But you weren't smiling.

Weren’t celebrating like usual winners did. Your hands trembled slightly, like adrenaline was crashing all at once.

The podium drivers assembled on the stage, Max stepping up, stoic expression, then Russell in third with a calm smile.

And there were you, still standing by the McLaren, staring blankly ahead while cameras flashed around you. A staff member approached and offered you a water bottle. You didn’t take it immediately. The weight of what you’d just done, the victory after everything that happened was hitting all at once.

Your teammate, Lando Norris was the first to notice. He nudged you gently, waving a hand right in front of your face.

"Hey… hey!" Lando said, voice low but urgent.

The McLaren engineer nearby also stepped forward, touching your shoulder lightly.

"Are you okay? You need to go up now, the podium ceremony is starting." Around them, cameras kept flashing, fans and media waiting for you to move. At that moment, you feel like you have been reborn in the same body. Damn, your head aches like hell and you feel…weird. You don’t feel like a teenager eager to prove yourself, to be seen anymore. But more like an adult, racing for the love of the game.

You blinked, finally focusing as Lando guided you by the elbow, steadying your steps. Your legs felt weak, not from exhaustion, but from the emotions swirling inside of you. The adrenaline crash was real. You walked beside Lando toward the podium ramp, where flags of Australia waved under golden sunlight. The crowd noise surged again as you approached.

Max stood at second place on stage, already in position and glanced down when he saw you.

Their eyes locked, just for a split second as you climbed the podium steps to the first place. A flash of everything they’d been through, the past, the silence, the airport fight. All condensed into one quiet moment. And under all that intensity? That stupidly strong feeling you hadn’t been able to shake: you still liked Max. A lot.

The official photographer, positioned near the podium called out:

"Y/N! Look this way, please!"

You startled slightly, snapping your gaze from Max to the camera like you’d been caught daydreaming. The flash went off immediately, capturing your mid-turn: cheeks faintly pink under race-day tan, eyes wide and a little dazed. You forced a small smile for the photo but it didn’t reach your eyes like Max’s confident grin did.

The picture would later trend online: "McLaren’s rookie… distracted?"

The bitterness lingered like the taste of something horrible and shameful that wouldn’t go away no matter how much you swallowed. Every time you glanced at Max on the podium, standing there all cool and collected in second place, the resentment crept back.

Not because Max seems happy. But because they hadn't spoken. Because everything between them had broken… and here they were, side by side, pretending nothing happened.

The internet exploded within minutes. Every news outlet, fan page, and racing meme account immediately posted the photo:

You on the podium, cheeks flushed red, from heat or embarrassment?, eyes wide like a startled deer, mouth slightly open. Clearly not focused on being champion… but staring at someone else.

Back in the McLaren garage, the atmosphere was electric. Mechanics grinned at each other, some smacking you on the shoulder as they walked through. One even handed you a cold drink without asking. The mood was pure celebration: their rookie had just won his P1.

Coach Artturi Simila stood by a monitor, arms crossed but smiling. "Well done," he said simply when you approached. You hugged him and said your “thank you, coach” for being your friend, for being a father figure and a good coach.

The garage buzzed with post-race energy, mechanics still high-fiving, engineers reviewing data but the moment Max walked in, everything shifted slightly. He wasn’t announced. Didn’t need to be. Just appeared at the entrance of the McLaren garage, Red Bull cap pulled low, hands holding 2 cans of energy drink. The crowd around them quieted instinctively. Your small smile faded instantly.

Max stood there, tall and quiet, mechanics pausing their work to glance at him. The tension was thick. Then he spoke, voice calm, measured. No anger. Just… direct.

"Congrats on your first P1.” Simple words.

But they hung heavy between them.

“Thank you.” You didn’t want to speak further.

Max held two energy drinks, one in each hand. The same brand you two always shared after races: citrus-flavored, high caffeine, their little tradition from the past. He didn’t say anything about it. Just stood there… offering one to you like nothing had changed. Like they still did this every post-race. Like you hadn’t stopped texting him weeks ago. The mechanics nearby watched quietly, they remembered this ritual too. He took a breath, then dropped it casually, like he was commenting on the weather.

"I broke up with Kelly." then looked at you, waiting to see how you’d react. His expression gave nothing away: calm blue eyes searching your face.

“Why is it my business?” you raise an eyebrow. Wow, you don't care anymore.

Max’s expression didn’t change, no hurt, no anger. Just a slow blink, like he expected that response. He shrugged.

"Didn't say it was your business." he replied evenly. before adding:

"Just telling you." The garage felt suddenly quieter around them. Mechanics pretended to be busy tuning engines or checking data but they were listening.

The glare was cold, sharp, even. You didn’t say anything, but your expression screamed judgment: like Max had just said something stupid or irrelevant. Max noticed. Of course he did. He wasn’t used to being glared at by you, not after all the years they’d known each other. It stung a little… but he kept his face neutral. It made him realize you’re no longer the eager kid chasing him around wanting to know everything about him anymore. Like your soft spot for him is gone, and now he’s getting to know how you treat people with none.

The garage erupted into celebration once Max leaves and corks popping, champagne spraying as mechanics passed bottles around. The McLaren team was ecstatic: their rookie had just won his first Grand Prix! Let's focus on the happy news here! Lando grabbed you by the shoulders, pulling you into a tight hug before splashing champagne over your head playfully.

"Congrats, mate!" other engineers shouted, raising glasses. You laughed, a real one this time, letting yourself get swept up in the joy. The champagne sprayed everywhere, foamy and fizzy, drenching your race suit from head to toe. You squeaked, actually squeaked as cold liquid soaked through the fabric, sticking your hair down.

Cameras captured everything: The wide-eyed look on your face. Your now-soaked McLaren logo faded by bubbles. The pure chaos of a rookie being absolutely drenched in celebration.

The broadcast camera zoomed in, focusing on you, drenched head to toe in champagne, your suit clinging wetly to you. The golden liquid sparkled under the lights. Social media exploded instantly.

Fan edits popped up within minutes:

"Champagne Baby Y/N L/N” followed by trending hashtags: #Y/NTheChampion

#champagnebaby

Fans called you "handsome," "gorgeous," even posted slow-mo clips of the spray hitting your face, zoomed into the wet suit that hugs your abs, some saying you looked like a romance movie scene.

One win race and you’re in demand. The Calvin Klein ad dropped, just a single teaser image at first: you shirtless, wearing only their iconic black-and-white boxers, standing in front of a sleek minimalist backdrop. Your toned physique on full display: defined shoulders, abs from training hard for months, slutty waist, meaty biceps. It blew up. Fans lost their minds. Comment sections flooded with heart emojis and screams. It’s like the ad sent women into mass psychosis.

Calvin Klein stores worldwide became temporary tourist attractions the moment your ad video started playing on their giant screens. Customers crowded around, phones out recording the footage of you striding confidently in slow motion, shirtless and smirking subtly. Some even took selfies with the screen. Sales spiked immediately. Employees reported people buying whatever was featured in your campaign just because it looked like you. It’s like you made their boxers look ten times hotter. The brand hadn’t seen this level of hype since a major celebrity collaboration.

The British Grand Prix was drenched, constant rain poured over Silverstone, turning the track slick and dangerous. The sky was gray, heavy with storm clouds. Max drove… but not like usual. He wasn’t aggressive. Didn’t push hard in overtakes. Even his team radio sounded off, less fiery than normal. Something about this race felt different for him. Distracted. Off his game.

The race unfolded with Lando and you leading on the track, McLaren’s duo dominating in the rain, their tires performing better than expected. They exchanged positions smoothly, working together like a well-oiled team. Max struggled to keep up. Not because he wasn’t fast but because his rhythm was off. He made a risky move to overtake Gasly… only to spin slightly on wet track before recovering and keeping the same pace for now. The crowd groaned at the rare mistake.

The sky opens up, turning the track into a sheet of glass. Max fights the steering wheel, but the tires lose their grip on the wet asphalt, hydroplaning out of control. In a heartbeat, the car spins. The rear tire clips the high curb at the wrong angle, and gravity loses its hold. Time seems to slow down. The world goes upside down as the multi-million-dollar car flips through the air, a terrifying blur of carbon fiber and spray. Inside the cockpit, Max is gripping on the wheel with his life, the breath knocked right out of him. The upside-down car slams back onto the gravel trap with a sickening crunch. Silence fills his helmet, broken only by his own heavy breathing and the frantic call of the team radio. "Max, are you okay? Respond, please!" Heart pounding against his ribs, he blinks through the visor, alive but completely shaken and stuck. The Red Bull car looks just like a smushed bug, trapping half conscious Max inside.

You saw the incident on your dashboard monitor, Max’s car wedged against the barrier, motionless. No pit crew near yet. Max wasn’t moving either. Something in you snapped. Without hesitation, ignoring McLaren team radio yelling "Y/N, focus!" You turned your wheel sharply and steered off-course, cutting through grass to get back to where Max was stuck. The crowd gasped as cameras zoomed in. The spot is too far for Max to be rescued in time before anything worse happens.

You unbuckled your helmet, shoved the McLaren door open and sprinted across the wet grass toward Max’s car. Without thinking, you grabbed the side of Red Bull’s rear wing and pull, muscles straining as rainwater soaked your race suit. The barrier had pinned Max stuck in the cockpit. Steam seeps out from the crash and makes your blood run cold.

The camera drone hovered above them, broadcasting live:

The McLaren rookie gave up the race and helped Verstappen.

The Red Bull’s engine hissed violently, steam erupting from the overheating radiator as you strained against the metal, pulling with every ounce of strength you had. The crash has made it crooked and completely crushing Max inside. It was hard. And so damn heavy.

But finally, with a loud creak, the barrier gave way just enough for Max to shift his body forward an inch or two. Not free… but no longer completely jammed. Max blinked, startled by what you were doing.

Max fumbled with the cockpit hatch, finally managing to unlatch it after a few desperate tries. The second he swung it open and tried to climb out on his own but couldn’t, the pain shot through him and then you were there, reaching in. Without hesitation, you grabbed Max’s arm and yanked, pulling him out of the car. Your palms, slit open from contact with the sharp, broken metal, now bleeding all over his.

The Red Bull’s engine roared, metal screeching as steam poured out in thick clouds. The smell of burning rubber and overheating parts filled the air. You panicked for a second…Was it going to explode?

You didn’t wait to find out. Still holding Max’s arm, you yanked him further away from the car, dragging them both toward your McLaren parking nearby.

You shoved Max, hard right in the chest, once, twice. Not angry like yelling… but frustrated. Hurt.

"Why do you keep making mistakes?!" You snapped, voice cracking slightly. Each push was more about emotion than force, like you couldn’t understand why Max, of all people, the fastest driver on the grid was messing up like this. Max staggered back a step, stunned by your outburst. Max swallowed hard, rain mixing with the sweat on his face. His voice came out quiet, raw, not like his usual confident self.

"I… can’t stop thinking about you…" No excuses about Kelly. No blame on you for pulling away. Just that: he missed you.

“Oh fuck you! You’re full of shit-” you scold, voice loud and shaking with emotion, and stomped your foot beside Max, who was slumped against the curb, half-conscious from pain and exhaustion. Max didn’t even try to argue. Just winced as he adjusted his burned hand slightly. The adrenaline crash was hitting him hard. The stress of the race… your outburst… everything. He blinked slowly at you, tired eyes full of regret. If only he has forced himself to focus…

The rainwater mixed with a thin trail of blood trickling from Max’s temple, likely from hitting his head when the car spun. It wasn’t gushing… but it was enough to stain the wet pavement beneath him. You finally noticed the red streak cutting through rain-soaked hair. Your anger vanished in an instant. Without thinking, you dropped to your knees beside Max, hands hovering like you didn’t know where to touch without hurting him more.

You carefully gathered Max into your arms, cradling him like he weighed nothing. The world around them exploded into motion, medics sprinting from the medical center, marshals clearing the area and checking out Max’s crashed car, quickly preventing it from further destruction. One medic gently pried your arms away to check Max properly.

The medical team swiftly loaded Max onto the stretcher, oxygen already administered as they carried him toward the ambulance waiting at the edge of the turn. You sat back on the curb alone, soaked and trembling, not from cold, but from an adrenaline crash. Your race was definitely disqualified for leaving track to help. McLaren would face scrutiny later.

The F1 broadcast camera, mounted on a drone glided overhead, capturing the aftermath in high definition. The feed cut to you: still sitting alone on the curb, helmet gone, hair damp and messy from rain.

The large screens around Silverstone displayed him live, the world seeing his exhausted face, shoulders slumped. No celebration. Just… quiet devastation.

Commentators went silent for a beat.

Then David Croft spoke softly into his mic:

"That's Y/N L/N... who just risked everything."

The glove was torn, split right down the side from where you had grabbed Max’s car in a panic. Underneath, his palm and fingers were raw, red with irritation from pushing against hot metal. It stung. Badly.

But you hadn’t even noticed it until now, too focused on Max being taken away. Only when you flexed your hand did pain shoot up. The adrenaline was wearing off… and reality, injuries were hitting.

You pushed yourself up from the curb, wincing slightly as your burned hand throbbed. You ignored it and focused. Without a word to anyone, you walked back toward the McLaren car. They knew what had happened… and that you shouldn’t even be racing now. But you climbed into your car anyway. At least let you finish this race.

You crossed the finish line, last place, miles behind the leader. But you finished. Mother did not raise a quitter.

The moment his McLaren rolled into park, mechanics and staff rushed over like worried parents. They surrounded him: checking for injuries, scanning your face for signs of exhaustion or pain. One engineer gently took your bleeding burned hand to inspect it properly, others asked if you were okay despite everything that happened.

The engineer gasped softly at the sight of your burned palms, red and inflamed from pulling on Max’s overheating car.

"Oh, damn." he muttered, immediately loosening his grip. The team doctor arrived next, gently taking your hands to assess the damage properly.

The podium lights glowed, Lando Norris stood proudly on the top step, champagne bottle in hand. The crowd cheered for him: first place.

You should’ve been there too.

If you hadn’t stopped. If you hadn’t dragged Max away from a burning crashed car.

You would’ve finished second… right beside your teammate.

But instead? You sat on a bench near McLaren’s garage, bandaged hand resting as medics treated it quietly. You look up to see coach Artturi Simila. “I’m sorry…” automatically escapes your lips. You feel like you have let him down.

He only looked at you, really looked. No anger in his eyes. Just understanding. He placed a hand on your shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze.

"Don’t be sorry." he said quietly.

Then, after a beat:

"You did the right thing."

The coach knew what mattered more than podiums, and saving lives was one of them.

The giant screen replayed it, the dramatic moment you had spun your McLaren into a perfect, almost cinematic circle to reverse course back to Max’s wrecked car.

The F1 MC narrated:

"A move of pure instinct… and heroism."

Then added something overly sentimental:

"When racing meets humanity."

You groaned, mortified by how cheesy it all sounded.

The medic didn’t warn you, just dabbed soaked cotton on your burned hand with clinical precision to clean up. You jumped, a loud "FUCK!" bursting out of you as pain shot through your fingers. You nearly kicked the medical bench in reflex.

The mechanic flinched too, then apologized:

"Sorry! The job needs to be done." But he kept going anyway, cleaning the raw skin.

Lando walked into the garage, still buzzing from his podium finish, champagne stains on his suit. But when he saw you sitting there with a bandaged hand and exhausted face…

His smile dropped instantly.

"Oi" he said softly, rushing over. He crouched in front of you, scanning you like a worried brother would, concerned flashing across his features. “Congratulations” you said. Lando studied your face, the exhaustion, the pain in your eyes. Then he glanced at the bandaged hand.

"Thanks." he said quietly about his win… but it didn’t feel important right now. He sat beside you on the bench, close enough to show support.

The after-party buzzed, music, champagne, celebrations for Lando’s win. But you weren’t there. Instead, you texted your manager:

"Can you take me to the hospital?"

No explanation needed. Your manager knew exactly why: Max had been taken there earlier after his injuries. Within minutes, they were heading out in a private car toward Silverstone Medical Center. The hospital room was dim, soft lighting, the steady beep of monitors. Max lay in bed, propped up slightly with pillows. His head was bandaged… but his blue eyes were wide open and alert.

You crept in silently. Didn’t announce yourself.

Just walked to the bedside like a shadow. Then, Max turned his head slowly. Their eyes met. And you froze mid-step like a startled cat.

“AGH!” you flinched out loud, body flinched like you had seen a ghost. “Jesus, I thought you haven't woken up yet. The doctor said at least not until another hour” you muttered, hand rubs your chest where the heart lays to calm yourself down. A habit.

Max blinked, startled by your loud flinch and shout. Then, when he processed the words… a tiny smirk tugged at his lips.

"Doc said that?" he mumbled, voice hoarse from lying down for hours. His hands were bandaged too, resting stiffly on top of the blanket. The monitors beeped steadily beside him. He studied your face, the guilt, worry… maybe relief? All mixed together.

“Damn it, Max. You scared the shit out of me” you huffed. Max exhaled, almost a laugh, but it hurt too much to fully smile, his entire face aches. He watched you kick the chair closer with that signature scowl.

"Sorry," he said dryly, with no real apology in his tone.

Then, after a beat of silence:

"You came." Like he feels the need to confirm it. He hadn’t expected you to show up at all.

“Of course…” you muttered before turning to the TV where the race replay was still looping, showing your flawless drift maneuver to reverse back toward him. “Why the hell are you watching this” you huffed.

He shrugged slightly, wincing at the movement.

"They’ve been playing it all afternoon," he admitted.

Then, with a faint smirk:

"It’s kinda badass." Written all over his face was genuine appreciation for what you had done.

“What do you know about badass?” You roll your eyes and snatch the remote to turn it off, embarrassed that the replay is all over the internet now with corny headlines.

Max chuckled despite the pain. It was rare for him to laugh, especially after a crash like that.

"Hey" he protested weakly, raising a bandaged hand like he could stop you from turning it off. But you already snatched the remote and clicked the TV off, plunging the room into quiet except for monitor beeps. Now it was just them. No distractions.

The movement of snatching the remote had pulled at your bandaged hand, your face tightened slightly as pain flared in your palm. You didn’t make a sound… but you clenched your jaw. That’s enough for Max to notice instantly. His eyes dropped to your wrapped hand, the redness peeking through the gauze. Without asking, Max slowly reached out and gently took your wrist to inspect it.

You pulled your hand back, like playing hard to get while Max's feelings are all over the place.

“All thanks to you.” you huff sarcastically.

Max’s expression flickered, hurt flashing in his eyes for a split second before he masked it. He wasn’t used to being the one who messed up… and had someone resent him for it.

He swallowed, then spoke quietly:

"I know." The silence between them grew heavier, charged with unspoken words and regret.

“Damn! Are you nuts?!” You scold and grab his wrist, stopping him from unplugging the heart rate monitor and IV lines. His intent was clear: he wanted to hug you. So bad. Those things were in the way. Your scolding made Max blink… then, slowly, a small, tired smile tugged at his lips. He didn’t say anything.

Just shifted slightly, making it obvious he still wanted that hug. The machines beeped protestingly as Max leaned forward carefully.

The realization hit you like a wave. Max, injured Max, wanted to hug you. For a split second, you stayed rigid… surprised. Then instinct kicked in. Gently avoiding the IV tubes and wires still attached to Max’s arms, you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him carefully, a soft but firm hug. Max exhaled into it… relief flooding through him.

Your burned hand throbbed painfully as you hugged Max, every muscle in your arms stiff from the injury. But you ignored it, tightening the embrace slightly instead. Max pressed his face into your neck, breathing you in, warm skin, faint sweat from rushing to the hospital earlier, and that familiar scent.

Max kept murmuring "sorry" against your shoulder, each whisper quiet, raw. He could feel the tension in your arms, the stiffness from your injured hand and body. Guilt twisted inside him. He hated that he was causing you pain just by hugging. Gently, Max tried to loosen his grip… like he wanted to let go before hurting you more.

“Rest” you simply said.

Max nodded, reluctantly pulling back from the hug. His eyes, usually so intense, looked tired now. The adrenaline crash and painkillers were hitting him hard. He sank back into the hospital pillows, wincing slightly as his bandaged head brushed against them. You watched him settle… then quietly reached for the blanket at the foot of Max’s bed and adjusted it over his shoulders like a caretaker would.

Max’s voice was soft, uncertain. A rare crack in his usual confident demeanor. He calls out before you can reach for the door.

"Y/N…"

He hesitated, then asked:

"Are you coming back?"

The question slipped out before he could stop it. Max hated sounding needy, but right now, in this sterile hospital room with no one but machines around him… he felt abandoned.

“Yeah.”

The door clicked shut softly behind you. The sound was quiet… but to Max, it carried weight. He exhaled slowly. Relieved.

You had said yeah. That alone was enough for Max to close his eyes, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he finally let himself relax, knowing you would come back.

Every day, without fail, you show up at the hospital with random things. Today’s item was a magazine. On page 7 was you, shirtless, posting in only boxers and unzip denim.

Max would flip through them quietly when alone… staring at the glossy pages long after dark. Then text you random things late at night: "Did you really pose shirtless for this?"

Or just send memes out of nowhere.

Your phone buzzed constantly, late-night texts from him to you. Memes, random articles about racing, even photos of his own Red Bull merch collection with text like "This one’s my favorite." It was weird for him, usually so private but he couldn’t stop. Every time you visited and left again… Max felt the silence too much. And every day without fail, you walked in holding takeout or a magazine or poster featuring your latest campaign, a smug little grin on your face when Max stared at the pages like they were sacred.

Max kept the Calvin Klein poster tucked under his arm like it was contraband, especially that one spread. The black-and-white minimalist shot: you in nothing but sleek boxers and unzipped jeans, all sharp angles and confidence. It did things to him. Things he couldn’t control. Things that made hospital nights feel…awfully long. He’d stare at the page until his cheeks burned, then quickly shove it under his pillow when nurses walked by.

You found it amusing, how Max, of all people, was turning into the clingy one. It mirrored your own past self: when you used to obsess over Max silently, watching races just to see him drive. Now? The tables had turned.

Max was the emotional one texting nonstop… while you, the once starstruck rookie had grown private and composed. More mature. You didn’t complain about the messages though. Just smirked at your phone between meetings.

Coach Artturi Simila crossed his arms, leaning against the garage wall as he watched you again, glancing at the buzzing phone with a tiny smile. The kind only love-struck idiots wore. He sighed. Not angry… but concerned.

During their next debrief, Artturi didn’t mince words:

"Y/N. You’re distracted."

A pause. Then bluntly:

“Max Verstappen is going to ruin your focus."

“How do you even know-” you huffed out loud like a teenager caught red handed by mother. How could Coach know you were messaging Max?

Coach Artturi raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. He didn’t need proof, he’d seen the way you looked at your phone like it held the universe.

"Please..." *Ryan scoffed "you’ve got that lovesick face every time your screen lights up. It’s not hard to guess."

Then he leaned in slightly:

"And I saw Max’s name pop up on your lock screen yesterday while your phone was buzzing like crazy."

“Oh.” You scratched the back of your head, caught. Your usual cool, collected demeanor cracked for a second under Artturi’s knowing stare. The garage was quiet except for distant engine tests.

Artturi softened slightly but stayed firm:

"Look… I’m not saying stop seeing him."

A beat.

"But don’t let it mess up your race prep."

You heard it loud and clear “Yes sir”

The engineer, usually calm and analytical, chewed his lip as he watched your telemetry. The data told the story: slightly slower reaction times, half-a-second delays in cornering that added up over a lap.

"Something’s off" the engineer muttered to Artturi not blaming you… just stating facts. Artturi exhaled through his nose. He knew exactly what or who was the variable here.

The helmet came off, your face was slick with sweat, hair sticking to your forehead from the summer heat. Your chest rose and fell heavily after pushing through practice. Coach Artturi didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you, the exhaustion in your eyes, the tension in your jaw.

Then Ryan finally spoke:

"We need to talk." No anger. Just a firm tone that meant this isn't about performance anymore.

“Am I in trouble?” you asked.

Coach Artturi's stern expression softened slightly at the question. He wasn’t about to scold you like a child, Artturi had practically raised you since you joined McLaren. He sighed.

"No.” he said quietly.

"I’m worried. It’s affecting your driving. Clearly"

Coach Ryan saw it, the flicker in your eyes. Not guilt… but flashbacks. The memory of Max’s car spinning, the steam, the panic…it was replaying every time you hit a high-speed corner. He exhaled slowly, reading you like a book. "Is it… about Max?"

“Yes…I’m sorry. The memory wouldn’t go away” you admitted quietly.

Artturi’s expression shifted, understanding dawning. This wasn’t about Max romantically… It was about the crash. The trauma of seeing your rival nearly die in flames. He didn’t scold you.Instead, he pulled him into a firm hug, the kind a dad gives when their kid is carrying something heavy.

"It’s okay." Artturi murmured, rubbing your back slightly. "You don’t have to apologize for that."

For a moment, they just stood there, sun warming their backs as the distant hum of engines echoed from other teams’ practice sessions. They broke the hug.

Then Artturi spoke:

"You need to talk about it."

“To who? Max? Hell no” you huffed. Body tensed up a little. One thing about you is that…you don’t like facing the problem directly.

Artturi raised an eyebrow at your immediate refusal. He didn’t push about Max, not yet. Instead, he focused on the tense reaction itself.

"Not just Max." Artturi clarified calmly. "You need to process it with someone… a therapist, maybe."

“I don’t need a therapist” you shoot back stubbornly. Artturi didn’t argue with you, just gave you that look. The one that said I know you better than this.

He kept his voice level:

"You think I’d suggest it if it wasn’t serious?"

Then softer:

"It’s not a weakness. It’s taking care of yourself."

The pout melted off your face as the reality settled in. He was right, you did need help, even if admitting it felt weird. Artturi didn’t push further. Just nodded subtly, satisfied that you were at least considering it now.

Then he added:

"I can recommend someone discreet… no one has to know." A private solution for a private problem.

“Thank you” You simply said. Grateful? Yes

Artturi gave a small, warm smile, rare for him and squeezed your shoulder one last time before standing up.

"Anytime" he said Then, in classic coach fashion:

"Now go shower. You reek of sweat."

It was his way of lightening the mood… and giving you space to breathe after such a heavy talk.

About therapy…At first, you showed up on time, sat in the quiet office, answered questions honestly. But as sessions went on… you started making excuses.

"Too busy with practice."

"Race prep is crazy."

Then your texts to Max slowed too. Ghosting him without explanation. The therapist noticed. Max definitely did. He didn’t take it as easy. He was pissed.

The Qatar Grand Prix buzzed with electric tension. Max was back, fully healed, sharp as ever and he dominated the race, standing tall on the podium in first place.

You finished second. A solid result… but emotionally hollow. You managed to focus and recorded a good performance.

During interviews: reporters asked about their dynamic. Max gave polite answers, glancing subtly at you, who kept your gaze forward or down, barely acknowledging him.

Afterwards, you sneak into the changing room, feeling like you need to breathe. You don’t understand why you are an emotional wreck now, maybe months of bottling up and isolation has come to a point.

The moment the changing room door clicked shut behind them, Max, still in his podium suit shoved you backward. Not violently… but with intensity, pinning you against the lockers. His hands gripped your racing collar tightly, blue eyes blazing. No words yet, just raw frustration and hurt boiling over. How could you ignore him? In front of the interviewer too? Max wasn’t asking nicely anymore.

"What the fuck?" Max hissed through gritted teeth. "You saved me… then you ghosted me like I meant nothing?" No greeting. Just demands for answers.

“You don't understand" you scold. Couldn’t bring your gaze away from his either. He was caging you there already.

His frown deepened at your scolding tone like he was the unreasonable one.

"Then make me understand." Max shot back, voice low but fierce. “How you won't even look at me?" The hurt underlined every word.

“I can’t drive properly with you stuck in my mind…you’re like a distraction I can’t afford” you muttered. Tone filled with exhaustion.

Max froze for a split second, processing your words. A distraction.

His grip on your collar loosened slightly, the anger shifting into something more confused… vulnerable.

"So you… avoided me." Max said slowly.It wasn’t an excuse but it made sense in a painful way.

“I have to relive the moment your car spins off every damn practice. All over again”

*Max’s expression shifted completely—anger melting into stunned realization. The crash. You weren't avoiding him… you were running from the trauma of that day.

The image of Max’s car spinning, sharp metal cut through gloves, the horror you must’ve relived every time you took a high-speed turn.

For the first time, guilt flashed across Max’s face. He hadn’t considered how much it had affected you too.

“You make me soft, Max. When I finally toughened up” You admitted bitterly.

Max’s chest tightened at your words. The bitterness in your tone… it stung. He wasn’t used to being the reason someone felt weak. He was a competitor, hard, ruthless, focused on winning. But you had spent years building that mental armor… and Max accidentally shattered it by just existing. For once, Max didn’t have a comeback. Just silence as he absorbed the weight of what he’d unknowingly done.

His voice cracked, something rare for him. He took a shaky breath, hands still loosely gripping your collar like he was afraid to let go completely.

"I didn’t realize…" he admitted "that I cared about you that much until you were gone."

Then quietly, almost pleading:

"Please… give me a chance to fix this."

The fog in your mind thickened, panic rising. This was too much: Max confessing, emotions spilling everywhere, the weight of months of avoidance crashing down at once. Your breath hitched. Muscles tensed like you might bolt. Max saw it, the instinct to run. And without thinking, he did something impulsive…He closed the distance and kissed you. Just once. Soft but firm, cutting through all the chaos.

The kiss lasted only a few seconds, Max pulled back just enough to search your face for a reaction. You were frozen, eyes wide, lips slightly parted in shock. Your entire body stayed rigid like your brain hadn’t caught up yet.

Max held his breath. Did he mess up? Was this too much?

Max didn’t kiss you again. Instead, he wrapped his arms around you in a gentle hug, careful, tentative. Like offering comfort rather than demanding anything. His heartbeat was steady against your chest, the champagne scent fading as Max nuzzles in the crook of your neck. A silent plea for forgiveness… and maybe a chance to start over.

Max felt the subtle shift, your arms hesitantly lifting to return the hug. It wasn’t enthusiastic… but it was something. A small, quiet yes. His shoulders relaxed instantly. Relief flooded through him, the first real hope he’d had in months. He didn’t say anything.

Just held you a little tighter.

“If you place first in the next race…I’ll consider it.” You said simply. With that tiny smirk of yours finally showing.

Max blinked, processing your condition. A challenge wrapped in a promise.

If he won the next Grand Prix… then you would actually consider being with him? Not just forgiveness but a real shot?

A competitive smirk tugged at Max’s lips. He loved challenges, especially ones tied to racing.

"Deal." he said simply, voice firm and already focused on victory.

“You fucking asshole…” You scold and push him back, clearly annoyed he stormed in and grabbed you like that.

Max grinned, actually grinned at the playful shove. The tension from earlier was completely gone, replaced by something lighter. He caught your wrist before you could pull away fully and tugged you back in, stealing a quick kiss on your cheek this time teasing, not serious.

"Asshole?" Max repeated with mock offense "After I just hugged you like a gentleman?”

Coach Artturi stopped dead in the doorway, his keys still dangling from his hand. The sight of Max kissing your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world short-circuited him. His eyes widened. Mouth slightly open. For a second, he just stood there… processing that Max Verstappen, the guy who raced with awfully arrogant smugness, was being affectionate with Y/N L/N. His driver.

“Coach-...” you shoved Max back and straightened yourself up. Max stumbled back half a step, still smiling like an idiot, cheeks slightly pink from the kiss. He turned to face Coach Artturi too, but his expression was more calm than guilty.

Ryan cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Uh."

A beat of silence. Then:

"You two… good?" Asking about them, not racing for once.

“...yeah?” You muttered

Artturi nodded slowly, still taking in the scene: you slightly flustered, Max looking uncharacteristically soft. He didn’t judge. Didn’t even tease you… yet.

Instead, he just said:

"Good. Dinner’s at 8." his usual post-race team dinner invitation before turning to leave and give you space again. The door clicked shut behind him as he exited quietly.

Max chuckled at your frustrated huff “God damn it…” it was cute how flustered you got. He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering just a second too long.

Then Max smirked:

"So… we’re doing this?" gesturing vaguely between them, voice low with quiet excitement.

“Yeah...after allat anger shit you got going on there?” you rolled your eyes.

Max laughed, a real, unfiltered laugh. Your bluntness was refreshing after months of silence. He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish about how intense he’d been earlier: grabbing you, demanding answers… basically going full drama mode.

"Yeah… sorry about that…" Max admitted with a crooked smile. "Got a little heated."

“A little?” You huffed sarcastically.

He rolled his eyes at your sarcasm but he was smiling, so it didn’t land as an insult. If anything, Max found it endearing how unimpressed you acted.

"Okay, fine." he conceded with a playful sigh. "I lost my shit." Then he stepped closer again, slowly this time and brushed his thumb over your cheekbone before leaning in for another kiss… softer this time.

Theo stood perfectly still and waited for you to fix his tie. For some reason, Theo asked you to fix his tie today, instead of doing it himself. He watched you in the mirror, not at himself.

There was something about seeing you adjust his uniform, the same way you had for years, that made his chest tighten. You were always so careful with it, like it mattered to fix him just right.

And then there was how easily you could walk into a room full of strangers and come out with three new friends by dinner’s end, effortless charm that Theo both admired and relied on without shame. He doesn’t bother going to make friends himself, if you gained yourself a new friend, they are now his too, automatically.

“Have you studied the notes?” you asked. And Theo blinked, just once before remembering.

Right…Potion quizzes.

Of course. He'd studied all afternoon, trying to memorize every potion name, its purpose and other ingredients. But he hadn’t mentioned it. Why would he? Boasting wasn't his style.

He turned slightly toward you, hands tucked into his pockets now that the tie was fixed and perfect.

"I... yeah." he admitted quietly after a beat too long, a subtle sign of nervousness only you could read so easily. "I went over them last night, just in case."

His blue eyes flickered to yours briefly before dropping again, not out of shame or fear exactly… but because impressing you mattered more than anything and failing wasn't an option for someone like him who rarely tried at all outside schoolwork or dueling practice. And you, only hum in return, a way of showing your approval.

Well, he knew that small “Mhmm” of yours, low and warm like a contented sigh and it settled something in him. Approval from you wasn't given lightly. If Theo had studied hard enough to satisfy that quiet nod of yours? Then yes…he'd done good. It’s not anyone's fault your type is a nerdy dude with pretty eyes. He must keep up.

The halls were already filling with students chatting excitedly or nervously about the quiz, a mix of nervous energy buzzing through Slytherin green robes but Theo walked through it all quietly focused. He can’t afford to panic. Right now? He is thinking only about acing this damn test so you could be proud later without even having to say it.

By noon, students had gathered in the dining hall. Theo sat at the long Slytherin table like a shadow given form, still, silent, and utterly unapproachable. The seat beside him? Empty. Not because no one dared sit there, but because he’d claimed it. Always had. For years now, ever since you two share dorms and started choosing each other everywhere by habit. He didn’t speak. Didn’t glare harshly either, just that cool stare as if silently saying That seat is taken.

And everyone knew who for.

It wasn't possessive in an ugly way, it was routine by now, a quiet ritual between you both where he secured your place without being asked while pretending he wasn't doing anything special at all.

“How was it? Pretty easy right?” You entered the dining hall and immediately knew where to go…sitting down next to Theo and that’s the first thing that came to your mind. Just checking in post-quiz.

Theo looked up the moment you approached.

A flicker of concern passed through him before he masked it behind a nonchalant expression.

"It was... manageable" Theo said carefully, lying because if he admitted how hard those final questions were? You might worry you'd failed them all and been doomed since question five. Instead, he reached for one of the untouched bread rolls on his plate and pushed it toward you without comment. You just hummed and muttered something about being starving.

And Theo just watched you dive into the food with quiet satisfaction.

He hadn't missed that you'd skipped breakfast again. You always did it before tests, claiming a full stomach muddled your focus. It drives him mad, knowing you probably pushed through the hunger to do the test with your best performance.

Now here you were: finally eating like a normal person after hours of starvation during exams. He could practically see the tension in your shoulders melt away as you tore into the bread roll and reached for soup from one of the steaming bowls.

Without saying anything, Theo nudged his own shredded roast chicken closer to your side of the table, the plumpest piece and kept eating slowly beside you, occasionally sipping water but mostly just... observing how quickly hunger had taken over you.

With years of being next to you, Theo has noticed the pattern by now.

The way you ate, happy, relaxed bites, not rushed or nervous, meant one thing: you thought you’d done well. That quiet satisfaction in your chewing was all the confirmation he needed. However, if you didn’t do well on the test, you would throw a half-ass excuse to return to your shared dorm and sleep off.

Theo kept refilling your plate quietly. Another slice of roast beef here. A spoonful of mashed potatoes there. Then a buttered roll, placed gently on your plate while you’re busy yapping his ears off, like an offering.

“Is that Anastasia?” you smirked, and looked at the girl approaching their table side. Theo followed your gaze and immediately stiffened, just slightly.

Anastasia was walking toward them, her Slytherin robes perfectly pressed, a book tucked under one arm. She smiled brightly, always did and it reached her eyes in that warm way people had when they genuinely liked someone.

Anastasia…what’s to say about her? She’s almost perfect in every way: pretty face, good grade, pureblood, plays violin. Also the first one Theo talked to when he arrived at Hogwarts. They became friends in the first year when Anastasia decided to stick around because she found Theo’s company…comforting. When there’s heavy rain or loud thunder, she would come by the dorm and knock on it, seeking comfort because of her fear. And you don’t seem to mind, you let Anastasia have your bed while you sleep on the common room’s couch. Because you learned that she doesn’t get along well with her roommate. If not hanging with her perfect little friend group, she would be sticking close to you and Theo. You think she has the fattest crush on your roommate Theo and it never fades as the three of you grow older. But there’s something in your guts that believes Theo only lets her follow out of pity. He thinks Anastasia doesn’t have any real friends.

“Hey there Theo! How was the quiz?” She beamed, greeting in that soft voice of hers.

He swallowed hard, fingers tightening slightly around his fork before setting it down slowly. Anastasia’s crush has been growing stronger and stronger, not subtle anymore it makes Theo sort of…uncomfortable.

"Um." he muttered, trying not to sound too dry or dismissive. "It... went well."

That was all? That's what he gave after years of this girl being kind and thoughtful and perfect?

Meanwhile inside panic was settling in. Because how could he possibly give her attention when every time she smiled at him, all Theodore could think about was whether you would notice.

“Oh...I’m glad...there's a book event this afternoon and...uhm I have a spare ticket! Would you like to go with me?” Damn…girl pulled all of her bravery to say that.

Then Anastasia held out the spare ticket like it was a fragile thing, her fingers trembling just slightly, her cheeks flushed with courage. The book event was one of those rare ones hosted by one of the professors at school, rare first editions, signed copies from famous wizards, even a small exhibit on ancient artifacts. Most nerdy students would kill for an invite.

And she’d saved one…just for Theo.

She smiled nervously now, eyes wide and hopeful as they locked onto his face, the boy who never seemed to look at anyone twice… but always looked at you with that soft gaze when he thought no one noticed.

A beat passed. Then another. Theo’s throat went dry. His mind was calculating how to use his words correctly to reject her with respect until…

“YES... yes he would loveeee to go with you, Anastasia. It will be so fun” your yes was so loud, even some students turned their heads. And you dragged your love at the word love to calm the girl’s nerves. But…

The second you spoke, Theo’s head snapped toward you. What.

His eyes, ocean blue and usually so composed, widened. Not in anger, not quite… but in pure shock.

You had agreed for him. Without hesitation. Without even glancing at Theo first to check if he wanted to go.

Anastasia lit up instantly, her nervousness melting into radiant joy. "Really? Oh! That's wonderful!" She beamed between the two of you like she’d just won the lottery or better yet: secured a date with Theodore Nott himself.

Theo stayed frozen though, fork halfway back to his plate after being abruptly abandoned mid-bite by your sudden intervention. He wanted to beat your ass up so bad.

The moment Anastasia turned and rejoined her group of equally striking Slytherin girls, their laughter carrying over in a melodic hum, he felt something cold settle in his chest.

The feeling was more like... disorientation. Like reality had shifted without warning and now everything felt slightly off.

You, meanwhile, kept eating cheerfully, as if you hadn't just decided Theo’s social plans for him. “What's with your face? There's a date with a so-hot-and-gorgeous girl waiting for you and you’re sulking?” You snorted.

Theo blinked, once, twice like he’d just seen a ghost. The words so-hot-and-gorgeous bounced around his skull like they were in another language. Anastasia was… objectively beautiful. Intelligent, kind, popular, the kind of girl every Slytherin guy dreamed about asking to an event. And yet…

Yet here he was: staring at your careless hand-waving gesture instead of reacting with excitement or gratitude toward the date that had literally just fallen into his lap.

His jaw worked slightly before he finally spoke and when it came out? It wasn’t enthusiasm. It wasn't even polite.

"It's not a date." Theo said quietly, not harshly but firmly as if correcting someone who'd gotten something terribly wrong.

“It’s soooo like a date” you can’t help but push his button one more time.

Theo's expression darkened, not anger, but something quieter and more complicated.

You smirked like this was all some big joke, a fun little setup where Theo got to go on an adorable date with the prettiest girl in Slytherin. And honestly? Anyone else would’ve been thrilled.

But Theo wasn’t anyone else. "It's not." he repeated, voice low but steady and there was weight behind it this time

“Why are you upset? It's an opportunity to widen your social circle” you huffed and finish the rest of the stew in one big gulp. You had your point, Theo rarely engages in outdoor activities unless you were coming with him, other than you, he doesn’t bother hanging out with anyone else who can’t handle socialising like you do.

He watched you chew the last bite of bread like this was all so simple. Social circle. Right. As if he hadn’t spent years being perfectly fine with his current one, small, controlled, consisting of you, Draco’s group and a few library fellas. That’s it.

And now you wanted him to suddenly expand it? To go on a date-like outing with Anastasia just because she’d been nice for years?

It wasn't that he disliked her. She was lovely, smart, kind-hearted but Theo had never looked at her that way.

"I don't need to widen my social circle." he said evenly.

“It’ll be fun. Theo, I promise” you nudge him with your elbow. In your eyes, Theo is like a black cat. Never put effort in making new friends and just settle for what he has in hand now. Theo leaned back slightly from the nudge, avoiding physical contact like it burned. The word fun echoed in his ears, but it didn’t sit right. Not with this situation.

Fun was Quidditch matches where he’d stand in the Slytherin row and yell insults, trash talk at the opposing team when you’re on your broom chasing for your life. Fun was sneaking into the kitchens after curfew to steal treacle tart with you. Fun was quiet nights studying together by firelight with a cigarette in mouth.

Not… going on a pre-planned event with someone who clearly liked him romantically when his heart stupidly, hopelessly wasn’t even looking that way. He rubbed his thumb along the edge of his plate mindlessly before muttering:

"I don't want fun if I'm not actually interested.”

The silence between you two turned thick, charged like the air before a storm. Theo didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t snap or argue further. He just…turned away.

That glare? Brief but sharp as shattered glass—and it wasn't anger at Anastasia, not really.

It was hurt. The kind that stung quietly because you, the person whose opinion mattered more than anyone’s hadn't considered how Theo might actually feel about this. Instead of asking him first, you'd handed him over to someone else without hesitation… like Theo's feelings were irrelevant compared to social expectations. Like you were no longer possessive about others trying to be Theo’s friend in the first year because it’s just you and him against the world.

The afternoon passed quietly between classes, History of Magic and Transfiguration. Theo walked through the halls in silence beside you, not speaking unless necessary. The usual comfortable companionship was gone, replaced by a tense sort of distance. He answered when spoken to but didn’t initiate conversation.

And then came the book event.

Tables lined with rare books from various magical schools were set up around the vast open air space. A few professors stood near their displays explaining enchanted editions or historical texts, and students from Hogwarts as well as visiting schools wandered around browsing.

Theo stood near the back of the room, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

The limited ticket section was roped off, an exclusive area where students could meet their favorite authors. Theo knew every name on that guest list. And right now? He should’ve been excited.

This was his kind of thing, rare books, intellectual discussions, meeting people who shaped spells he studied every day. But instead… all he felt was hollow tension. Because in five minutes or so? Anastasia would arrive expecting him and you had basically forced this on him.

Theo’s gaze drifted automatically, habitually to you. He always sensed and quickly spotted you the next second you entered the room. Or anywhere.

And there you were: surrounded by people. Laughing. Talking with Draco Malfoy of all people, plus a few other Slytherins. Merlin, you even talk to students from other schools.

You fit right in everywhere, the effortless charm, the bright smile that drew others like moths to flame. You looked happy too. Completely unbothered by anything… including Theo’s absence.

Meanwhile Anastasia had just arrived, spotting him immediately and she started weaving through the crowd toward him with her ticket held up slightly.

“Hey Theo…I’m sorry you have to wait...these heels won't behave” She chuckled. So angel like.

Theo forced a small, polite smile. She was adorable. Truly. The way she apologized for being late because of her heels, so sweetly embarrassed about it and how effortlessly kind she seemed.

"Hi." he said back quietly, his tone softer than usual to compensate for the fact that he hadn’t been waiting eagerly.

He glanced down at her feet briefly, the elegant but clearly uncomfortable-looking heels and then away again before meeting her eyes properly.

"It's fine. I just got here."

Theo didn’t pull away when Anastasia took his hand boldly. She was enthusiastic…so excited about every book they passed. She’d squeeze his fingers and tug him toward displays with giddy little noises, like “Oh! Theo, look at this one!” and honestly? It wasn't so awful.

The famous author he admired spoke briefly on stage, a dry lecture about the evolution of wand core but Theo listened intently anyway. And for a few moments… he almost forgot to glance around for you in the crowd.

Anastasia bought him a first edition copy of Magical Theory: Foundations, something rare and expensive she clearly saved up for. When she handed it to him with that shy smile? He actually felt… touched.

Theo hesitated only a second before spotting the perfect book, a first edition of Ancient Magic: A Comprehensive History, signed too.

It wasn’t cheap. Not even close. But Anastasia had just given him something incredibly valuable, both financially and personally and he wanted to return the gesture.

Without saying anything, he paid for it discreetly at a private counter and waited until they were near a quieter corner away from crowds. Then, holding out the wrapped package with both hands, an unusual level of formality from someone usually so reserved, he offered it to her.

The walk back to the Slytherin girls' dorm was slow, mostly because Anastasia kept pausing to adjust her sore feet, wincing every few steps.

"Ugh, these heels are murder…" she groaned dramatically, not unkindly but Theo didn’t offer his arm or suggest carrying her like a gentleman in love might.

He just nodded quietly. "We're almost there."

And it wasn't cold. It wasn't rude either, just distant in that way he got when his heart belonged to someone else already.

Every word out of his mouth had been polite all evening. Pleasant smiles during author talks, soft thanks for gifts… but nothing beyond what basic dates demanded.

Because no matter how sweet Anastasia was or how nice this event technically went, his thoughts kept circling back to you.

Theo paused under the dim glow of the torchlight near her dorm entrance. Anastasia stood facing him, still smiling that warm, grateful smile, the kind that made most guys melt. Her eyes sparkled with genuine appreciation for spending time with him today.

"Thank you…" she says softly "for coming with me."

It was a simple sentence but sincere. She wasn’t asking for anything more than this moment of gratitude.

And Theo? He felt… guilty again

Not because he’d had a bad time, but because she clearly hoped this might lead to something romantic… and he knew deep down that it wouldn't.

The dorm was quiet when Theo returned, just the soft crackle of the fireplace and the rustle of pages turning.

Theo stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him. The sight that greeted him: you sprawled on your bed, barefoot, one dangling off the bed, absorbed in a book you just bought from the book event.

You didn’t look up right away. Didn’t react to Theo’s return like usual. Instead? Just… reading. Peacefully ignoring everything else.

And suddenly it hit Theo again: This was where he belonged, right here with you, not walking another girl back to her dorm. This.

Then, you finally spoke up when Theo slips off his dark robe. “How was it? The cutest date with the most perfect lady in Slytherin?” You smirked

Theo kicked off his shoes by the door, thud, before walking over to his own bed.

He didn’t answer right away. Just sat down on the edge, loosening his tie with slow fingers while eyeing your smug, teasing expression.

Instead of biting back like he usually would when annoyed… Theo exhaled through his nose and said flatly.

"It was fine."

“Fine? Tell me something interesting” You rolled your eyes at his boring response.

Theo glanced at you, really looked at you for the first time since returning.

That eye roll. That impatient, spill it tone. Typical you when you wanted details but wasn’t gonna ask nicely.

Fine? Theo could’ve left it there… but something in him, maybe irritation, maybe the need to prove this date meant nothing made him actually respond.

"Anastasia bought me a rare book." he said casually, hanging his robe on a hook by their shared wardrobe.

Then added: "I got her one too. Signed by the author."

“Well, that’s real cute, nerd” you chuckled

Theo frowned slightly at the word cute.

It wasn’t at least, he didn’t think so. Buying books? Giving gifts? That was just… normal for people who liked literature. Not "cute" like some cheesy romance novel.

He shot you a look, half annoyance, half something else he wouldn't name.

But you kept chuckling, still curled up with your own book like Theo’s evening hadn't mattered at all. And suddenly it annoyed him more than Anastasia ever could have.

“You’re being hard to get. The girl practically spent years chasing you. She’s perfect in every way, too, why are you declining any of this?”

Theo’s jaw tightened.

Hard to get?

He wasn’t hard to get, he was selective. There is a difference. One implied he had no standards and just pushed everyone away, the other meant he actually cared about who he spent time with.

And "perfect in every way"? That sounded like you hadn't even seen Anastasia properly, just assumed she was flawless because she smiled a lot and gave gifts.

Without thinking, Theo snapped:

"She's not perfect." Too harsh? Maybe. But it burst out before he could stop it. Maybe she has been sticking around both of them because she can’t make a friend among the slytherin girls long enough, doesn’t mean you know her that much to be glazing her.

Theo's fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his bed sheet. That smirk…that stupid, knowing smirk. Was what made it worse. Like you found this whole situation amusing instead of serious.

He didn’t want Anastasia because she was pretty and popular, he wanted someone whose presence didn’t feel like a performance.

And that person… had been sitting right across from him for years without realizing it.

“I’m going to shower, damn. Walking through that crowd is torturous” You grabs

a pair of clothes and go to the communal bath. Usually, Theo would follow. They stick together in every activity.

Theo watched you leave, clothes in hand, heading for the communal baths. And just like that… he was alone again.

Normally, Theo would’ve followed without hesitation. You two always do things together: studying, eating meals, walking to class but tonight? After the whole Anastasia thing?

He didn’t move right away. Just sat there on his bed as the door clicked shut behind you. The silence felt heavier than usual. Not tense exactly… but strange No footsteps trailing after you down the hall.

The next morning, Theo woke up feeling... off.

Not sick, just wrong. Like his skin was too tight or something under it had shifted overnight. He couldn’t pinpoint the discomfort exactly, but he knew why.

You were pushing him away subtly. Giving him opportunities to socialize with others like Anastasia because you thought Theo needed a "wider circle." Except that wasn't what Theo wanted at all

He wanted you. Badly. Not new friends. Not dates arranged by well-meaning roommates who didn't understand anything.

And now this distance? This one-day break in their usual routine? It itched worse than any spell gone wrong. Feels like something is crawling under his skin, he feels uncomfortable.

The morning routine was the same, brushing teeth, changing into uniform, gathering books but everything doesn’t feel the same.

Theo moved quietly beside you like always: same pace down the hall to class, same silent walk through corridors crowded with students. But where he used to match your steps effortlessly…almost shoulder-to-shoulder. Now they were half a step apart. And it wasn’t just physical distance.

It was how Theo kept glancing at you when you weren't looking. How his fingers tapped restlessly against his book cover during Charms class nervously, something he never did because he feels at ease next to you. How could a man who lives by routine like him survive this?

But you? Oblivious. Still chatting lightly with Draco or other classmates without noticing Theo's tension.

Not to mention the other day, Theo froze halfway down the corridor. The Quidditch pitch was just behind and you, still sweaty from practice, hair damp at the temples had caught someone’s attention. Happens everyday.

A Hufflepuff girl rushed over with a water bottle and a towel. She smiled brightly as she handed them to you, clearly excited about seeing you up close after practice.

And you? Ever the polite social butterfly? took it all with that easy grin of yours, the one Theo knew too well and thanked her warmly

“That’s so thoughtful…thank you. What’s your name?”

Something hot flared in Theo's chest. Not anger exactly... but discomfort. A tightness he couldn't name when she handles you a bag of dessert.

Theo’s eyes locked onto the bag of cookies.

Chocolate chips. Still warm, probably fresh from the Hufflepuff kitchens. The girl had baked them herself, you could tell by how carefully she’d wrapped them in parchment paper tied with a yellow ribbon.

And she handed them to you like an offering, a sweet, thoughtful gesture that was so very Hufflepuff. You got her name, Marie, cute.

"Oh wow you baked these yourself?…this smells amazing. I can already tell you’re a great baker, Marie" you said brightly. Your words? Are heaven to the girl.

Theo’s face burned. Not from anger exactly but something far more. A possessive heat surged through him, hot and irrational, making his eyes twitch his jaw lock tight.

There were you: sweaty, smiling, accepting gifts like chocolate chips cookies baked with affection… from some Hufflepuff girl who clearly liked you. And Theo? Standing there. Saying nothing. Just watching as another person handed you something sweet, a love language he didn’t even speak. His hands curled into fists at his sides without meaning to.

Draco leaned against the common room’s armchair, watching Theo storm in with that murderous frown on his face.

It was almost comical…Theo Nott? The usually cool-headed and aloof nerd? Looking like he wanted to set someone on fire.

"Damn…" Draco drawled sarcastically, raising an eyebrow. "Who ate your owl?"

The jab was light, typical Malfoy teasing but there was genuine curiosity underneath. Even he could tell something had upsetted Theo badly. Theo didn’t even glance at Draco. He kept walking, past the couches, past the torches and headed straight for his shared dorm without a word. Draco blinked. That was… cold. Even for Theo. Most days, he’d at least grunt in response to a comment like that, but today? Nothing. Just silence and an expression so dark it could’ve cursed someone on sight.

"Bloody hell…" Draco muttered under his breath before turning back to Crabbe and Goyle who were lounging nearby.

Whatever happened… it must’ve been bad. Really bad.

Hogwarts glowed with Christmas magic, red and green fabrics wrapped around staircases, enchanted snowflakes drifting through the halls, and twinkling lights strung across every corridor.

It was you two’s favorite time of year.

Every winter before break, you and Theo had a quiet little tradition: you’d exchange secret gifts, nothing extravagant…just thoughtful things, wear matching pajamas for movie night with hot chocolate where Theo would fight you to pick his favourite muggle show, then go back to whichever house you two were staying at over winter break.

Last year? You both went to your manor. The year before that, the Nott manor. This routine wasn’t announced or planned publicly… just something you two did. Quality time.

The whispers started subtly, then exploded.

Girls in the Slytherin dorms began to spread things about you being a womanizer, and boast about how you speak so lowly of women among the campus.

Anastasia had been friendly with you up until now, grateful even for your help setting her up with other guys but when she overheard two Slytherin girls gossiping about “He totally said girls are pathetic and hopeless! He really thought all we care about is boys!" during breakfast…Her face went pale. Then red. Then furious. Anastasia has a strong sense of feminism so…She stopped speaking to you entirely. As well as your female friends.

The tension in the Slytherin common room thickened like frost on glass.

You didn’t understand why Anastasia suddenly avoided you, no smiles, no greetings, not even a glance your way during meals. She used to laugh with you about boys she liked, now she walked right past as if you were invisible.

And Theo? He was volcanic. You were walking on thin ice 24/7. Literally

Every time you tried to casually ask what was going on,Theo snapped or went silent. His moods swung wildly: cold when someone mentioned her name, irritable during study hours. Eventually, you had enough.

Theo woke up in the middle of the night. The dorm was quiet, bathed in the soft blue glow of moonlight slipping through the curtains. He blinked before his eyes landed on your empty bed. But something felt off. Theo sat up slowly, running a hand through his messy hair before standing and sleeping in his shoes.

Without thinking much, other than assuming you had gone to meet someone, Theo slipped out of the room and followed silently down the halls.

The castle was hushed at this hour, only the faint hum of enchanted decorations and the occasional creak of old stone floors.

Theo moved quietly, his steps light as he followed your silhouette. He didn’t know why exactly, maybe just habit, or maybe something deeper nagging him to check.

Up the stairs… past portraits that snored softly… toward the astronomy tower, their usual spot when either wanted space but not loneliness. When Theo reached the top door, it wasn't fully shut. A thin gap remained and through it: a sliver of pale moonlight... and you are leaning back against the marble rail, not fully sitting, alone with a cigarette in mouth.

“I know you're following me, Theo” you snorted.

Theo paused just outside the door. He didn't mean to get caught, wasn’t even sure why he’d come up here in the first place but you called him out so casually, like it was obvious. And then… that pat-pat on the empty space beside you. An invitation.

For a second, Theo hesitated. He wasn't mad at you, not really but everything between them felt tangled lately: Anastasia's coldness, unspoken tensions over girls and gifts and whatever stupid rumor was going around. But still... he stepped inside.

“Are you going to go all cold shoulder on me this time or are we gonna talk?” you say calmly.

Theo took the cigarette without a word, plucking it straight from your fingers and brought it to his lips. A sharp inhale. The tobacco burned slightly, grounding. He exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the cold night air between them before glancing sideways at you.

The "cold shoulder" comment stung because… yeah. He had been distant lately, not on purpose or maybe he was… but still.

Instead of answering with some dramatic speech about feelings? Theo just passed the cigarette back silently.

“Talk, Theo. Tell me what's going on.” you say, taking a puff yourself.

Theo stared at the sky, stars scattered like dust across the velvet black. The silence stretched, heavy with everything he hadn’t said. He took another slow drag of the cigarette before passing it back. Sharing a muggle cigarette was one of his favourite activities with you.

Then, finally: "Anastasia hates you now."

He didn’t look at you when he said it, just kept his gaze upward but his voice was quieter than usual, almost... tired. He knew how that affected you. You have a load of female friends, you’re a people person and cherish every friend you have. So, naturally, you almost collapse when they suddenly turn their back against you.

“Woop. That's unavoidable when there's an unsolved misunderstanding. But I don't want to talk about Anastasia.” you huffed, shrugging. “Tell me about you.”

Theo exhaled slowly, the smoke dissipating into the winter air. About him.

That was… complicated. Theo wasn’t one for opening up, never had been. He kept things close to his chest, especially feelings.

He hesitated before speaking again, voice low and measured like he was choosing each word carefully:

"I don't like seeing you with other girls.” he tried. Wondering if the message gets through your head. He is in love with you. For Merlin’s sake.

“Huh…I’m with girls all the time. You never said a thing before”

Theo’s jaw tightened. Swimming in girls’ attention. Yeah. You had always been like that: popular, easygoing, effortlessly charming without even trying. Girls liked you from day one. Some became your best friends because of your humor.

And Theo? He never cared before because it was just… you. His best friend since first year. It didn’t bother him when random girls flirted with you, he’d roll his eyes and joke about it.

But lately…Lately something shifted

He turned his head slightly to look at you properly for the first time that night, the moonlight catching on his features and muttered:

"It started bothering me recently.”

“Why?” You asked.

Theo’s breath hitched. The question hung there and for the first time in his life, he felt completely exposed.

He couldn’t lie. Not to you. Never to you.

So instead of deflecting or changing the subject like he usually would… Theo turned fully toward you and said it plainly:

"I think I'm in love with you."

No dramatic buildup. No poetic metaphors or romantic gestures…just quiet honesty under a winter sky. And then? He waited, heart pounding harder than any Quidditch match ever made it. He never thought he would ever say his feelings out loud. But it has been making it hard to breathe for Theo, carrying such an ugly feeling in his chest.

The cigarette wobbled dangerously between your fingers, almost slipping into the snow below but you caught it just in time.

Your eyes were wide. Really wide. Not shocked in a bad way, more like… stunned silent. Like your brain had short-circuited and couldn’t process what Theo just said. For someone who always had a quick joke or sarcastic remark ready, this? This was new territory. You didn't move for several seconds, just stared at Theo like he'd grown a second head or maybe like you yourself were dreaming.

“...I’ve never noticed.”

Theo watched your face, every flicker of emotion crossing it. That quiet confession hit Theo harder than he expected. Not rejection, not yet but disbelief? Realization dawning?

Maybe you had been too busy being you, the popular, effortlessly-liked guy to ever consider that your best friend could feel this way about you. Merlin, you thought…

And now here they were: two idiots who’d spent years sharing everything… except romantic feelings. Theo swallowed hard before speaking again, his throat feels like hundred of thorns are stuck in it, voice softer:

"Yeah... I know.”

Not from the cigarette, no, this was different. This was nerves. The kind that came when your entire world hinged on one person’s next words. And Theo? He couldn't read you at all. So instead of explaining feelings which always felt messy, he just admitted the raw truth:

"The feelings are... uncomfortable." Because loving someone who might not love you back? That sucked. Losing a dear friend…and a crush. Theo’s chest tightened. The question wasn’t harsh, just quiet, careful. Like you were stepping on thin ice.

“Do you want them to go away?”

No. Hell no.

Theo didn't want his feelings gone, even if they made everything complicated now. Even if he had to watch you flirt with other girls or see Anastasia glare at his best friend from across the Great Hall.

He shook his head slowly before answering:

"No…I never want that feeling to ever go away."

So you decided to listen to your heart for once. The kiss was feather-light, just the brush of lips against the corner of Theo’s mouth but it electrified him. He froze.

For a second, he didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Couldn't process that you, the person he'd loved for Merlin knows how long without realizing it himself…had just kissed him.

And not on the cheek … but there. Close to his actual mouth.

Then Theo turned into it instinctively, chasing your lips with sudden urgency and pressing their mouths together properly this time.

The kiss deepened slowly, naturally. One second he was hesitating at the edge of something new… and the next, their lips parted against each other properly. Theo kissed you with years’ worth of pent-up longing, gentle but hungry, his hands lifting to cradle your face like you were something precious. And you? You kissed back just as eagerly, like you’d been waiting too without knowing it. The cold night air didn't matter anymore.

Theo kisses you harder, almost desperate as he pins you gently against the cold stone pillar behind.

The contrast was there: freezing marble at their backs versus the heat of their mouths meeting over and over. No space between them now. You gasped into the kiss when Theo crowded closer, one hand sliding into his hair while the other gripped his back to keep him there. He leaves you no space to breathe until he pulls back.

Theo’s hands stayed cupping your face, thumbs brushing lightly over your cheekbones as he asked the question that mattered most…His voice was low, steady, but there was a vulnerability in his eyes that betrayed how much this answer meant to him.

“Can I be your boyfriend?”

Not "Will you be mine" bullshit or some vague romantic lines. Theo wanted clarity. A label. Permission to be yours properly now. And he waited, heart hammering for your response.

“Yes…yes you can” you gasped for air with a cocky smirk.

Theo’s entire face lit up.

That smirk…your stupid, perfect, heart-stopping smirk coupled with the "yes" hit Theo like a rough Bludger to the chest.

For someone who usually stayed composed even when nervous, his expression melted into pure relief and joy. Without another word, he kissed you again, this time softer but no less intense. A proper boyfriend kiss now. No confusion left between them.

The common room was dimly lit, just the low glow of the dying fire casting shadows. Theo had expected it to be empty like when he left. Most Slytherins were in bed by now, especially after curfew. But as he carried a half-asleep you on his back, your arms loosely around his shoulders, face nuzzled into Theo, two pairs of eyes locked onto them instantly.

Draco and Blaise sat across from each other near the fireplace, both frozen mid-conversation upon seeing them enter like this. Blaise raised an eyebrow slowly. Draco? His mouth actually dropped open, followed by a huge smirk “I told you, it’s about time”

Blaise just nodded, slowly like this explained everything he’d ever wondered about Theo and you.

Draco looked way too smug. He leaned back in his armchair with that trademark Malfoy smirk, the one that screamed I called it first.

"Took you two long enough though…congrats" he drawled, glancing between them like the walking proof of his earlier teasing. No need for Theo to announce, they can already tell by that blush and kiss swollen lips. Theo ignored Draco’s smirk, mostly because he was too busy focusing on the fact that you are his boyfriend now and not worrying about what anyone thought.

Winter at the manor was a blur of magic and warmth. Theo and you spent days rolling through powdery snow like kids, building clumsy snowmen, having snowball fights that usually ended in breathless laughter, then warming up inside.

Evenings were cozy: massive fireplaces roaring in the dining hall, hearty meals served by house-elves: roast meats, vegetable stew, years-old wines, buttery breads, etc. The family dinners were lively with conversation. Followed by hot sex in the shower, trying to be quiet so no one would know, as skin clapping noise echoes softly in your bathroom laced with breathless gasp in pleasure.

The stargazing room was Theo’s favorite spot in the manor. High up, with floor-to-ceiling glass windows that showed a perfect night sky. It was quiet here. Private. No servants patrolling, no family members interrupting, not like they pay attention. Just them and the soft glow of constellations above. Theo would die to keep this close to himself.

Theo had pulled you into this room after dinner under some excuse about "needing air" but really? He just wanted to kiss you without an audience. A Leg pressed between yours as he let you dry humps, hot kisses shared under the stars. His hand clumsily tries to zip your pants down without looking as his mouth crashes on yours.

The cold marble pillar bit into your back, but Theo crowded closer anyway, kissing you like he hadn't in days even though it had only been hours. Your thick sweater hits the floor with a soft thud as you complain “It’s cold, asshole.”

And when he felt that shiver run through you? Theo kissed you harder. His lips moved from your mouth to the jaw, then down to that sensitive spot on your neck. He sucked lightly, leaving faint marks against warm skin. Body heat will work, eventually. So no more complaints.

Theo always looks forward to Halloween.

While others celebrated with extravagant decorations and feasts, Slytherins turned the common room into a party, mischievous, rowdy. Alcohol was smuggled in, mostly firewhisky or cocktails and the music got louder as the night went on. Everyone wears their own unique costume. And Theo? He’d usually sit back with a drink… until you showed up.

“You didn’t wait for me” you scolded in annoyance.

There you are: you in a perfect Aziraphale costume. Perfectly tailored trenchcoat, trousers and waistcoat share the same cream white color, blue buttoned up shirt and a bow tie, even that signature cute curls styled just right.

Meanwhile Theo? Crowley. Black blazer, trousers and waistband paired with a grey necktie. The black sunglasses are the cherry on top, making him look so like Crowley.

"I waited!" Theo protested, but it wasn't true. He'd gotten bored and wandered down an hour ago. Now he stared at you like an idiot.

“I WaItEd” you mocked him. Theo narrowed his eyes at the ridiculous tone. so childish. but he couldn’t stay mad. Not when you looked like that.

“Black always looks sooo good on you though. It’s unfair” you huffed playfully, admiring his Crowley outfit.

Theo smirked. Yeah, he knew. The dark blazer hugged his frame perfectly, and the whole bad demon vibe worked for him. He reached up slowly and pushed the sunglasses down just enough to peer over them at you with a lazy grin.

"Says the walking cloud of holy light" Theo shot back, voice dripping with playful sarcasm before leaning in for a kiss.

The group of friends drag them to the side of the room to play spin the bottle. Pansy kept toying with the digital camera she got from the old market, snapping pictures of everyone until “I need more drinksss” she whined. She nudged you to go get some and you agreed. Theo quickly follows after.

Pansy’s loud, teasing shout echoed across the common room, earning a chorus of laughter from the rest of the group.

"Enjoy your cocktail... heavy on the cock!" She yells, grinning like an idiot.

You flipped her off, middle finger held at Pansy and Theo snorted at that before following you toward the drinks table.

The party dies down by 12 AM, most people are too drunk or tired to keep going.

Spin the bottle had been chaotic, Theo only kissed you, ignoring whoever else the bottle pointed at, and now they were both buzzing with leftover energy.

When Theo finally tugged you toward their dorm, no one stopped them. Draco just raised an eyebrow but said nothing, already half-asleep on a couch talking to Blaise. The halls were quiet as they walked back together, still in costume: Aziraphale and Crowley wandering Hogwarts like a misplaced angel and devil.

Theo didn’t hesitate. The second the door shut behind them, he is on you, hands cradling your face as he kisses you deeply, pressing him gently against the door. Fueled by drinks and dancing and hours of wanting to do this all night.

Theo kisses you between every layer of clothing he removes, first the cream trench coat, then the waistcoat underneath, buttons undone with impatient fingers.

Each piece hit the floor quietly. A steady stream of kisses: on the collarbone when shirt came off, shoulder as he slipped it down your arms.

The soft patter of rain against the dorm window created a quiet, private world, muffling sounds, blurring reality

Theo shed his own Crowley costume fast, blazer tossed over a chair, necktie pulled off in one smooth motion. No patience left after hours of waiting and teasing glances all night.

He was eager. Really eager.

Theo’s mouth crashed into yours again, hot, hungry as his hands mapped every inch of exposed skin..

One hand slid up your bare back while the other gripped your hip possessively pulling their bodies flush together. The rain outside grew heavier, a steady rhythm against the glass like nature itself was keeping their secrets.

Thunder booming, lightning flashing across the sky. Anastasia would’ve normally shown up at their dorm by now, knocking frantically for comfort. It’s been like that for years since the first. But not tonight.

Tonight? Theo didn’t even think about her. His focus was entirely on you, on the way you spread your legs slightly in anticipation after Theo fingered you with lube, breath hitching as Theo fumbled with the condom packet between his lips.

Theo’s fingers tremble as he rips the condom, too. drunk, aroused, nervous excitement making him clumsy. It took way longer than it should’ve: tearing the wrapper with his hand, then carefully rolling it down. His hands shook slightly, not from fear, but from sheer anticipation.

You watched him through half-lidded eyes? patient despite their shared heat between them. The storm outside thundered louder now. Not like Theo minded.

Theo moves carefully, slow, deliberate as he pushes his cock into you. Every inch was measured, giving you time to adjust. No rush despite their shared arousal and the storm’s chaos outside. His hands stayed gentle on your inner thighs, warm strokes meant to soothe any tension or nerves.

“Don’t be gentle.” You muttered, breath filled with alcohol. Too much alcohol you drank earlier. “Fuck me ‘til I can’t breathe”

Theo’s breath hitched at your words. No gentleness, just fucking and something sparked in him. The smirk on your face? That challenge? Yeah. Theo could do that.

Without another second of hesitation, he shifted his grip, one hand bracing beside your head while the other hooked under your thigh and picked up the pace instantly.

The bed creaked with each movement, Theo’s thrusts deep and relentless, fueled by the alcohol coursing through them.

Every snap of his hips was sharp, uncoordinated but hard, only pure physical need. You arched beneath him, breath coming in short gasps, the storm outside drowned out by their shared sounds: skin against skin, the rustle of sheets, rough moans. Neither cared about anything else right now.

Theo groaned at the sting of your nails raking down his back…good, grounding him.

Every time he pulled back almost all the way, it was just to slam into you again completely, over and over. A relentless rhythm that made the headboard knock softly against the wall. Your moans were music, soft but desperate and Theo chased them like they were his new addiction.

Theo locked onto that sweet spot like he’d been aiming for it all night, relentless, brutal in the best way. You can’t help but clench tight around him every time he thrusts deep into you, punching another breathy moan out of your lungs.

One hand gripped your hip hard to hold you steady with every deep thrust, while the other braced beside your head for balance. He pounds into your hole like a man possessed, sweats rolling on his forehead now. Your whimpers were muffled by Theo's lips when they crashed together again, messy, open-mouthed kisses between ragged breaths as your thighs began to tremble. You only breathe out “Don’t stop-!” And that’s all Theo needs to know.

Draco took a swig from his bottle, shivering slightly in the common room’s chill, his words lazy and half-drunk as he leaned back on the soft couch.

"Bet Theo is still going at it" he snickered to Blaise, nodding toward the dorm staircase with a smirk. "Might get to see Y/N walking funny tomorow" he snorted

Right then, Anastasia crept past them, pillow clutched to her chest. Her eyes were red-rimmed, thunder had woken her again. She hated storms. Hearing Draco’s comment? It hit like lightning itself. Anastasia froze mid-step.

Draco’s joke, casual, playful about Theo and you still fucking hit her like a physical blow. Her chest tightened. The thunder outside was deafening now, but it wasn’t just that noise making her hands tremble. She stood there in pajamas, pillow crushed to her chest… and suddenly had nowhere safe to go. Not even her friends understand her fear of thunder and storm. Usually? She'd run to Theo for comfort during storms. But tonight? He clearly wasn't coming out.

Draco’s drunken grin faded the second he saw Anastasia standing there: pale, tear-streaked, clutching that pillow like a lifeline.

Shit.

His joke hung in the air, ugly, sexual and unfiltered. He hadn’t meant for her to hear it… but now she had.

Blaise tensed beside him, shooting Draco a you idiot look as silence stretched between them all. Anastasia just stood frozen, heartbroken by Theo’s absence and by what she'd overheard.

Her grip on the pillow turned white-knuckled. Every ounce of jealousy and resentment she’d been quietly nursing toward you exploded at that moment.

You weren't just Theo’s boyfriend now…no, you’d taken her safe space too. The one person who used to comfort her during storms was occupied. By you.

And worse? Draco's joke implied they were…. Not just holding hands or talking, something far more intimate. Her lip trembled…not from fear of thunder anymore, but from fury. You were the one who tried to set her up with Theo and now?

Theo collapsed beside you, both of them sprawled out like wrecked starfish, limbs heavy with exhaustion. You were breathless by now, thighs slowly stretch forward to relax your tensed body.

The storm still raged outside, thunder rumbling but neither cared now. The adrenaline had burned off into something peaceful.

Your chest rose and fell slowly, Theo turned his head slightly to glance at you, a lazy, satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

“Fuckk…” you whined, gasping for air. The burn of pleasure in your lower stomach slowly fades. But still very present.

Theo exhaled a quiet laugh…same.

The heavy limbs, the faint soreness… all signs of what they’d just done. No regrets. He shifted slightly onto his side to face you properly, propping himself up on one elbow. Their eyes met, no teasing now. Just soft exhaustion and something warmer beneath it. Without thinking too hard about it, Theo reached out and brushed damp hair from your forehead.

Then Theo reached for the small portable CD player on his nightstand, the one he’d snuck from Doyo Alley’s Muggle music section months ago.

He slipped in a Cigarettes After Sex CD and pressed play. The first track “K.” drifted into the room: soft guitars, warm vocals, meaningful lyrics. The storm outside had gentled to a peaceful rain now, pattering against the window like background lullaby. Perfect timing. The music wrapped around them as they lay there, no rush to move.

“You don’t know how much I want to kiss you stupid right now” you muttered. The soft melody makes you weak, your heart swells a little at the lyrics. Theo bought the CD the moment he laid his eyes on it. Perfect for their shared night like this.

Theo paused mid-motion, lighter flickering as he lit the cigarette, then looked over at you. That huff of his was so familiar. So fond, even when complaining. And Theo? He hadn’t known either. Not fully. But now… here they were. After months of pining, after finally being together…He took a slow drag before leaning in to kiss you anyway, the smoke faintly bitter from the tobacco.

Theo let you take the cigarette without protest, watching as his boyfriend brought it to his lips for a slow drag. The act felt intimate somehow. Sharing something so simple, yet meaningful after what they’d just done.

Smoke curled between them in the dim light from the CD player’s soft glow. The music still played “K.” by Cigarettes After Sex filling their quiet dorm with warmth. The band has become one of his favourites now.

Theo didn’t reach to steal it back. He just… looked at you with admiration and love. He feels…enough.

Theo’s chest tightened, bloomed, like a flower cracking through concrete.

It wasn’t just attraction or physical closeness anymore. It was love, real, overwhelming love for the idiot currently holding his cigarette and looking at him with sleepy eyes. The music played on. The rain kept falling softly outside.

“I love you so much, Theo” you muttered, smoke curls around you like fog. So beautiful.

Theo’s breath caught. Hearing those words…so raw, so honest makes his heart stops a beat. His eyes searched your face, the smoke drifting from your lips, the way you looked wrecked in the best possible way. Loved and loving back.

Without a word, Theo leaned in and kissed you again, slowly this time. Deeply. Pouring everything into it. He’s ready to give you his soul if you ask nicely and promise a kiss after.

Theo had spent years, years feeling nothing. Just numbness. His childhood home was cold, emotionally barren. His mother died too soon, his father absent even when physically present. He’d built walls around himself out of necessity, not to be cruel, just to survive.

But here? With you… love wasn’t some distant concept anymore. It was alive. A living thing between them.

And for the first time since he was a little boy? Theodore Nott felt whole.

Theo didn’t hesitate. When the moment came, right after their kiss, with smoke still lingering in the air between them, he simply said it back. Honestly. Not because he was pressured to say it back.

"I love you too."

Tommy’s size isn’t subtle, you feel every inch as you grind, and the fullness makes your breath hitch. No rushing this time, you take it slow, letting your body get used to the feeling before finally lifting slightly… then sinking back down in a proper bounce.

The movement starts gentle but builds quickly, Tommy's hands finally land on your hips now, not controlling, just feeling the magician ride him with growing confidence. A low groan rumbles from Tommy’s chest, the first real sound he has made since they started. Pleasure is undeniable, his dark eyes locked onto where their bodies join.

“Hold onto something, Shelby” you breathe out, picking up the pace of your bounces.

The bedframe creaks in protest, expensive furniture not built for this kind of rhythm, but neither cares. The pace is good, each downward snap jolts through Tommy, sending sparks up his spine. A ragged exhale escapes him, he bites down on his lower lip briefly before releasing it with a quiet curse, impressed by how effortlessly you move like this. Tommy feels it, the way you ride him like this might be your last night together. No hesitation. Every bounce is deliberate, every roll of hips designed to wring pleasure from both of you. The magician takes what he wants… and right now? He’s taking everything.

Then Tommy’s hands slide down your back to palm that perfect ass. The meaty curves fit his large hands perfectly, and he squeezes hard as you keep bouncing. Your moans are soft but audible now, escaping between slightly parted lips every time Tommy's cock hits just right. It fuels him, the sounds, the sight of you gripping on headboard and Tommy's chest for balance… it all turns Tom on more.

A possessive heat flares in him, not claiming but simply appreciating. This is good. Really fucking good.

The kiss is messy, lips crashing together as you lean down, their mouths meeting mid-bounce. The angle changes the rhythm; now every downward thrust makes Tom can’t resist but thrusting his hips up to meet you, the sensation electric.

And you? You kiss like you need it. Hungry and slightly desperate, teeth occasionally clashing before tongues slide into sync. Your neediness bleeds into everything: how tightly you’re clenching around him… how your hips snap with urgency.

Tommy doesn’t hesitate when you bring his hand up, instinctively pushes his thumb into your mouth. The warmth is immediate, your lips part around it, sucking gently with a wet glide. The sight makes the burning in his stomach worse, you on top of him looking flushed and needy, sucking on his thumb like that. It's weirdly intimate…

A quiet noise escapes Tommy, something between approval and arousal as he watches those pretty eyes stay locked onto his while you’re giving him the ride of his life.

“Stay here…I’ll take you home…tomorrow's morning” Tommy doesn’t understand why he has been with many women to fill the void his dead wife has left him. Now a man, not just any man. You, a man he met at the Garrison, whose company he truly enjoys. You got a sharp tongue, he likes it.

“Look at you, seeking warmth” you smirked. You heard about his cold reputation, also know you might just be another fling to him. You can’t help but tease anyways. It’s amusing how you can just see through his intentions. And Thomas exhales a slow stream of smoke, his usual icy composure flickering for just a second, like the cigarette between his fingers is burning hotter than usual. Without looking at you, Thomas shifts slightly, making space on the bed beside him. A silent allowance that says stop talking shit get over here.

The room feels heavier now. The absence of Grace lingers like ghosts where warmth used to be... and maybe that's why Tommy hasn't kicked you out yet.

“I should tell you something about myself…” you said with a small grin. The conversation you had at the tavern before getting on the bed...mostly was Tommy talking about himself. You figured it would be nice to tell Tommy about your journey too.

Thomas turns his head slightly, one dark eyebrow arching with mild curiosity. Conversations are for business deals, threats, or the rare moment when Charles asks him why birds fly. But he figured, knowing more about you wouldn't hurt. Since he just took you back to the Shelby manor and fucked you senseless. That would be nice.

But he doesn’t interrupt. Instead, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a silver flask, taking a slow sip of whiskey before offering it silently toward you.

The moonlight catches the sharp angles of his face while he waits, expression unreadable but present in a way that says Go on then, I’m listening.

You take a gulp of whiskey from it, and turn to Tommy. “I’m actually the local theatre’s magician….ever heard of it? The one that just opened a few months ago?”

Thomas blinks, once. Taking in your words.

A magician.

That’s… not what he expected. He’d assumed you were some poetic author, or maybe a bartender. But a performer? Someone who entertains people for money? It’s so far removed from Tommy's world of crimes and whiskey that it almost makes him smirk, not in mockery, but genuine intrigue.

He takes the flask back, studying you properly now, the way your smile holds real pride instead of practiced charm like the women Tommy usually takes home. The realization hits…you do have talent outside these sheets.

"Show me something." he says, not an order…well, maybe, but curiosity laced with challenge.

“Yeah?” You smirked, like you have been waiting for him to say that. You slip the pack of cards from your discarded jacket and hold it out to show him.

Then the cards shuffle between your fingers with practiced ease, flourishes that aren’t just functional but artistic. For someone who deals in bullets and betrayal, this is… different. Mesmerizing even. His whiskey-flavored breath stills as he leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees as he watches.

Then you make one vanish right from Tommy’s line of sight and for half a second? The Peaky Blinder leader, actually curious, caught off guard. “Guess where that went” you muttered with amusement.

Tommy’s gaze flicks around the room, calculating sharply in his head. Not because he cares about a missing card, but because this is suddenly a game of strategy to him. He scans the bedside table, the floor near your feet… then a beat passes. Without breaking eye contact, Thomas slowly reaches under his pillow and pulls out the very card, slightly crumpled from being stuffed in there when you slipped it there during those fancy shuffles. The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost… impressed? Annoyed that someone like you has the ability to pickpocket him with these tricks? Either way, he holds up the card between two fingers like evidence at a trial.

You wiggle your fingers like a fairy doing magic “Tadaaa. You found it!” you chuckled at his still so stoic expression.

Tommy’s expression doesn’t soften, it rarely does but something shifts in his stare. The card dangles from his fingers for a second longer before he snaps it cleanly in half with a sharp flick of his wrist. A test. Not mean-spirited, just… Tommy being Tommy. If you want to play magician, you will have to do better than that. The torn halves drop onto the bedsheet between them as Thomas leans back again, arms crossing over his chest…a silent challenge spoken by his eyes Can you fix that? Or was your trick just flash?

You pick up the bended card quietly. Not upset that Tommy ruined your perfect little card. But instead you put it between your lips and lean closer to press a kiss on Tommy's lips. His breath hitches, just once. The kiss is unexpected, but the card trick afterward? That’s what really freezes him.

You pull back from the kiss and take the saliva coated card in your palm, with a smooth twist of your wrist, the crooked, wet card is gone. Replaced by a new. Clean. Card. The same two of hearts card sits still in your arm, unharmed and whole despite Tommy having snapped it seconds ago. His eyes drop to the card, then flick back up to you with something dangerously close to… awe?

A Shelby doesn’t get impressed easily but this man just kissed him and performed actual magic right after. For a heartbeat, Thomas looks almost boyish in his surprise before his usual cold mask slides back into place. Without warning, he grabs you by the neck and yanks you into another kiss, harder this time.

The kiss deepens, rough at first, Tommy’s usual intensity but then something shifts. Your fingers in his hair, gentle, warm make Tommy slow down without meaning to. His hands slide from the neck to cradle your face instead, calloused thumbs brushing over cheekbones.

It isn’t gentle by any means…Tommy Shelby doesn’t do gentle, but there's a difference now. Less like claiming territory and more like… tasting magic on someone's lips for the first time. A low sound rumbles in Thomas's chest as he nips lightly at your bottom lip before diving back in again, the tastes of whiskey and cigarettes lingering between you two.

“What do you think?” You look quite proud of yourself. Performing those fool-the-eyes tricks right after fucking Thomas Shelby. Not anyone can share the same experience.

Tommy exhales sharply through his nose, almost a laugh, if Tommy Shelby ever even laughed.

"Never seen anything like it…" he admits gruffly, the closest thing to praise he'll give anyone outside business deals or Charles's sketches.

"You should bring Charles to my show…on the next saturday” you smile. Genuinely.

Thomas pauses, magic show? Bring his kid? Tommy’s first instinct is to scoff, but… Charles likes things like that. Theatrical stuff. Maybe even this magician with the clever hands and charming smile.

"Saturday…" Tommy repeats slowly, as if testing how it sounds in his mouth. Then he nods once, a decision made. "I'll bring him."

The unspoken part: he’ll come too, not just to look after Charles, but because... hell, maybe he wants to see you perform properly under theatre lights instead of this dim bedroom.

Thomas’s thumb lingers on the scar, a mark of cowardice, not yours. But some bastard threw a rock because you dared to entertain people with skill such a scamming thing as magic instead of doing hard labor like a true man. You remembered how you got that scar, hideous memory, actually. After your boss announces the first show of the so-called theatre, just a place with a cramped room for performance, a room for preparation and makeup, storage room for performing tools. Such entertainment is still new to Birmingham, some angry men even call it trash and attack your crewmates. You, too, get a rock thrown at your forehead, get called slurs. For what? Looking too feminine? Not doing a “real” job? Hanging out with hideous looking people?

You stare at the ceiling. For a moment. “Do you think I’m a freak?”

"People call me a devil…" Tommy mutters, voice rough with something almost like anger on your behalf. "yet they're the ones throwing rocks at someone who brings joy to children."

The irony isn't lost on him. Here he is, a criminal, defending an artist while society sneers at both of them from different angles.

Thomas stares. Not just looks, stares into your soul, like a man seeing sunlight for the first time after years in shadow.

Your face isn’t conventionally pretty, it’s striking, yes, but there's something softer underneath the sharp features and strong jawline. The kind of beauty that doesn't scream, it lingers quietly in the blink of your eyes or how your lips curve when you smile.

A part of Tommy, the part buried under blood and whiskey, aches at how cruel it is that people dismiss this. That they reduce you to a "freak" instead of acknowledging you are… ethereal? Inhumanly lovely? Something rarer than most realize.

“Most people claim working in the crew means being a weirdo...or at least. Different from norms in some way...I think they are sort of true” you confessed. Your eyes are still glued to the ceiling. A habit you developed when you lay on your bed at home, having delusions of a brighter future. Not abusive, addict, in debt, unemployed parents. A life.

He understands "different" better than most. The Peaky Blinders were different, too clever for their own good in a city that wanted them to be mindless thugs.

"Being different isn't bad." Tommy says quietly, a rare philosophical moment from him. "Norms are shite." A blunt comment. The corner of his mouth quirks slightly as he adds "You're not weird though.”

“Mhmm…Can’t wait to show you what these hands can truly do.” You smirked. Cunning and mischief is written all over your facial features. It’s a part of you. In your blood.

Tommy’s eyes darken, instinctively catching the shift in your tone. That smirk isn’t about card tricks anymore. The air between them thickens, charged with something far less innocent than magic shows. Tommy knows exactly what those hands are capable of… and suddenly, he wants a private demonstration.

"Show me." He challenges again, voice low as gravel. Because there’s no such thing as all bark no bite here.

You chuckled softly at his reaction. “Save it for Saturday night. I might give you more than just a trick”

Tommy exhales sharply, half amusement, half frustration. Saturday. The show for Charles. A public performance where you would dazzle crowds with clean tricks and charm.

"Tease…" He growls, but there’s no real anger in it. Instead, he crashes their mouths together again, kissing you hard enough to bruise before suddenly pulling away and standing up from the bed.

“I need to go home though. My sister is waiting.” You muttered. Even if going back to the cramped hell is anything but what you want right now. And you met with his soft voice “Alright. Suit yourself”. Tommy sighs, if you’re not staying then he will leave. He doesn’t feel like resting if you’re not there with him tonight.

He grabs his clothes scattered on the floor then his coat on the chair without another word… He took a quick shower to wash off the sex scent and yours, lingering on his skin and changing into a new suit. He got business to take care of. And sleep is anything but what he wants to do tonight if it is without you. Didn’t feel like it.

Then Tommy pauses at the door, hand on the knob. The sight of you sitting there on his bed, grinning like a cat who got the cream, utterly unashamed, should piss him off. Instead? It does something worse: it makes Tommy’s pulse kick up again.

He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t smirk or wink or give any sign that he’s affected… but his steps are slower than usual as he exits into the hallway.

The second his bedroom door clicks shut behind him though? Thomas exhales hard through his nose and runs a frustrated hand on his hair. Christ.

A magician with pretty eyes and no shame had just ruined Thomas Shelby's focus for the business.

Meanwhile, the sight of the money, untouched bills stacked neatly on the nightstand for you by Tommy hits you like a bucket of cold water. It wasn’t just payment, it was dismissal.

No note. No warmth left behind beyond what their bodies had shared hours ago. Just cash on the table like you’d been any other lover Tommy hired for the night. Your jaw tightens as you stare at it, that playful spark from earlier dimming into something quieter… wounded? Angry? Maybe both.

You don't touch the money. Just leave it there and flop back onto Tommy's bed alone, the scent of whiskey and cigarettes still lingering in sheets that don't feel warm anymore without him there too. You are not a whore…or prostitute for him to just pay, fuck and then leave. Here you thought, you actually have chemistry with the man. You will return the money. A plan already formed in your head. Of course.

The place is still dim, light filtering through the fabric. You work quietly at a small mirror, applying pale foundation to even out your skin, then delicate brushstrokes of vibrant colors to paint delicate flowers along your features. It’s meticulous work, every petal placed with precision. The makeup transforms you, not just handsome now, but otherworldly, like a storybook fairy or some enchanted creature stepped right off the pages.

A few crew members glance over as they unpack props nearby, whispering about how you always look so put together.

The crew members, each with their own jagged edges and unusual appearances, move around you like shadows. Lila, the girl with twisted features due to her mother being an addict and working at the brothel, has a sharp tongue and knows how to mimic animal noises perfectly. There goes Eli, a contortionist with a weirdly long, skinny, boney body, who laughs the loudest in the room. And Marco, the juggler, dude has serious quick hands and insane reaction time. You know he works as a chef for a living, this is just his side job. No one stares or judges here, they all belong to each other, bound by entertainer life’s weird little world where "normal" doesn’t exist anyway.

The stage is bathed in golden spotlights, the audience a sea of clapping faces, children bouncing in their seats, parents smiling proudly. The energy is electric.

You step to your magic table with practiced ease, the embroidered cuffs of your sleeve catching the light as you take your hat off and bow to the audience.

A hush falls when he lifts one hand… and suddenly produces a bouquet of roses from thin air, petals bursting into color like fireworks. The crowd gasps, already enchanted before any real tricks begin. You give that bouquet to a lady in the front row before returning to the stage.

Your eyes sweep the audience, searching, maybe without meaning to and then you see them. Tommy Shelby sits in the front row, dressed in a dark suit. But what stands out is the small boy beside him: Charles. The kid is wide-eyed and gripping Tommy's sleeve with one tiny hand while clutching a stuffed bear with the other.

You don't react visibly beyond a slight tilt of his head but something warm flickers behind his professional smile at seeing them there.

The deck of cards dances between your fingers, flourishes so practiced they look effortless. You fan them out, twirl one around your index finger, then flick it upward where it spins midair before you snatch it back with a flick of your wrist.

A few gasps ripple through the crowd? especially from kids who lean forward in their seats. Even Charles giggles softly, tugging Tommy’s sleeve again like “Did you see that?!”

You approach another woman in the front row, a middle-aged matron in a fancy hat, blinking, flustered by your sudden proximity and that smile of yours. The kind that makes people feel special.

“Pick a card for yourself, madame”

She reaches out with slightly trembling fingers and plucks a card from the deck you offer. A 10 of hearts, maybe? She doesn’t show it yet, just holds it carefully between her palms like it’s something precious before checking what the card is without showing you.

“Kiss it for good luck?” You smirked. That’s just how you make interaction with the audience become mesmerizing.

The lady’s face turns pink, your smirk is lethal charm, and the audience coos at your playful suggestion. She hesitates for half a second before pressing a quick kiss to the top of her selected card. A ripple of laughter and "awws" spreads through the crowd. Even some men chuckle good-naturedly, this magician knows how to work an audience.

You show the audience your hat, empty inside and place the shuffled pack of cards inside including the lady’s selected card.

The theater erupts in gasps, audience members lurching forward, hands flying to their mouths. You collapse dramatically onto the stage floor, one arm clutching your stomach like you have been poisoned… or swallowed something terrible. Your hat rolls away with the cards still tucked safely inside, and for a terrifying second? The crowd believes it’s real. Even Charles whimpers softly beside Tommy, gripping his father's coat tighter.

Tommy himself doesn’t react outwardly, but his jaw tenses. If this magician actually dies onstage right now… well.

The "vomiting" is spectacular, you heave convincingly, but instead of actual illness… a cascade of playing cards erupts from your mouth, fluttering onto the stage like fireworks.

One by one, heart suits, spade suits, they scatter across the floor. The audience goes wild with shocked laughter and applause, kids are pointing and giggling at how absurdly funny it looks.

Charles covers his own mouth in delighted horror, is that magic or disgust?, while Tommy’s lips twitch, just once in something dangerously close to an actual smile. It’s ridiculous… and you pull it off flawlessly.

The final card, the lady’s chosen 10 of hearts flutters out last, landing gently in your palm. You lift it high, showing the audience (and specifically her, that her kiss-stained card is the very one you just "vomited" up.

The crowd loses it. Cheers explode, people clapping, kids shouting "How?!", and even a few adults laughing at how ridiculous yet brilliant the trick was.

The audience melts at the romantic gesture: you pressing a kiss to exactly where the lady kissed her card, then tucking it away like a secret into your sleeve. The moment hangs sweetly before you whip your hand out again… and suddenly, there’s an entire bouquet of roses in full bloom. Right from the same sleeve.

A collective "Aww!" ripples through spectators. Even Charles is beaming now, thoroughly enchanted by this magician who turns cards into flowers like some kind of fairytale wizard. You give it to the same lady and return to the stage.

You pluck two bills from your case, crisp but slightly creased from being tucked away and hold them up between your fingers. The same bills Tommy has given you…

Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up as you crouched in front of them, still glowing from the stage, makeup pristine, flowers on your ears.

The magician extends each bill toward Tommy and Charles like an offering. The gesture is playful but intentional, asking “does the gentleman believe in such a thing as luck?”

Offering them to kiss on the bills like earlier.

Charles, wide-eyed and full of innocent excitement, immediately presses his tiny lips to the bill you offered him, leaving a faint smudge of childish saliva on the paper. He does it with complete trust, like kissing a magic spell into existence.

Tommy hesitates for half a second. But under the weight of curious stares and your expectant gaze? He leans down stiffly… and gives his own bill an awkward but genuine kiss on one corner. You take the bill back and walk up to the stage to perform.

The transformation is seamless, your palm moves in a swift, graceful arc, and suddenly the flat bill isn’t flat anymore. It’s folded into a perfect heart shape, edges crisp, center slightly rounded like love itself.

A collective "Oh!" rises from the audience. Kids point excitedly, adults clap at how simple yet elegant the trick was.

You hold up Tommy's now-heart-shaped bill first, showing it off to him with that same knowing smirk from earlier, the one that says I did this just for you . Then you lift Charles's heart shaped folded bill too, before placing both gently back on their laps.

You leaned closer to whisper to Thomas "don't even think about paying me like I’m one of your girls"

a quiet blade aimed right at Tommy’s chest. No one else hears it over the applause still rippling through the audience.

Tommy stiffens. That tone… that message. It’s a boundary drawn in blood-red ink: I’m not your hired whore.

You pull back just as quickly, face smoothing into performative neutrality again as you turn away to resume your act like nothing happened. But Tommy? suddenly very aware of how badly he might’ve screwed this up earlier with those bills left behind.

The theatre transitions smoothly, your magical exit leaves the audience buzzing as stagehands quietly clear the butterflies, who scatter into nets for release later.

Next up is one of your crewmates: a contortionist named Eli. Skinny as hell and grinning with crooked teeth, he doesn’t speak much during his performance but moves like liquid.

The final act concludes with a thunderous round of applause, the crowd on their feet, clapping and cheering for the entire theatre crew. One by one, performers file back onto the stage: You, Lila, Eli, Marco.

You take your place at the center of the group as they all dip into a deep collective bow, thanking every single person who came to watch tonight. A few audience members toss flowers onto the stage, kids wave wildly. The reactions have improved so much, better than the first few shows where people still get disgusted by your crew.

The backstage area is dimly lit, oil lamps casting long shadows as crew members settle down in the room. You duck out through a side exit, craving the solitude of cigarette smoke and night air. A habit after each performance, same dark alley, same cigarette.

While Tommy, having dismissed his driver with Charles, the boy already half-asleep in the car, circles around to where he last saw you vanish. A flicker of orange light betrays him: there’s you, leaning against a wooden crate with a cigarette between your fingers… looking more human than magical right now.

You noticed. “Is that your new hobby now? Stalking?” Tommy doesn’t flinch at the accusation, just stares back with that same unreadable intensity. His hands are tucked into his coat pockets, shoulders broad against the alley’s shadows.

Stalking? Maybe. But he wouldn’t call it that.

"Needed to talk" he says flatly, no explanation beyond those three words. The cigarette smoke curls between them like a veil of tension.

Tommy studies you through the smoke, those painted flowers on your face smudged just slightly from sweat and exhaustion. The magician’s eyelids are a little heavy, but there's still that playful glint when you exhale a slow stream of cigarette vapor.

"You did good tonight." he says simply, gruff praise from a man who rarely gives it freely.

But you quickly shoot back “Say something I don't know” with a smirk.

Tommy’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close. Your teasing is light, effortless… something Tommy isn’t used to from people he knows.

He steps closer, invading the magician's personal space without asking permission, typical of him, Then slowly, he reaches out and plucks the cigarette right from your lips.

Instead of taking a drag himself? He crushes it under his polished shoe with deliberate finality. His eyes never leave your face as he does it. A silent You’re done smoking now.

Instead of answering the tease, Tommy closes the distance between them in two strides. No warning, just one large hand cupping your jaw and pulling you into a kiss.

It's not gentle. It's claiming. He does it like this…by kissing you stupid right after your show where everyone adored you except him for five minutes earlier.

The kiss deepens, Tommy’s lips moving against yours with quiet hunger. He doesn’t just kiss, he devours, one hand still cradling the magician's jaw while the other slides down to grip your waist.

Your hands explore Tommy's back, over the tailored coat fabric, mapping every hard muscle beneath the thick fabric, barely feel any. The alley is silent except for their breathing and occasional rustle of fabric as they press closer together under moonlight filtering through a gap of the theatre above them.

“Do you want to see a magic trick?” you smirked after nibbling on Tommy's bottom lip.

"Depends…" he murmurs back, voice lower than usual. No sarcasm, just genuine intrigue and the unspoken challenge Go on and Impress me. His thumb brushes over your kiss-swollen mouth like he's already bracing for whatever magic comes next.

Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up as the condom appears between your fingers, poof, like magic. A practical trick, not flashy… but perfectly timed. Usually, that would be a coin, and you would pull it out from a random audience member’s ear. But now, a condom.

A beat passes where Tommy processes it: you just pull protection out of thin air. Impressive? Sexy as hell? Both.

Tommy inhales sharply as your fingers work his pants open with practiced ease, just two buttons undone, but it’s enough. The cool night air hits bare skin before heat follows: the sudden exposure makes him tense for a half-second. His cock springs free, not hard yet, but definitely waking up under your bold touch. Tommy doesn’t move to stop you, just stands there like a statue, breath uneven in the quiet alley.

Your knees hit the dirt, face pressing a soft nuzzle against Tommy’s thigh first like a cat rubbing itself against its owner for attention. The fabric of his suit brushes your cheek before…warmth. Moist heat hit him.

A sharp inhale tears from Tommy as your lips finally make contact, slow at first, testing before you take him into your mouth properly.

Tommy’s hands fist at your hair, not guiding yet, he needed somewhere to put his hand on. The magician is doing it on purpose, with clear enjoyment in every slow bob of head as Tommy hits the back of your throat.

A low groan escapes Tommy as he feels the suction, the heat, the way you seem to savor this just as much as Tommy does. It’s desire…you take pleasure in pleasuring him.

The alley is silent except for their breathing and occasional gag sounds.

Tommy stares down, mesmerized by the sight. Your makeup is smudged now, colorful facepaint slightly streaked from sweat and exertion, his lips glistening with saliva as you take Tommy deeper.

The stretch of your mouth around him is obscene in the best way, hot and tight and those eyes locked onto Tommy’s like a challenge even while choking on him… it's intoxicating. A shiver runs through Tommy. This magician on his knees looks beautiful like this: wrecked already but still so damn in control. It shouldn't turn him on this much... but it does.

And he didn't even have to ask Will you kneel down on this filthy cobblestone ground and suck my dick.

Tommy’s hands raise, one tangling in your hair. Not rough, but firm, guiding you back before it gets overwhelming.

You gasp for air as Tommy pulls you off just enough to breathe, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast. The magician looks dazed for a second: pupils blown wide with arousal and exertion from taking so much at once. A single drop of saliva connects your bottom lip to Tommy's cock, a visual proof of how far you'd gone down on him. Tommy exhales sharply through his nose… fighting the urge fuck your face stupid right then and there.

The condom wrapper tears cleanly between your teeth and you finally rise smoothly to your feet. No hesitation now, just heat in every movement. Your hands roam Tommy’s chest first, smoothing over the fabric of his suit before pushing it off one shoulder. Then lower, palms skimming down hard abs under shirt material… all while their mouths crash together again in a hungry kiss.

Tommy doesn’t pay much attention to the dark surrounding anymore, busy mapping your mouth with his own tongue to care about anything else right now.

Tommy’s strength makes lifting you effortless after pulling your pants down. One arm hooking under your thighs to hoist you up, the other bracing against the brick wall behind them. The magician’s legs lock around Tommy’s waist automatically, bodies pressed flush together. A silent curse laced under the moan escaped your lips when he pushed himself in “Agh-! Fuck…mhmp-” No preparation is the hell of you. But you don’t seem to care much right now. Just get over it…

Tommy feels you tense around him, the sharp inhale, the bitten-off moan muffled against his shoulder. Pain flares between you for a split second, but he doesn’t stop. His thrusts start slow, controlled but deep, each one making the magician’s nails rake down his back through the fabric of his shirt. Tommy grits his teeth at the sting, it only fuels him more.

No sweet words or comfort here… just rough rhythm and shared breath as you adjust to being stretched open by someone far larger than yourself.

The sudden upward angle hits a spot, your whole body jerks, teeth clamping down on your lip to stifle the louder moan threatening to escape. But Tommy hears it anyway: that punched-out gasp, the way your thighs tremble around him as he pounds onto you relentlessly. Each thrust his cock presses deeper into you like a punishment, making you squirm in his embrace. Uncomfortable yet pleasurable at the same time. Sweats linger on both their skin under moonlight… and Tommy doesn’t slow down, if anything, he drives into that sweet spot harder each time, driving moans out of you. Tears threaten to surface in the corner of your eyes as you throw your head back, letting Tommy have access to your neck and mark you wherever he wants.

You don’t have time for slow romance or candlelit intimacy, this is a quick, raw alleyway fuck under moonlight and theatre noise in the distance. So Tommy speeds up, harsh, efficient thrusts now. Only focus on chasing that release before you two are interrupted by late-night stragglers or stagehands passing by. The slap of skin on skin echoes softly between them… and you clings tighter to Tommy like he might disappear if you let go, arms wrapped around his neck for balance.

The climax hits you like a wave, body shudders, warmth flooding through you as pleasure surges. But Tommy doesn’t stop; the man is still chasing his own with relentless focus. The overstimulation makes you squirm, sensitive now, overspent but trapped between Tommy and the wall. Every continued thrust sends jolts of mixed sensation: too much, not enough… all at once. Tommy’s jaw is clenched tight, close to finishing himself but refusing to let go until he does. His rhythm turns slightly uneven, signaling how near he is.

The oversensitivity is written all over you, toes curling tightly inside your stage boots, your whole body tensing with every continued thrust. Your moans are softer now, almost whimper-like, pleasure edged with that tingling too much feeling.

Tommy feels it, the way you clench tight around his cock, but he doesn’t slow down. Not yet. Just a few more hard drives of his hips… until finally…A sharp groan escapes Tommy as he reaches his own climax, burying himself deep for those final pulses before stillness settles between them. Your hole squeezes around him in the most perfect way, involuntarily milking every last pulse of pleasure from his release. It’s a delicious kind of torture: overstimulated but so fucking good.

Tommy drops his forehead against your shoulder for a brief second, breath ragged. You’re still trembling slightly in his arms, oversensitive and pliant after coming first.

A beat passes, neither moves… just catching their breaths in the quiet alleyway, skin sticky with sweat under cool night air.

Tommy stays exactly where he is, still buried inside of you, bodies pressed close. The heat between you lingers, no rush to separate yet.

His cock softens slowly, but the warmth remains, a quiet intimacy after the intensity of what just happened. Tommy doesn’t speak, just lets his weight lean slightly into you while they both come down from it.

Your legs are probably sore… and Tommy’s back might ache from holding you up against the wall… but neither complains.

After a while, Tommy gently lowers you back to your feet, his movements careful now, almost tender compared to the roughness of moments ago. He steps back slightly, discarding the used condom in the trash bin nearby first, then adjusting his own clothes: straightening his suit jacket and refastening buttons on his trousers.

Then he watches as you bend down, wincing a little, to pick up discarded pants and put them on. The magician’s makeup is smudged beyond saving tonight… but otherwise they both look mostly composed again.

A comfortable silence stretches between them, no awkwardness, just post-fuck calm under alleyway shadows.

You decided to break the silence first “Will I see you again?” A glint of hope. You really enjoy his company, and it’s rare for a lad like you to find a male bed partner in this society so…you cling to whatever you have.

Tommy studies you for a long moment, calculating, as he always does. But there’s no hesitation in his answer.

"Yeah.” No explanations or conditions attached, just certainty. Whether it's another show, backstage again… or something else entirely, Tommy has no intention of this being a one-time thing. A faint smirk tugs at his lips before he adds "You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

The moment you step back into the makeup room, every head turns. Your crewmates Lila, Marco, even Eli still stretching from his act, freeze mid-conversation.

It’s obvious what happened: smudged facepaint, scent of sweats and sex, slightly messed up hair… and that look. The one people get when they’ve just been thoroughly kissed or fucked…or both.

A beat of silence. Then grins spread across Eli’s face like wildfire. “No shit! Your married man again?”

The crew exchanges knowing glances as you aggressively dabs cotton with makeup remover, your movements a little too harsh, your face a little too flushed. They’ve heard you talk about Tommy Shelby: the married Birmingham crime boss who keeps showing up backstage…

It’s embarrassing actually, how his eyes glued to every move of yours. Your father, another businessman aka Arthur’s best friend was invited as well, he drags you from conversations to conversations, introducing you to his old friends to expand your social circle. He always does that when he’s going out with you, it’s not like you can’t approach a businessman when you see one. John knows he should be watching his four children running around like crazy: Williams, Henry, Katie and Katherine. He chews away the toothpick in his mouth, a habit to distract himself from staring into your soul.

You were a businessman, following your father’s legacy, his footsteps. You can say you were very much luckier when there’s an old man guiding you in this harsh world until you can walk on your own. You know the Shelbys very well, Thomas respects you, others enjoy your interesting company. You have your ways with words, it’s not anything new that you have the ability to charm anyone you interact with. You got away with things a lot using your face and words.

Now, John watches like a hawk as your loud, booming father drags you from group to group, slapping backs and introducing you with that grin of his. Every time someone new grabs your shoulder or claps you on the back, John’s jaw tightens. It’s impossible not to love you from the first sight.

And He knows who you are. Everyone in Birmingham does, John thinks. The quiet businessman who runs half the docks without saying a bloody word. Respectable money man: no gambling debts, no drinking your brain away at The Garrison after hours like some of these idiots.

Oh, here he is…a single dad with four kids screaming through Polly’s party while you, smooth as hell in that tailored suit and calm voice, get fawned over by every guest present possible. Martha died and left him struggling with these troublemakers, it’s been hard for him and the Shelby members. Polly side-eyes him again when he doesn’t react to William stealing biscuits off the table. She has been trying to teach the kids to ask properly and say please instead of taking what they want right away, it seems like these devils are not taking words to ears except for the two girls, they were angels.

For a moment, John overhears bits of it…the whispers from the wives near the punch table. “He’s never been seen with a woman… not even at Madam Rose’s.” One giggles “Maybe he’s like those posh London chaps? The other sort?” their voices laced with doubts, judgement and amusement.

The words hit John like a slap…not because he cares about gossip, but because his heart drops. You’re single. Handsome as sin in that tailored coat, voice low and polite, eyes can stop a man or woman in track. And no woman has caught your eye? Not one? Christ.

A stupid thought hits him: What if I’m too late? What if by the time I finally gather courage to talk to you properly…after all this peacocking and staring like an idiot…you’re already engaged to a fancy London lady from a business family or married off for alliances?

He downs his whiskey in one go. Dumping the negative thoughts into the back of his skull.

John’s boots hit the floor with purpose. He abandons his drink, ignores Arthur calling his name, and starts cutting through the crowd like a man on a mission. The party pulses, laughing families, music from an old gramophone, kids chasing each other with candles but all John sees is you. That calm smile you give everyone. The way your eyes crinkle when someone tells a joke. How effortlessly polite you are even as your da shoves another bloke in front of you. He’s sweating under his collar now, not from nerves, he faced machine guns and lives on the rink of death, but because this matters. This could change everything.

He times it perfectly, waits until your father finally releases your arm after introducing some bloke and then strides forward before anyone else can claim your attention.

John’s heart hammers like artillery fire as he finally approaches you. The noise of the party dulls around him. All he hears is his own pulse, all he sees is your face. You’re laughing at something someone said, the kind of quiet, dignified laugh that makes people lean in closer and then suddenly John’s there. Right in front of you. He clears his throat again, louder this time than before when peacocking from across the room. His hands are stiff at his sides, no toothpick now to chew on and hide behind.

"Hey Y/N" he says, voice deeper than usual with that thick accent and immediately regrets it because wow your name sounds beautiful coming outta his mouth.

“Oh you’re John!” you remembered him…even after years of war?

John freezes the second your eyes lock onto his…those damn beautiful eyes, soft and sharp all at once, like moonlight on steel. And that smirk? That little knowing curve of your lips? It unravels him. His stomach drops. His throat goes dry. For a soldier who faced trench warfare without flinching…he’s absolutely wrecked by one look from you. The rumour was true…it’s impossible not to fall for you. Polly glaring again because John’s standing there like an idiot with no children in sight. But he doesn’t care.

*"Yeah" He manages "John Shelby."

A beat too long passes where neither speaks. Then suddenly he blurts it out:

"I’ve wanted to talk to you for years."

…Christ…Too much?

“Years? Christ…What possessed you tonight?

The sound of your laugh…warm, low, effortless hits John like a punch to the chest. It’s worse than any battlefield noise. Worse than artillery fire. He swallows hard, ears burning. The crowd is still watching from the corners of his eyes, pearly girls whispering behind fans, Arthur raising an eyebrow at him from across the room with Katie clinging to his leg wanting the toy back.

"Dunno…" John admits, voice rougher now. "Just... saw you standing there again and thought…I can't keep doin’ this."

He shrugs one shoulder and finally lifts a hand halfway between them before stopping himself like he forgot how touching works.

"You’re always surrounded by people…" he says quietly. "Figured tonight was my chance."

That made you smile a little, quickly extend a hand to shake out of politeness “Nice to see you again, John…I heard a lot about you from Thomas.”

John’s breath catches when you offer a handshake. Pale, clean, the hands of a man who signs contracts and doesn’t punch walls. No calluses like his. He takes it quickly, maybe too quickly and shakes. His grip is firm from years of soldiering and handling guns, but he doesn’t crush yours, he remembers himself at the last second and softens it.

"Tommy talks about me?" he asks, surprised. "What’d he say?"

The mention of Thomas Shelby makes him glance around instinctively, half-expecting his older brother to materialize with that cold stare of his. A small thrill runs through John though: you know who he is. You’ve heard his stories.

“I think I’ll keep that a secret” Here you are, calm as ever beside him, the quiet partner in your father’s empire. Not shouting, not drinking too much whiskey… just being. Elegant without trying. But that smirk of yours? It’s playing hell with him.

"You keep secrets good…" he says, leaning slightly closer. "I like that."

A pause. Then he risks it:

"Can I get you a drink?”

“Oh…Sure. Whiskey. Neat. Would work”

John nods and walks a little taller now, shoulders back, chest out as you fall into step beside him. He doesn’t want to look like a lumpy slack next to you. Whispers follow: “Is that Y/N L/N?” … “With John Shelby?” A few eyebrows shoot up.

John nudges past without a word, grabbing two glasses and filling them with good whiskey from the stash. He slides one to you first and lifts his own glass slightly in silent toast before taking a sip. The warmth hits him instantly… but not as much as the heat of having you right here next to him.

He doesn’t blink much. Just keep looking at you: the curve of your cheekbone under soft light from the chandelier above, how calm you are despite standing next to a man with a bad reputation as him.

“Those are?” you gesture your hand toward a bunch of John's kids running, looking pretty identical.

John follows your gaze to the chaos, four tiny tornadoes in miniature Peaky Blinders gear: little caps, boots too big for them. William is chasing Henry with a spoon like it’s a sword. Katherine and Katie are arguing over a doll near Polly’s feet. He sighs, a fond but exhausted sound…the sigh of a man who hasn’t had five minutes to himself since Martha died.

"That's my lot…" he says, voice warmer than expected. "Henry is six. That one swinging the spoon? Williams…He thinks he's Arthur Shelby already." A small, proud smile tugs at his lips as he looks at his two angels.

"That’s Katherine…five. She loves to read books like Tommy does. And Katie is 4. She’s an angel” He takes another sip of whiskey before muttering: "They're a menace."

“Oh…gorgeous children you got there…they are adorable” you say, eyeing the two boys and girls playing. “Where’s your…?” You noticed there wasn’t any ring on John.

John’s expression flickers, just for a second, a shadow crossing his face. The question hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken history.

He sets his glass down slowly on the bar, suddenly not thirsty anymore.

"Martha… my wife…" he says quietly "she died. A few weeks after I got back from France." The words come out flat, not dramatic but raw and honest. No excuses, no blaming God or doctors or anything else. And now he's standing here with four children under ten who miss their mother every damn day.

“I’m sorry for your loss” you muttered. Before letting out a “Oof!” as one of his kids ran and bumped into your leg. “Hey there, little one”

Katherine, small, is rubbing her forehead after bumping into you. The book fell off her hand.

You quietly scoop her up in your arm to check out the tiny redness on her. She was running pretty fast like escaping the crowd with the book.

Williams stops chasing with the spoon and turns to look at his sister, surprisingly comfortable in a stranger’s arms.

"Katherine?" John calls softly, looking down slightly at the kid now clinging to your embrace. "What’re you doin’?”

Katherine’s tiny voice cuts through the noise like a knife. Innocent. Brutal.

"You smell... nice."

And then: "Not smelly like daddy... daddy stink…likel alcohol."

John stiffens. He knows. He knows he drinks too much after the death of his wife. Knows his coat reeks of whiskey by morning sometimes. Knows his kids notice everything, but hearing it out loud? From little Katherine? In front of you? His face burns with embarrassment.

“Oh don’t talk about your daddy like that” you snorted at the kid’s statement and playfully booped her nose. Then turn to John “I don’t mind…I love kids…always wanted some, honestly”

John’s heart stops. Then it explodes. He watches, completely frozen as you hold Katherine with such ease, like she weighs nothing. She squeaks in surprise when you booped her nose but doesn’t cry, instead, she curls into your chest, tiny fingers gripping the fabric of your suit jacket. Sniffing the cologne on you. Soft vanilla and a hint of fresh breeze, seasalt, mint.

And you… you giggle. A soft, warm sound, nothing like the serious businessmen everyone assumes you are. You’re smiling at her. Talking to her.

"You love kids?" John asks before he can stop himself, voice lower now, softer than anyone’s ever heard him speak.

“Yours are lovely…very very” you coo at the baby and tickle her cheeks. Evelyn giggles, a high, sweet sound and squishes her cheek into your thumb like a happy kitten. She’s completely comfortable with you now, one small hand reaching up to poke at your jawline. It’s like your aura attracts babies’ attention. The kind that by just one look, they know you can be trusted.

The others notice. William abandons the spoon and comes scampering over. Henry drags Katie behind him like he's her bodyguard. Even Polly looks over from where she'd been glaring at John earlier, now observing quietly as her niece cuddles this well-dressed stranger who treats children like royalty. John watches it all with his heart in his throat. You're not just being polite, you're genuinely smitten with them. Like you're getting cuteness overload. Your eyes crinkle when Katherine laughs again after you tickle her tiny foot.

And damn… seeing you hold one of his kids so naturally? It does something dangerous to him.

William freezes mid-step, eyes going wide like saucers. The deep, rumbling pirate voice of yours hits him like a cannon blast from a storybook.

"Ahoy matey!" Your accent is thick, pure cartoon-pirate gold and William’s jaw drops. You noticed the pirate hat on Williams and thought about teasing him a little.For a second, he doesn’t know whether to be terrified or thrilled. You spoke his language? Did you know he’s a huge pirate lover?

Then instinct kicks in: This man just spoke the language of adventure.

He straightens up instantly, puffing his chest out in imitation, and attempts to mimic your tone:

"Argh… I be Captain William Shelby!" he announces loudly, swinging an imaginary sword with the spoon again. Henry gasps dramatically like he gained a new playmate who knows the niche show and their secret jokes. Katie claps. Even Arthur chuckles into his drink across the room.

You smirk and pat the boy's head.

“Where are we hunting today, captain? West? Or go wherever the wind takes us?” you mimic the sound of the cartoon pirate again. Your voice is naturally deep. It’s almost convincing you were a voice actor.

William’s face lights up like a firework. Captain acknowledged. Captain honored.

He spins dramatically, spoon-sword raised and points toward the grand double doors leading outside to the Garrison yard, where lanterns flicker in the cool night air.

"WE SET SAIL FOR THE WEST!" he yells loudly, copying your pirate voice with all his six-year-old lungs. Henry immediately grabs Katie’s hand and starts marching behind him like a loyal crewman. Even little Henry mutters, "West… treasure there…" clearly having heard this story before.

The other Peaky families are now fully watching: Polly smirks slightly, Ada covers her mouth to hide a laugh. Arthur gives John an amused side-eye…as if saying Well look at that. While John just stands there, heart full for reasons he can't explain.

He swallows hard.

"You're good with them," he says softly, "Katherine doesn't hug strangers. And the kids are happy thinking you’re like one of them.."

A small truth but an important one. His kids don’t trust easily after losing their mum and watching their dad drink too much when nightmares come.

Then William turns back suddenly:

"Captain! We need a first mate!"

“Coming!” The moment you lift William onto your shoulder like a true first mate of the pirate ship, the room melts.

William squeals, half-laughing, half-terrified and grabs your head with both tiny hands to steady himself. He feels taller than everyone now, sitting proudly on this elegant man’s broad shoulders like he's conquered the sea..

John watches with something warm blooming behind his ribs, a feeling he hasn't had since Martha was alive.

Someone treating his kids right. not out of duty… but because they genuinely like them.

Arthur grins over at Polly "Never thought I’d see John look that soft." Polly just nods slowly, she sees it too.

The party dies down. Plates cleared, cake eaten, kids long carried off to bed by their mothers and aunties. The air grows quieter now, just the low hum of men’s voices and the occasional clink of glass. Arthur sits with his brothers, Thomas discussing something about business to others. But John? He’s not listening. His eyes keep finding you across the room, leaning against a wall where you’ve been chatting politely with some shipping tycoon from Liverpool. You look tired but content… peaceful in that way only quiet men are after socializing all night.

Then he sees it, the old radio on the counter starts playing softly on its own: an old jazz tune from before the war, a slow one meant for dancing under moonlight or candlelight.

A beat passes… then another.

John takes a deep breath, like he’s about to walk into battle and rise up from his seat.

He smooths his jacket, wipes his palms on his trousers, a nervous habit, and strides across the quieting room. The jazz plays soft and slow, filling the space with warmth.

The other men notice him moving, Thomas raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Arthur watches with mild interest.

John stops right in front of you, the Liverpool man excuses himself politely and clears his throat.

“Y/N" he says, voice lower than usual, almost gentle. "You… uh. You wanna dance?"

It took you by surprise. “I’ve never danced before, actually”

John blinks, a little surprised. For a man as poised and composed as you, never having danced? It’s hard to picture.

But then again… maybe it makes sense. A businessman like you, always at docks, in offices, negotiating contracts, when would there be time for dancing?

The realization softens him further.

"You’ve never danced?" he asks quietly, not mocking or judging, just curious.

Then he does something unexpected: he smiles. A real one, not the usual cocky smirk or sly grin but something warm and encouraging.

Without another word, John reaches out his hand slowly… palm up. Offering still.

“Look, I don’t want to make a fool out of myself” you chuckled. But it seems like John doesn’t take “no” as an answer. Like he knows you’re about to say something like “Maybe another time.”

So he acts fast. Before you can finish your sentence, John strides over to palm the radio and then he grabs your hand firmly but gently before you can protest.

"C'mon," he says, voice low and warm with determination.

He leads you past Thomas' raised eyebrow, past Arthur's amused smirk, straight out through the front door of The Garrison onto the moonlit alley.

The air is cool tonight. Cobblestones glisten under silver light from above. No one was around, not even a stray dog barking.

The moment you step outside, the world feels different, quieter, softer. The streets of Birmingham are empty now, everyone’s home or still inside discussing politics and business. Only the glow of a few street lamps and moonlight paint the cobbled path.

He turns to face you under one dim streetlamp, the jazz drifting faintly from the radio John places on the ground.

Then… slowly… John raises his other hand in invitation, a silent Come here.

“Promise you won’t laugh?” you smirked

John’s expression melts into something impossibly tender. That shy smirk tugs at his chest.

"I promise…" he says instantly, voice low and serious. "No laughin’. Not even a chuckle."

Gently, so gently…he places his hand on your lower back, warms through the fabric of your suit jacket, and slowly brings you closer until there’s just enough space between you for dancing… but not much more than that.

The jazz plays on: soft trumpets and slow piano notes floating from inside.

“Mhmm...why did you...approach me again?”

You say out of curiosity. What has fueled his courage?

John’s breath catches. The question hits him like a punch, simple, quiet, but deep. Why didn’t I approach you before?

He slows the dance slightly, their steps becoming softer now, not leading as much as just… holding each other under the moonlight.

"You were too young…" *he says finally, voice rough with honesty. "When I left for war… You were 14. Barely out of school."

Back then? He was 19, engaged to Martha by accident after she got pregnant. A soldier with no future in mind except surviving trench warfare and coming home alive.

Oh, you? You were just some kid who used to visit your father at The Garrison tavern after school to hear about business conversation …the polite one who smiled and disappeared into rooms full of men…that caught his eyes.

“And then?”

John swallows hard, eyes dropping to where his hand rests on your back, warm and steady.

"Then I came home…” he says quietly "and everything was… different. Martha was gone. The kids were mine alone. I didn’t know how to be a father…just knew how to survive."

The war had broken him in ways no one could see, nightmares every night, drinking too much just to sleep, screaming at the kids when he shouldn’t have sometimes. He’d look at you sometimes across Arthur’s parties or business meetings with your da… but never spoke up. Quiet admiration. He is still hooked. Still find you attractive.

"Didn't think someone like you would even look my way," he admits.

You grin a little. And confess "You're still just as handsome as the day you left for war”

The truth was…you have been admiring him from afar too. Watching him play fight with his brothers and never dared joining. Watching him in the tavern.

John’s breath hitches, completely unprepared for that. His eyes snap to yours, wide and searching, like he’s trying to see if you’re joking. But no, your smile is soft, genuine. No mockery. Just… admiration.

Handsome?

Not a soldier with scars on his soul and shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep?

Not the man who drinks too much whiskey just to forget the trenches?

"You think so?" He asks, voice barely above a whisper..It comes out vulnerable, raw in a way John Shelby never lets show anyone else.

Then something rare happens: he smiles back. A real one, not cocky or forced but warm, touched by your words like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“Don’t you dare tell anyone I said that” you muttered, almost stepping on his feet.

John chuckles, low and warm. "Wouldn't dream of it..." he murmurs, still smiling as he gently squeezes your hand in his.

The jazz plays on, softer now, the song winding down into its final notes and the street stays quiet around them, wrapped in silver moonlight and peace.

He doesn't want this moment to end. Never.

So without thinking too hard… John leans in slightly. Wanting to press a kiss on your lips.

“Ooh…uhm…” you pull back, instinct kicking in, and it makes his heart drop like a stone. He didn’t mean to scare you. Didn’t even realize how suddenly he leaned in.

Your surprise flashes across your face, wide eyes, slight retreat and John immediately straightens up, hands lifting slightly off your back as if surrendering.

"Sorry," he blurts, voice rough with embarrassment. "Didn't mean to… move too fast." The moment cracks. The warmth from seconds ago flickers out just a little.

Now there's awkwardness between them, the kind that comes when two people almost kiss but one flinches at the last second. It’s a dark alley…who could possibly catch them dancing under the moonlight and kissing? Risky still. They both have a reputation to keep. But still… you sigh and ignore all the norms, the whispers and rumours that might happen…

You lean in for a kiss. His soft lips feel heavenly but wrong against yours like a forbidden apple. You allowed this to happen. John pulls you closer by a hand on your lower back, deepening the kiss. He nibbles on your bottom lip slightly, testing the water before brushing his tongue on yours. You can still taste the neat whiskey on his, kissing him back with the same increasingly neediness.