Mylu

He stopped, hands spread in the air like a mime and the barest flicker of calculation passed behind his so-called baby blues. You’d learned: mischief was always a step ahead of sense for him. “You’d lose anyway,” he said. “Don’t act like it’s a punishment.”

You shrugged, letting your sweater slip off one shoulder. Oversized, peachy-pink, made to look like it had been dunked in cotton candy. “Afraid?” You said and meant it the way only people who had nothing on the line could.

“Dying to humiliate you,” he replied, grinning with an edge that put a splinter in the evening.

Lando took the deck from your lazy shuffle, squared it with a snap and let the cards bloom between his hands like he’d done it for a living. You sat across from him at his chipped dining table, the air sharp with the metallic tang of energy drinks and last night’s pasta. Overhead, a single bulb attuned the world to sepia, only cards crisp and clean as new money.

“Texas hold’em?” he suggested, voice mockingly formal, like he was dealing at a casino lounge and not in his own mess of a dining room, bone-tired, with mismatched socks and a faint stubble.

“Dealer’s choice,” you said, words coming out a challenge, a push into the place you both liked best—rules being set and promptly broken. “Prizes change per round?”

He considered. “Loser removes one item of choice. Hard mode: accessories count.”

His hands, broad-knuckled and always a bit scarred, fanned the deck with such soft precision you looked anywhere but his face. That off-season, he’d grown into them, the wrists less bony, the veins under the skin like a roadmap of every stupid thing he’d done for fun. Two cards to each. Your hands, smaller by a lot, used to faking expertise, riffled the corners and searched for tells in the way he leaned forward, elbows on table, chin tilted up.

You lost the first three hands in a row. You’d always known you were bad at this but pretended otherwise, because the failure amused you. You let your hair out of its spiral tie, then shed the tie-dye slippers you’d bought for two euros outside the Gare de Nice. Lando watched and did not gloat, which was worse, somehow.

“You’re weirdly calm for someone getting destroyed,” he said, collecting the cards with offensive amounts of confidence.

“Destroyed is a bit dramatic.”

“You’ve lost, like, three times.”

“You’re counting?” You arched a brow at him.

He looked up slowly. “Baby, it’s poker.”

You rolled your eyes like it meant nothing, but your fingers stalled against the edge of the table anyway. “Can you not do that?”

He blinked. “Do what?”

“The—” you gestured vaguely toward him, annoyed already that you sounded annoyed, “the pet name thing.”

A grin threatened at the corner of his mouth. “Baby?”

You hated how easily he said it, casual enough to pretend it meant nothing, specific enough that it never really did.

“See?” you said.

“What?” He leaned back in his chair, smug and all sharp edges. “You get weird every time.”

“I do not get weird.”

“Uh huh.” His gaze flicked over your face, too observant for someone pretending to joke. “You forget how to talk and everything.”

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you muttered.

“Oh, massively.” He pointed lazily at the pile beside your chair. “Those slippers were tragic, by the way.”

You gasped. “Those are vintage.”

“Those are ugly.”

“They cost two euros.”

“That explains a lot.”

On hand four, he finally misplayed a pair of jacks, limped in then got bluffed off the river by a bet he should never have folded to. As quietly as if it hadn’t mattered, Lando shrugged off the battered hoodie, peeling it over his head in one neat, balletic motion that made a show of his neck and the untidy border of sunburn at the base of his throat. He dumped it onto the back of his chair and, maybe out of habit, combed a palm back through his hair. Static turned it wild. You raised both brows, savoring the equalizing shift in atmosphere.

“What, no victory lap?” he said.

“I’m trying to be gracious,” you said with a satisfaction that suited your mouth.

“You?” He leaned back in the chair, disbelief all over his face. “Never met her.”

“I’m evolving.”

“Into what?”

You tilted your head. “Someone who enjoys watching you lose.”

He grinned slowly, dangerously.

“Careful,” he said. “You sound excited.”

You reached for the cards before he could see your face properly. “Shut up and deal.”

The next deal went fast, a miniature war of attrition, neither of you willing to fold early. Lando began to tap his fingers against the table when the board cards came up bad for him, and the rhythm sent a low, taut hum through the plastic laminate.

“You tap when you’re annoyed,” you said casually.

His eyes flicked up. “No, I don’t.”

“You do.” You pointed at his hand. “Like that.”

“That means nothing.”

“That means your cards suck.”

Lando squinted his eyes and sat back in his chair like he’d suddenly remembered he was being observed. “Okay,” he dragged out. “Didn’t realize we were calling out tells.”

“You have tells?”

“You blink weird when you bluff.”

You stared at him. “I absolutely do not.”

“Mm.” He looked unconvinced. “Also, you keep looking at your good cards twice.”

“That’s just strategy.”

“That’s just cheating adjacent.”

“You don’t even know what cheating adjacent means.”

“It means,” he said, pointing lazily across the table, “you’re suspicious.”

You stalled, feigned focus, but the turn and river were junk and your own bluff collapsed as soon as he raised. You blinked at the cards, at your half-finished hand, dumbly surprised by how fast losing added up.

“No way,” you muttered.

“Oh, babe.” Lando leaned forward with unbearable sympathy. “That was painful to watch.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re bad at poker.”

One sock went next—the left, since it had a pink Sharpie stain across the toe from a night you’d never agree to talk about—and you peeled it off with a theatrical gasp, like a magician revealing the world’s most disappointing trick. You set it beside the slippers, almost proud. Lando grinned more with his eyes than anywhere else, a flicker of something that looked like encouragement, if one was feeling generous.

He swept up the cards and started shuffling again, easy, like dealing wasn’t its own kind of flex. His legs swung under the table, restless as hell, and every now and then he shot you a glance that was half challenge, half something else—maybe checking if you’d bail before the stakes got embarrassing, maybe just making sure you were still all-in.

Within two more hands, the game shifted from symbolic to literal. Lando dropped his final sock like a gauntlet, bare feet splayed pigeon-toed under the table. He’d started leaning after each showdown, reaching one arm across the laminate, making your half-folded hand close in on itself each time—like he was reminding you he could swallow the table, or you, any minute he wanted.

You bled losses and at a certain point, the game was just about what you could get away with calling “an accessory”. Somewhere between hands, you caught him staring and, for once, not pretending otherwise. Not your face—lower, briefly, at the line where the oversized sweater slipped when you leaned for the pot. He looked away too late.

“You know,” you said, stacking cards badly just to watch him squirm, “for someone winning, you seem weirdly distracted.”

“I’m multitasking.”

“At what?”

His jaw shifted like he almost said something honest. “Survival.”

Ultimately, your sweater went next, overhead in a single smooth movement. You wore a bralette top, thin-strapped and gray, the kind meant to be hidden beneath other things, not for display. Lando took in the exposed skin, but only let the corners of his mouth hitch. 

“You can still quit,” he said, shuffling with fake generosity.

“You want me to?”

“No,” he said eventually. “Just checking if you scare easy.”

You leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You first.”

Something sharpened in his expression then, playful tipping into something hungrier. “Careful,” he said. “You keep looking at me like that and I’m gonna misunderstand.”

Before you could respond he returned to shuffling and murmured: “Huh.”

You narrowed your eyes instantly. “What does huh mean?”

“Nothing.”

“That sounded like something.”

He tapped the edge of his cards against the table, mouth twitching. “Just didn’t think you were gonna commit to the bit.”

“You thought I’d chicken out?”

“I thought,” he said carefully, eyes dipping and then coming back up, “you’d suddenly remember modesty.”

You snorted. “Please. You’ve seen me in swimsuits.”

“Different setting,” he said. He picked up his cards, looked at them, immediately put them back down.

“Bad hand?” you asked.

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“That bad?”

His eyes flicked over you once, helplessly. “Catastrophic.”

You held his stare for a second too long. The apartment felt strangely small all of a sudden—the bulb overhead buzzing faintly, Monaco glittering uselessly through half-shut blinds, his stupid gold-tipped deck clicking soft against the table.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked, trying for teasing and landing somewhere closer to careful.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re thinking too hard.”

His thumb dragged once over the corner of his cards.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I’m realizing this might’ve been a bad idea.”

You snorted. “Because you’re losing?”

“No,” he said, eyes dipping briefly before coming back up. “Because you get competitive.”

“You scared?” you asked.

His mouth twitched. “Little bit.”

Something about the way he said it made your pulse stutter. You cleared your throat. “Play your hand, Norris.”

“I am,” he said.

“You literally haven’t looked at your cards.”

“Distracted.”

You narrowed your eyes again. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m literally sitting here.”

“No,” you said, pointing a card at him. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you act all smug when actually you’re nervous.”

He barked a laugh. “Nervous? Of what?”

You opened your mouth, then stopped. Suddenly you weren’t sure.

The game, maybe. Or the fact that somewhere between making fun of him and accusing him of cheating, the air had changed.

“You tell me,” you said quietly.

For once, he didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he watched you—elbows on the table, mouth tipped like he wanted to say something reckless and was deciding whether the fallout would be worth it.

You hated the way your stomach dipped. “You’re trying to psych me out.”

“Working?”

“No.”

“Liar.” His eyes stayed on you a second too long before finally dropping to the table and somehow that felt worse. You dealt the turn too fast.

“There,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“You do it again.”

“Do what?”

“That thing.” He gestured vaguely toward your face. “Inside of your cheek.”

You froze.

“Oh my god,” he grinned. “You’re bluffing.”

“I’m not!”

“You literally are.”

“Play the hand!”

“You’re stressed,” he said, delighted now. “Are you nervous?”

“No.”

“Then why are your hands shaking?”

You looked down instinctively.

“Rookie mistake,” Lando tsked, collecting the pot.

The next round, he lost again—let out a hiss between his teeth, accused you of stacking the deck, but did not protest as he peeled his shirt. He wore a gold chain, weirdly elegant, resting against the flat brown of his collarbone. The exposed line of his chest, darker where summer had burned in the edges of the sun, didn’t look real in the dining room’s old bulb, too cinematic, or stupidly lit.

Your hands shook a little as you shuffled, but he didn’t comment on it this time, just watched, waiting for the next opening.

“We’re terrible at normal hobbies,” you said, glancing around the apartment. “Other people bake. Or watch movies.”

“We tried Monopoly once.”

“You threatened to flip the table.”

“You were extorting me.”

“That’s capitalism, babe.”

His laugh came out softer than expected. “God, we’d be unbearable if anyone had to live with us.”

Lando kept losing, but only by enough that the game stayed alive, the slow scrape of cards on plastic a rhythm in itself. Your skirt was next by the rules, but you waited, dealt another hand, and when you lost, you decided to make it a small performance.

You stood, flashed a warning look in case it would embarrass him, but he just spread his hands like an invitation. The skirt undid at the waist with a pop, slid down your legs and you let it catch at mid-thigh, then drift down, a deliberate, silly, careful thing. You expected him to laugh, call you a dork, but Lando sat with his lips parted, eyes fixed, for once not ahead of the moment. The bralette and underwear you’d picked at random that morning were a soft set, one banded in elastic the other a faded gray; the colors clashed in the way only comfort could justify.

You sat back down and flicked a new hand his way. The room didn’t feel cold, but the air moved different without the drag of fabric. You pressed your knees together, then apart, unsure if the move was defense or emphasis. Lando’s gaze raked where it would, intent but not crude, and you caught yourself matching his energy, hungry but controlled.

Lando took his cards and didn’t even look at them.

“You alright?” you asked, because suddenly he was quiet in a way he usually wasn’t.

“Yeah.” he spat out too fast.

You tilted your head. “You look traumatized.”

A breath of laughter left him, thin around the edges. “You’re very committed to winning,” he said.

“That sounded accusatory.”

“It’s admiration.” His thumb dragged absentmindedly over the edge of a card. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

His eyes flicked up. “Still think you’re cheating.”

“I’m literally losing.”

“That’s exactly what someone trying to lower suspicion would say.”

When he lost, he palmed the waistband of his shorts like he might hesitate, then just pulled them off, no hesitation. He had, of course, boxers with tiny racing flags.

“I swear to god,” you snorted, but the sound came out wobbly, nerves and thrill braided through every word.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want this exact aesthetic,” he shot back, and for a second you saw the posture slip, a flicker of something young and hopeful, still trying to impress.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to see you humiliated in those,” you said, unconvincing as possible, buying time, feigning dominance, but so aware all at once of your own body, the bright band of skin at your ribcage, the prickling heat pooling at the nape of your neck.

The next round was messy, hands dealt amid the static pulse of shared tension. You lost and there was no graceful way to do it: bralette off, shoulders raised a tick with the effort of pretending you didn’t care. Underneath, only your bra, an old, lacey thing with one loose strap, soft-edged but not particularly constructed for support or display. You pulled the top overhead, the fabric catching briefly in your hair, and flicked it at Lando’s chest. He caught it with two fingers, spun it like a lariat, and set it on his growing trophy pile.

“No commentary?” You asked, defiant, proud.

“Was just…unexpectedly decent, honestly.” He gave a lazy arch of brow, gaze flicking downward only for a nanosecond, but the effect was a punch in the belly, no matter how tiny the movement.

“This is the level of trash talk?” You said. “You’ll never make it in Vegas.”

“You wouldn’t make it past TSA.” He dealt the next hand, face stony, but his ears burned in high relief against his skin.

“Do you always get blushy when you’re losing?” You asked, prodding the gap that opened up between his words.

“Only when it’s you,” he shot back, but too quick to be calculated.

But it was you who lost again. This time, you didn’t try to stretch for an accessory. Instead, you reached behind, unhooking the bra with a twist and a practiced catch. For a flash you hesitated; then the straps slipped down, freeing your breasts, which lifted and settled with the inertia of action movie slow-mo.

Lando’s attention snapped to them, then up to your face, then—failing to adapt—lingered at the curve of your chest, as if the rest of you had dissolved into a glowing field of possibility.

“That’s just unsportsmanlike,” he said, but it sounded a lot like awe, mixed with a kind of stunned panic.

“Eyes up,” you said. 

“They—” His jaw caught. “You’re just gonna sit there with them out?”

“Unless you’re forfeiting,” your voice came out playful but tight.

He blinked hard, swallowed, and grinned with a kind of desperate bravado. “You think I can’t handle some nudity? You’ve seen the paddock pranks. I’ve known guys who walked around with less than that.”

“You’re not facing them across a table, Norris.”

“You’re right,” he said, “Much harder to bluff against.” He flicked his cards, trying for casual, but fumbled the fourth one and had to scoop it up quick. It was like the air itself had thickened, charged and sticky, all eyes and adrenaline and the sick, sweet ache of being seen.

He played it off and squared the deck against the table with unnecessary concentration, shoulders pulling taut like composure could be manufactured through posture alone.

From where you sat, the fan of cards conveniently hid half his face. His eyes stayed lowered, expression carefully blank, thumb dragging over the corners like he was deep in strategy. Thinking. Calculating.

Except… The cards weren’t nearly high enough.

You tilted your head, watching the slow flick of his gaze over the rim of the hand he held—up, down, then stubbornly back again, like if he committed hard enough to the performance maybe reality would cooperate. The corners of your mouth twitched.

“You know,” you said lightly, resting your chin in your palm, “usually people look at their cards during poker.”

“I am looking at the cards,” he replied immediately. “Where else would I be looking?”

You raised a brow. “Sure you are.”

His grip tightened around the hand. “I literally am.”

“Mhm.”

He finally looked up, defensive in the way only guilty people ever were. “Why are you acting like I’m not?”

You leaned forward just enough to glance pointedly at the angle of the cards still hovering somewhere south of eye level.

“Because unless the ace of spades suddenly moved locations to my tits,” you said sweetly, “I don’t think that’s what you’re staring at.”

For one suspended second, he looked caught. He huffed a laugh through his nose, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he hated that you’d clocked him.

“In my defense,” he said, voice quieter now, helpless, “this is deeply distracting.”

“Oh, now who’s bad at poker?”

“You weaponized the situation,” he muttered. His eyes dropped again briefly, hopelessly, as if he’d been waiting for the reveal and now struggled to keep his eyes on your face, like the gravity of skin and shadow across your chest had tilted the entire room. You grinned slow and mean, all teeth.

“Keep gawking, Norris. See where it gets you,” you said, wiggling your fingers to prompt the next deal.

He snapped his eyes up, but it didn’t matter; the image of you, tits bare in the slanted light, was burned across his vision. He tried to play it off, making a show of shuffling, but this only highlighted his hands, jittery with, what, adrenaline? Nerves? You watched him and wondered—what did you look like to him right now? Were you even a person or more of a dare, a shape distilled down to the sum of everything forbidden and bright?

The cards fanned out slick between his palms, then splayed across the table, a challenge and a lifeline. You picked up your hand, leaned forward, aware now of every inch of bared skin and the way it caught the warm spill of overhead light. Lando’s gaze dipped again, caught, and you spread your arms over the table like a dealer in a backroom casino, letting your hair slip forward. His breathing got loud, shallow, almost a comic effect, but you didn’t laugh.

“Can’t handle the view?” You teased, bending further to rest your weight on your forearms, milking his hesitation for all it was worth.

He barked a short laugh, but the sound came out tight. “I can handle anything. Just didn’t expect you to go nuclear so fast.”

“Next time, maybe don’t bring a pea shooter to a gunfight.” You straightened, your hair falling down your back, then flung the best of your cards onto the table with practiced indifference. He lost the hand, spectacularly.

“You’re slipping,” you said.

He made a show of groaning. “You’re distracting. Deliberately so.”

“You know the rules, Norris.” You gestured.

Lando pushed his chair back with a scrape against the floor. He stood slowly, the dining room light catching every line of his bare chest and the gold chain that sat low on his collarbone. His racing flag boxers did nothing to hide the thick outline pressing against the fabric, the head of his cock clearly defined, the shaft straining sideways. A damp spot had already formed at the tip.

You leaned back in your seat, eyes dropping straight to it. “Well, well. Someone’s enjoying losing.”

He shifted his weight, one hand hovering near his waistband. The bulge twitched under your stare. “Fuck off,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it, just a shaky laugh.

You tilted your head. “You’re really gonna stand there pretending that’s not because of me?”

Lando swallowed. His fingers hooked the elastic but didn’t pull. “Are you really gonna make me do this?” His voice came out rough, almost pleading, eyes flicking between your face and the cards still scattered on the table. The tent in his boxers gave another visible throb, precum darkening the fabric further.

You let the moment lilt, let your own breath sputter a little with the effort of pretending not to care. The ache between your own legs built, a simmering distraction that made you want to taunt him or maybe just close the space and see how far you could push each other before the game broke.

You squared your chin, met his stare head-on. “Let’s see it, Norris.”

He still hesitated, hand still braced at his waist. You thought he might protest, stall for time, but instead he snapped the elastic down in one practiced jerk. The boxers dropped, revealing all of him—a lad-mag moment, but more honest: his cock sprung out, flushed high and lined rigid, the swells of his balls cinched tight. He was huge—hard enough to look painful—and he let the sight hang there between you, a challenge, almost a dare. You could see his chest lift with each shallow breath.

“Happy?” he said. It was sharp, but the way he said it—voice rough and just a shade tremorous—made it the opposite.

You let your eyes travel the length of him, open and unkind, but the stirring inside you made it harder to fake composure. “I’d give it a solid eight,” you said, and flashed teeth when he bristled. “Maybe nine with a better presentation.”

He blinked, like he hadn’t expected the reply to bite. “You’re relentless.”

“You wouldn’t want it any other way.” You tried for a poker face, but the muscles around your mouth had their own ideas. You cracked a knuckle, relishing his discomfort, then swept the deck into a fresh pile. “One more hand. Showdown.”

He was naked, you were nearly; the air between you buzzed like something electrical, dangerous enough that another person would have flinched away.

“Well, Norris,” you said, “what do you want to bet now?”

He laughed and the sound surprised him, bright and a little wild, a laugh that opened him to the room, to you, to what would happen next. “You in for double or nothing?”

You pushed the chair out and stood, so close now the shadows could barely fit between you. “Stakes?”

He tried not to look at your chest but did anyway—how the light caught at the curves, the color play of skin and shadow, the delicate network of lines below your collarbone. “Loser has to—” he started, but came up blank. He wanted to say, loser has to stop pretending, loser has to close the gap, loser has to admit what they’ve been angling at since the beginning, since the queen’s face on the coffee table, since the first time you ever called him afraid.

You grinned, reading his silence, filling it with your own offer. “Loser gives the winner whatever they want,” your voice was husky now, catching in the faintest way on each word.

The room held its breath. He could feel nothing but the orbit of your body, the heat off your skin, the want in the air. For the first time in his life, Lando Norris felt like he was about to crash, and instead of pulling off, he let it ride. He nodded, serious now. “You’re on,” he said, and dealt the cards onto the battered tabletop.

The hand-up was abysmal. No chance, nothing left, just three busted low cards and the knowledge that you were going down swinging. You let the dead hand drop, the cards spat out on the laminate. Lando’s face cracked into a wide, victorious grin, but you could taste the hunger in it, the sharp glint in his eyes that meant this had stopped being a joke somewhere in the last three hands.

“Show them,” he said.

“Hell no,” you said, cheeks hot and reached for the waistband of your underwear. They were nothing fancy, just the last in a string of cheap cotton, navy blue, with a faded logo on the hip—relic from a week you’d spent trying to convince yourself you were organized enough to buy matching sets. You hooked a thumb into the elastic—but before you could slide them down, Lando stood. The chair legs groaned back and he was beside you, close enough to feel the static shudder between your bodies. His hand caught yours lightly, but the grip had no give.

“What—” you looked up, ready for some smartass quip, but the words jammed against the back of your teeth.

His hand drew yours away from your own hip and pressed your palm flat to the rough table. You couldn’t tell if he was smirking or just absolutely focused, but either way he had your attention.

“I won,” he said, his voice rough. “Loser gives the winner whatever they want, remember?”

You rolled your eyes, still hot. “Don’t tell me you’re so predictable you want a striptease—”

“That’s not what I want.” He leaned in so close you could taste the sweet sting of his gum, the faint musk of his skin, sun and vinyl and something underneath. “I want you to let me do it. Unwrap you like a fucking present.”

You tried for a laugh and it cracked, nothing behind it. “You’re full of it.”

His hand was already on your thigh, thumb tracing circles low and slow, just above the line of the cotton. “Maybe. But you’re not stopping me.”

In fact you opened your knees a fraction, letting him slot between, the edge of the table digging a pleasant groove into the backs of your thighs. His other hand slipped behind, bracing at your lower back, and you felt a dizzy, childish urge to dare him to keep going.

The elastic band stretched under his fingers. He pulled it out and away, snapping it against your hip, a little flicker of shock sharp and brilliant. You jolted, laughing, but the shock gave way to a sizzle that ran straight up your spine. You could feel the heat in your face, your neck, all the way between your legs.

“You’re not gentle,” you whispered. You didn’t mean it as an insult.

He grinned, a flash of white. “Never.”

He crouched until he was eye-level with your navel, hands braced at your hips. The slow slide of your underwear was deliberate, like a performance, and for a second you felt on display, stripped to nothing not just of material but of defenses, jokes, everything. The reality of your bare skin—your breasts, your thighs, the prickle at the crest of your pubic bone—made your skin catch fire and ache somewhere you didn’t have words for. You expected nerves, but instead there was just a hungry, animal want: to see if his mouth would follow his hands, to see if he’d fuck with you or just fuck you.

He made it about halfway down before pausing, breath ghosting over every inch he revealed. His lips traced the soft swell of your belly, then a tiny, mocking kiss to the base of your navel. The panties bunched at your knees, caught, and you thought he’d stop, milk the moment, but instead he knelt in front of you.

He didn’t even bother with the old sports commentator routine or some cheesy victory whoop. Instead, he pushed your legs further apart, sliding you toward the edge until the flex of your inner thighs sang a warning. Then he just—stared. You could feel your cunt go hot and wet, obvious even to the air, and the urge to close your knees warred with the sick compulsion to see what he’d do next.

“Damn,” he said, voice gone hoarse. His hands drifted up, fingertips resting feather-light on your knees, denting down, as if he was weighing the muscle beneath the skin. He glanced up, holding you in his crosshairs, and grinned—feral, victorious. “Are you gonna pretend that’s not all because of me?”

You tried to laugh, to downplay, but the sound snagged somewhere behind your teeth. Lando dragged a slow exhale, then thumbed along the crease of your thigh, tracing circles that seemed to pulse with your heartbeat. The muscles of his jaw flexed as he drew himself closer and his breath hit damp and sweet against you, warping the air between you.

There was no warning, not even a smirk. He ducked, lips catching the inside of your knee, teeth a teasing scrape, and you went rigid—not because you were nervous, but because no one had ever made anything so simple feel so obscene. His tongue flicked, heat and salt and the tiny, electric pain of stubble, and you were so aware now, every nerve ending in your groin a live wire.

He worked his way up, slow and methodical, each press of his mouth hotter, hungrier, his hands shifting to keep your legs open, locked wide and helpless. The first brush of his tongue was barely a touch, but it sent a shock so sharp your whole body juddered like a misfiring engine. Lando clocked the reaction and made a private game of torturing you, lapping bold up the seam, then drawing back just when you squirmed against the surface.

“You want me to—?” he started, voice muffled and dark with laughter, but you cut him off with a groan, fisting your hand in his hair and shoving his head back between your legs.

He took the hint, this time going all in—tongue gliding flat, wide, an unhurried circuit that made your hips tip up. He hummed and the sound, vibrating straight through, nearly undid you. He licked and sucked, every trick as precise as when he feathered a car through a high-speed chicane, zero room for error. Each flick and lap built on the last, an incremental drag through madness, and your whole body started to shake, tremors rolling up your spine.

Somewhere in the middle of it, your cards—your pathetic, doomed hand—slid off of the table when you leaned back too hard, skittering across the laminate in a useless scatter.

You barely noticed. The edge of the dining table pressed into the small of your back as you tipped farther against it, chasing breath, chasing balance. Sweat gathered where skin met wood, tacky and warm, and one stupid card—queen of hearts, of course—ended up plastered crooked against your spine, clinging there like the universe was mocking you.

You reached blindly behind yourself, fingertips brushing cardboard stuck to damp skin, but the movement only made the mess worse—more cards dragged along with you, bending at the corners, sticking where sweat had turned the whole night sticky and ridiculous.

The room spun, lit gold by the single bulb, the city a smear of silver across the window, the linoleum tacky beneath your toes. You grabbed the edge of the table to steady yourself, nails biting into wood, as Lando’s hands pinned you at the hips and dragged you closer, greedy, like he needed to taste all of you at once.

You were never quiet and he didn’t want you to be; every gasp, every curse, every threat to kill him if he didn’t keep going fed back into the loop. His tongue circled, then pressed; his hands tight at your thighs, bruising, holding you open wider. When you bucked your hips he laughed into you, the vibration electric.

“Jesus, Norris—” you ground the heel of your palm into your mouth, delirious with the pressure, the build building, cresting, unmanageable.

“You still wanna bluff?” he said, barely lifting his head.

“Fuck—fuck you—” you could barely catch your breath.

“Yeah?” Tongue flat, voice muffled, “Tell me you want it.”

You said, “I want it, shut up, keep going,” and he did, relentless, until the line inside you snapped. You came so hard you saw white. There was no time for embarrassment or composure; you jerked, spasmed, rode the aftershocks until your body felt wrung out and boneless.

You blinked, vision coming back, and realized your legs were trembling. Lando was still on his knees, mouth slick with you, watching you with the pride of someone who’d won the only game that mattered.

“Holy shit,” you said or tried to. It came out as a croak.

He stood up smoothly, stared a second, then wiped his mouth, smirk barely controlled. His cock, still hard and heavy, bobbed between you, nudging your thigh.

You stood next and caught his chain as you moved. He was smirking, sure, but you didn’t miss the flex at his jaw, the white-knuckle tension in his fingers where they clamped the tabletop. He’d just reduced you to shreds and expected, what? That he’d stay in control? No fucking chance.

“My turn.” You pressed him down into the chair; he went, not resistant but not relaxed either, muscles twitching under your hands. His cock curved upward, flushed so dark it looked bruised at the tip, so slick you half-wondered if he would’ve finished if you’d taunted him just a few seconds longer. It was unreasonably pretty, like the rest of him, and massive—impossible not to stare. You liked knowing you’d done that.

Lando watched you, half-lidded, head tilted with a look that should’ve been cocky but landed closer to desperate. There was a dare in his eyes, as close to begging as he’d ever let himself get outside of a car. You wrapped your hand around the base, thumb sweeping up with the drag of precum, and the hiss that escaped him was all reward.

Your grip was experimental, not careful—you didn’t want careful, you wanted to see how fast you could turn him inside out. You stroked once, twice, letting the head bump the heel of your palm, then bent at the knees, lined yourself up and took him in. He swore instantly, a noise somewhere between a whimper and a curse. It made you feel like a god.

His hands hovered at your temples, like he meant to guide you and then thought better of it. You bobbed your head, tongue swirling the way you’d always pretended to on fruit flavored popsicles, except now he was the one melting.

“Fuck, you’re—” he said, but no noun followed. You hummed around him, feeling the pulse through every inch, then slid deeper, letting your lips seal at the crown. His legs tensed, knees knocking the wood beneath. He tasted both sharp and faintly sweet, sweat and some chemical edge of energy drink and skin. You kept eye contact because you knew it would wreck him; when you gagged once, soft and unashamed, his jaw clicked shut so hard you heard his teeth grind.

You waited for the pride to come, but instead there was a rush of want, a need to see him undone in a way nothing else could. You went harder, faster. His hips came off the chair, not more than an inch but enough to make the chain at his neck slap against his collarbone. One hand fell to your shoulder, squeezing—testing if you’d slow, if you’d need him to back off. 

You worked him until your jaw ached, spit slicking your chin, your tits brushing his knees as you bobbed. He cursed again, a string of vowels, hands buried in your hair. You pulled off just to catch your breath, flicked your tongue at the slit, and grinned at the way his thighs shuddered. 

“Not so cocky now?” You said and let the edge cut deep. 

He was panting. “You’re—oh, my god. Christ, y/n—”

You cut him off, took him back in, but this time slowed, teasing the head, letting him feel every stutter of your tongue. You felt like you were winning at something that was supposed to have no winners. You wanted to keep going until he lost his mind. He got louder, swearing, then begging—for you to slow, to keep going, then just noises that weren’t words at all. 

The grip on your head was possessive now, anchoring you, and you let him, because giving up control was its own kind of power. You could feel it when he got close; the cock swelled impossibly hard, his stomach quivered, his breath caught in huge, stuttering gasps. You pulled off, hand stroking the length fast and filthy and he came with a full-body jerk, white slashing across your chest, then again, coating your knuckles and wrist. 

Lando’s mouth fell open but no sound came out—just ragged exhale, disbelief. You licked your thumb, tasted him, made sure he noticed. 

“Winner treatment,” you said and wiped your hand on his thigh, as much a trophy as the rest of his pile. He slumped, a wrecked heap, still looking at you like you were a miracle or a monster, maybe both.

You scraped a wrist over your mouth, the aftertaste of sweat and salt a dare you decided to answer. He watched, chest lifting and falling like a guy who’d just run the full length of the grid, and for a flash of a second you saw it: Lando Norris, fast and bewildered, naked in his apartment with his hands full of nothing and his world reduced to the electric inches between your skin.

You got greedy.

Dragged yourself into his lap, straddling him, heat blue-flame sharp at the seam where your thighs met the hollow of his, and felt the hard, slick head of his cock catch at your belly, then lower, cradling between the lips already soaked for him. His hands found your ass, urgent, fingers digging for gravity. You were both still sort of laughing, the way people did when the air got crowded, but the sound died as you lined him up, slow and on purpose, because this was yours now.

You sank down.

It should’ve hurt or at least been a challenge; he was thick, hot, unfamiliar, but the want in you slicked the path so smooth you took all of him, the head breaching, the shaft stretching you wide and sudden. For a second your own body betrayed you, a gasp you tried to swallow surfacing high and raw instead. He hissed, dug nails into your lower back, the noise mostly a plea. When you started to move, his head tipped back and he said your name like an oath, like a winner’s prayer.

Everything blurred. Table edge biting into your knee, chair creaking under the torque, the world spinning down to the grind and pulse and the chase of his cock as you rode him. You wanted to make him lose again, on your terms. He was so deep it made you dizzy; your nerves lit up from tailbone to scalp, every bounce a bolt through cartilage. You set the pace, rolling your hips, riding the friction until you felt yourself about to break again.

He tried to kiss you, but the angle was all wrong and what he actually managed was a drag of teeth at your collarbone, every breath steaming your skin as he muttered, “so fucking good,” and “you’re insane,” and “fuck, don’t stop, don’t ever—”

You weren’t going to.

He slid a hand between you, thumb circling your clit, and you almost slapped it away but instead clawed at his hair, the tug drawing another ragged moan out of his battered voicebox. The flicker of his chain, the way his body trembled under yours, the double rhythm of his fingers and cock—all of it knotted together, shoved you higher, until your pulse stuttered and you came again, so hard your vision pixelated at the edge, the room popping and going silent like you’d blacked out for a millisecond.

When you came back, he was biting your shoulder, one hand locked at your waist to keep you moving, the other digging imprints into the meat of your thigh. You could feel the final tension in him, every muscle clenched, every inch of him hungry for the finish line. You knew he’d wait if you wanted, but that was not what you needed. You wanted to see him lose, hard and all the way down, cock deep and snapped in half with it.

You collapsed forward, braced a hand at the back of his neck, and rode out the aftershocks in shaky, stuttered bounces, the slap of skin loud in the hush. Lando was babbling, nonsense endearments and your name and a random curse in Dutch that sounded like a hail Mary. He went at your clit again, determined, and it was too much, your whole lower half fizzing out.

He held you through it, arms wrapped, neither of you pretending anymore. When he finally came a second time—inside you, sudden and raw, noise wrung from somewhere buried—he shuddered so hard the chair nearly toppled backwards. You clung to his shoulders, laughing breathless, half crying, overwhelmed by the shake in your own limbs.

After, there was nothing, but heat and the burn of skin. Your chest pressed to his, sweat glued you together. His heartbeat thudded rabbit-quick against your sternum. You could smell yourself on his chin and chest, taste the copper bite of your own blood at your lip where you’d bit down a little too hard. It felt elemental, like an accident or a fever. He stroked your hair, heavy and slow, low on words, but pouring everything out in the easy drape of his arms and the simple fact that he didn’t let go.

“You’re a menace,” he managed, voice shredded and childlike.

You made a dismissive noise and nuzzled in, hiding your face against his neck, not sure if you were shielding yourself or just inhaling the ghost of his cologne.

“I mean it,” he said, more quietly now. “Like catastrophic levels. You could start a war.”

Your cheekbone fit the shelf of his shoulder perfectly. “Sorry,” you lied.

“You’re not.”

“Not even a bit.”

He leafs through the papers inside, though you know he never actually bothers to proofread. Bored waiting for him to be done, you hold out your palm. He glances at it with a dumb look, "What?”

“Seriously,” you tilt your head and let out a scoff. “Do you think I’m doing this because I love you?”

Stu rolls his eyes and fishes his wallet from his pocket. You let out a triumphant hum as he slaps the cash in your palm. Trying to step back, you don't get very far before his wrist is snapping out, fingers wrapping around your arm as he tugs you back toward him. You stumble between his spread legs, shooting him an unamused look.

He only grins at your ire. “Come on,” he urges. “You love me, you can say it.”

You roll your eyes, but dip down to meet his stare. “All right. I love you, Stu.” His grin falls as you add, “Thank you for being my benevolent little rich boy.” Billy snorts and Stu shoots him a look. It’s enough of a distraction for you to slip from his hold and pick up your bag. 

Good timing, too, considering Tatum’s walking up with Sid and Randy. Tatum’s certainly chiller compared to his other girlfriends. You get along with her more than you ever did with Casey. But you can’t imagine anyone would be happy to see their boyfriend all handsy with his best friend. Even if handsy seems to be Stu’s default state. 

“Ooh, another illicit deal, I see,” Tatum makes herself cozy, dropping right into Stu’s lap. You force out a stiff laugh and make yourself look away.

You’re just friends with Stu, same as Billy. Have been since you were kids. To them, you’ll always just be the strange neighbor kid who never seemed to get out of that socially awkward phase. 

But how you look in their eyes doesn’t change the fact that puberty hit you first. It doesn’t change that you haven’t been able to look at either of them as just friends since you discovered the difference between boys and girls.

However, based on their caliber of girlfriends, they couldn’t make it any clearer that there isn’t a chance in hell of anything ever happening. 

“That’s seriously pathetic, Stu,” Sid teases. She can't hide the undercurrent of disapproval in her voice. “How long are you going to let her get you through school?”

Stu’s sharp eyes cut to yours and you feel heat bloom under your skin. “Well? How long are you gonna carry me?”

Scoffing, you move to take your place beside Randy. He immediately offers you some of his food, which you take just to have something to do with your hands.

“However long you keep paying, rich boy.”

Tatum and the others laugh a little, but you feel like you got the question wrong from the look Stu’s sending you. You’re not sure what you could have possibly said that he would have approved of. But you don’t think you’ll ever fully understand him or Billy. 

You doubt anyone ever will. 

Tatum turns her attention away from you, instead speaking across her boyfriend to discuss some gossip with Sid. It’s typical that you’re left out of the loop.

Something about you seems to scream that you’re above petty girlhood experiences. Given the chance, you'd have more dirt on the people at this school than they would ever know. People trip up around the quiet kids, always seeming to forget they're there until it's too late.

But, as much as Tatum and Sid are nice to you, you’re still an outlier. Someone they think belongs more to the boys. While the boys seem to think you’d do better with the girls. There’s no safe middle ground for you to stand on. You’re sure that if you didn’t show up for lunch tomorrow, the only thing that would change is who Stu pays for his homework. 

Running a hand over your hair, you let out a tired sigh as you leaf through your book. “You know,” Tatum’s voice startles you from your stupor. You glance up to find her eyes narrowed on your hair. “That puffed-up look has been done to death.” She pops a grape in her mouth with a sharp grin. “It’s not the eighties anymore, sweetie.”

Your eyes widen, hands shooting to your hair. Stu snickers, slapping Tatum’s hip, “That’s catty, even for you, babe.”

“Seriously,” Sid admonishes, shooting you a sorry smile. Billy’s eyes dart between you and her, but he doesn’t say a thing in your defense. Swallowing roughly, your gaze drops to your shoes. Self-consciousness drowns you so quick, you just want to run to the bathroom and hide out the rest of the day.

“What?” Tatum snickers. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant she could use some touch-ups.”

Your throat burns as your eyes flick toward the grassy courtyard. You’d prefer anything to facing them right now. Crying in front of the Stu and Billy is worse than chumming the waters before going diving. 

“Christ, you’re the worst sometimes,” but Sid can’t hide the smile in her voice. She calls your name and you suck in a sharp breath before looking at her. “She’s sleeping over at mine tonight. Why don’t you come?”

“So you can give me some touch-ups?” you snap. Randy snickers at the perceived cat-fight, and you punch him in the arm. 

“Innocent bystander,” he grimaces, shooting you a glare. You give him a sharp smile and shrug. 

“Yeah,” Tatum agrees. “I think it’d do you some good to hang out with someone other than these bozos.” She doesn’t fail to include her boyfriend in the insult. Stu’s face drops behind her as he looks to Billy. 

“Me?” he mouths, and Billy just glares at him. 

“They’re totally holding you back, babe,” she pops another grape in her mouth and shrugs. “Your choice.”

“I can’t believe you let her talk to you like that,” Stu snickers, shoveling popcorn in his mouth as he sprawls across the loveseat. 

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, clutching the throw pillow closer to your chest. “What the hell was I supposed to say?”

Billy glances over his shoulder at you, his legs kicked over the arm of the seat across from Stu. “Maybe don’t roll over and let her treat you like a doormat.”

You roll your eyes and pick up a piece of popcorn. Tossing it, it bounces off of Stu’s nose while you lean back on the couch. “She’s your girlfriend, you could have said something.” Stu watches the popcorn fall to his mom’s new, ridiculously expensive rug and snorts. 

“Yeah right, like I’m gonna get in the middle of a cat-fight.”

“Oh yeah,” Billy rolls his eyes as he flips through the channels. “I’m sure that’s your nightmare.”

Stu laughs and tosses a handful of candy at Billy. Clearly incensed by your idea of trashing his mother’s pristine living room. “Shut up, man.”

You drown out their bickering, more than used to it, as food begins to fly across the room. Reaching up, you fiddle with a strand of combed-out hair. “Do you think she was right?”

They pause, eyes darting back to you. They share a look that you don’t understand and it only worsens your mood. “What? That we’re holding you back?” Billy questions, voice tight with something dangerous. 

“No,” you snip, tossing your pillow at him. He deflects it with an irritated look, narrowed eyes meeting yours. “That I’m a mess.”

“She didn’t say that,” Stu objects, a cruel tilt to his lips. “Just that you need some touch-ups.” Billy chuckles and Stu joins him. The pair turns back to the TV and that’s that. You’re dismissed. 

Frowning, you get to your feet and grab your bag. “Where’re you going?” Billy asks, not even turning around. 

“I’m gonna head home,” you tell them, something souring your stomach the longer you’re in their presence. 

“We haven’t even gotten to the movie, yet,” Stu whines. You ignore him, rushing toward his front door and throwing it open. With your back turned, you miss the harsh look the boys share. The type that would have had you turning around and sitting right back down on the couch. 

Heading through the door, you think over Tatum’s harsh words. Cruel, but maybe necessary. Checking your watch, you figure it’s not midnight yet, surely Sid’s invite must still stand.

Sid’s surprised as she opens her front door. “Oh,” she offers a polite smile as she greets you. 

Tatum pops up behind her, an impressed grin on her face. “Didn’t think you were going to show. Isn’t this your movie night?”

You sigh, fingers flexing around your bag. “Yeah. But you had a point. Your delivery sucked. But you had a point.” Tatum mushes Sid to the side and beckons you into the house. 

“I know I did,” she’s far too proud of herself as she leads you over to the couch. Sid hovers behind you both, clearly not expecting you and unsure what to do with herself.

Tatum seems far more comfortable as she takes your bag from you. “I had hope you’d see sense,” she croons, dropping onto the cushion beside you. 

Your shoulders tense and you try not to grimace at how enthused she is at making you over. You hadn’t thought you were that bad. Clearly, she disagreed. Tatum rifles through some magazines before dropping one in your lap. 

“I have plans for you." It sounds more like a threat as you stare down at the glammed out model in the magazine. 

An hour later, Tatum’s coiling freshly washed strands of your hair around her fingers while Sid sits in front of you, brushing eyeshadow across your lids. “You really don’t look bad,” she reassures. “But, it’s confidence that sells a look.”

“If a little mascara gives you some confidence, who knows?” Tatum shrugs as she spirals more hair around her finger. “Maybe you’ll finally get a boyfriend.”

The longer this little "sleepover" has gone on, the more you’ve felt they had ulterior motives. Sure, slumber parties in chick flicks always look fun. Pillow fights, makeup sessions, and gossiping with one another. But that hasn’t been happening. The girls seem strangely tense. 

You’re pretty sure they’re hoping this makeover session will finally get you your own guy, so they can stop worrying about your relationship with their boyfriends. You hadn’t taken Sid as the insecure type, apparently you were wrong. 

Still, this was nicer than some of the exes Billy and Stu had acquired. At least they were helping you out. Rather than starting rumors that you slept around with the teachers.

Thank you, Casey Becker.

You hadn’t exactly been sorry when you’d heard what the town’s new killer had done to her and her asshole boyfriend. 

Billy and Stu had called you twisted when you’d said that, but you’d seen the way they smiled. You wouldn’t be friends with them if there wasn’t something a little off-kilter about you. 

“Someone should have taught you how to do this a while ago,” Tatum mutters, talking about the hair you’d hardly ever put much thought into. You had been taught how to deal with it, but it was never your top priority. Typically, you braided it and just lived in it for a while. 

Something about the way she says it reminds you of what she’d casually dropped at lunch. “What did you mean when you said Billy and Stu are holding me back?” Sid’s brush pauses on your cheek and Tatum’s hands still. You don’t have to look to know they’re sharing a silent conversation. 

“It’s just something guys do,” Sid dismisses. 

Your eyes narrow and she offers a tense smile. “Tatum?” You prod, knowing she doesn’t care about softening her words. 

She lets out a little sigh and drops your hair. “Guys like having awkward girl friends. When they get dumped or go through a slump, she’s someone they can fall back on.”

“Like,” you pause, heart stuttering. “For sex?” Sid snorts at your blunt delivery and Tatum shrugs. 

“Yeah, pretty much. They think if a girl’s lonely enough, she’ll sleep with anyone. It’s just a good way to keep a backup.”

“And you think that’s what they do with me?”

Sid’s eyes dart up to meet yours and you know she feels bad you’re having this conversation at all. “Sometimes. Sometimes they just like having someone around to make them feel better about themselves.”

Your heart drops to your feet and you don’t want to believe her. But something about what she says makes sense. Every time you complain about your clothes, hair, or anything too shallow or girly, the guys blow you off. They say stuff about not thinking you were into that vapid stuff. 

Any chances you’ve had at a date, they’ll tell you shit about the guy you would never have guessed. Horrible things that make you uncomfortable and sick to your stomach. Half the time, you think they’re making it up, but you choose not to take the risk. 

Every chance they get, they keep you all to themselves. And like an idiot, you’d just always thought that was because they wanted you the way you want them. Of course, Sid and Tatum would know better than you. They’re dating the boys after all. And it’s not so far out of character to assume Stu and Billy would be so malicious. 

“Oh,” your stomach flips on itself and you blink watery eyes down at your hands. “Thanks for telling me,” you whisper. Tatum and Sid share a look over your shoulder. You see the guilt on Sid’s face, but you miss the wink Tatum sends her. 

You follow what Sid and Tatum had taught you the night before, you don’t know which one you mess up worse, your hair or the makeup. You’ve missed first period by the time you finally make it out of the house. Meaning you manage to skirt around Billy and Stu right up until lunch. 

Honestly, after what Sid and Tatum told you, no part of you actually wants to see them. But your boss at the video store is cutting your hours and you really need the cash Stu will give you for writing up his world civ essay. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, you give yourself a little pep talk before forcing yourself to walk over to the fountain. Everyone’s there already, Sid and Tatum sprawled across their boyfriends. Meanwhile, Randy’s up and speaking with flailing arms. Like the court jester performing for the popular royals. It’s sickening what a cliche your friends have become when that’s what they’ve always made fun of. 

“Watch the hands, Meeks,” you call out, nearly catching a slap to the face as he rants passionately about some horror flick you’ve never heard of. 

He lets out a huff before turning to face you. Whatever argument he had dies on his tongue as he jerks back. You swallow roughly, hand reaching subconsciously toward your hair as he nearly pushes his nose against yours. 

“Randy,” you whisper, mushing his face away. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

His thumb reaches up, swiping for your cheek, and you just manage to slap his hand back. “Is that glitter?” He questions, positively dumbfounded. 

“It’s blush,” you snap, pushing him back. “Would you get out of here, you weirdo?” Shaking your head, you rifle through your backpack until you find the folder for Stu.

You try not to look at him as you walk up, chest tightening at the dead silence you’re now surrounded by. Stu grabs the folder, but his hand snakes up, grabbing at your wrist before you can back up.

“Huh,” he pulls you down, eyes roaming across your face. You glance at Tatum and she gives you an encouraging smile. “It is glitter.”

“Eyeshadow, doofus,” she swats his arm. “You did a good job,” she reassures you.

“Made me late for school,” you mutter, skin warming the longer Stu stares. 

“Why?” Billy asks, before anyone can say anything else. Stu releases you at the sound of his voice and you stumble back. 

“I don’t know,” forcing yourself to meet his eyes, you startle at the coldness staring back at you. “Maybe I wanted to look pretty.”

Stu snorts and cuts you a sharp look. “You didn’t need to do drag to look pretty,” he mocks. Your hand shoots up to your face. You hadn’t even done close to as much as Sid and Tatum had taught you. 

“Stu,” Tatum snaps, shooting him a harsh look. 

He lets out a chuckle and jerks back, “What?” He glances over at you, but the smile on his face isn’t genuine. “I was joking. It looks fine, dude.”

For some reason, you find yourself looking over at Billy. His jaw is tensed, eyes glaring down at the ground. He seems to feel your stare, gaze snapping up to meet yours. Biting your tongue, you swallow the burn in the back of your throat. “It looks good,” he finally admits, hardly sounding like he wants to compliment you. 

You purse your lips and nod, barely wanting to be around them for another second. Clearly, the girls were right about their theory. “Really good,” Randy adds on, a goofy look on his face. You let out a sharp laugh and roll your eyes at him. 

“I know it’s not your thing,” Tatum starts, sucking on her lollipop with a proud smile. “But you should come to Stu’s party tonight.”

You grimace and begin to shake your head. “Seriously,” Sid encourages. “You’ll have fun, for once.” 

“What are you two planning, you little vixen?” Stu taunts, fingers pinching at Tatum’s sides. Your eyes narrow at the way he speaks through gritted teeth, voice tight. 

Swallowing bile at Billy and Stu’s reactions, you straighten up, forcing your voice to be strong. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t.” The girls shoot you odd looks and you shrug as you pluck your bag from the ground. “I’m covering for Randy at the store.”

Randy’s head shoots up, eyes glazed over with confusion. “You are?”

“God,” you roll your eyes. “Remind me how many times they’ve fired your ass.” With a smug grin, he holds up five fingers and winks. 

“What a shame,” Stu clicks his tongue and he doesn’t even bother sounding disappointed. “We’ll miss you reminding everyone of curfew.”

Hurt tightens your chest as you let out a sharp scoff. “Fuck off, Macher.”

His nose wrinkles and he presses his hand to his chest. “Ouch,” he hisses.

Billy reaches over and swats his arm, clearly telling him to knock it off. But you know that look on Stu’s face. He’s pissed, about what, you never have a clue. 

Deciding to spare yourself any more embarrassment, you turn around and head back to the school. You didn’t want to go to his stupid party. But it would’ve been nice if they had wanted you there. If they could have just shown you something, that meant what the girls told you was bullshit. 

“How many times do I have to tell you to alphabetize by genre?” Your boss, Jason, tosses Halloween at you and storms off. The VHS smacks you square in the chest and you let out a sharp scoff. The fuck does that even mean?

“Seriously,” you jump as someone’s pointy chin digs into your shoulder. “How many times does he have to tell you,” Stu bemoans, stealing the tape from your hand. You cast your eyes back and catch his grin as he backs off from you. 

“Don’t you have a party to be planning?” You snap, not bothering to keep the venom from your tone. 

“Someone jealous she didn’t get an invite?” Billy comes up on the other side of you, sharp eyes alight with a rare teasing glint.

It’s like being circled by hyenas with the pair of them. They always corner their prey, backing them up until there’s nowhere to run. Currently, it’s keeping you locked in the horror section as they block both ends. 

“No,” you cut your eyes to Stu, irritation only growing worse at his stupid grin. “But you didn’t have to be such a dick today,” you tell him, snatching the tape back so you can shelf it. 

“Oh,” he croons, catching your wrist and tugging you back into his chest. “I think I hurt her feelings,” he mocks, pouting at Billy. 

Billy raises his brows, leaning on the shelves as he shrugs. “Did he?”

“Is there a particular reason you guys are being such assholes to me, or are you just bored?” Billy’s eyes narrow as he offers a sharp smirk. 

Stu lets his chin rest in the crook of your neck, ignoring how you try to wiggle out of his hold. “Is there a reason you decided to do this?” He asks, tugging at one of your curls. “I liked the whole puffed-out dandelion look.”

“Ugh,” a disgusted groan slips out as you elbow him in the side. His breath whooshes out of him and his arms finally loosen. “Why do you have such a hard-on about whether or not I style my hair?”

“You never cared before.” Billy frowns, eyeing you up and down. “All the best final girls don't give a shit about that stuff.”

Your eyes fall into slits as a bewildered scoff leaves you. “What geeky language are you even speaking?”

Stu barks out a sharp laugh, leaning forward until he's back in your field of view. “Says you,” he taunts. 

Your head falls to the side as you shoot him an unimpressed glare. “Do you guys need something? Jason already hates me. I don’t feel like having you two getting me fired.”

“Jason?” Billy questions. “The asshole that was bitching about genres?”

“That’s the one,” you hum, turning back to your cart and the piles of tapes you have to deal with. 

“Dude seems like he needs to get laid,” Stu points out, eyes tracking Jason as he paces through the store. Yelling at the first person he sees over some made-up bullshit. 

“Yeah, he probably does. But I doubt anyone’s that desperate.”

“No,” he taunts, and your hackles raise at his tone. “Not even you?”

You slam the tape down harder than you mean to. The noise echoes through the store, the shelves rattling beneath Stu and Billy’s careless bodies. Stu’s brows raise with poorly concealed excitement. “Get something or get the fuck out,” you hiss at him. 

Taking hold of your cart, you shove past him before he can think of anything else smart to say. Insulting others seems to be the only time he’s capable of coming up with any wit of his own.

Of course, that means you get to be on the receiving end nine times out of ten. You make a good target for them, apparently. 

Billy swats Stu’s arm, shoving him back and trailing after you. Stu lets out a snotty huff, randomly grabbing one of the tapes from the shelves as Billy falls into your check-out line. 

“He’s a moron,” he excuses. 

“And a jackass,” you snap, barely lifting your gaze to meet his. “Did you pick something?” Billy reaches behind himself, slapping Stu in the chest and making the other boy toss Prom Night on the counter. 

You ignore how Stu’s gaze bores into the side of your head, scanning the VHS and looking over the blocky green letters on your screen. “You owe ten bucks for an overdue movie,” you tell him. 

“Ten bucks?” he scoffs, “What movie?”

Tilting your head, you scoff, he’s such a cliche. “Basic Instinct, got a little crush on Sharon Stone, Stuart?”

Stu’s nose wrinkles as he glares at you. “Stuart?” he huffs, “You sound like my mother.” Pushing Billy out of the way, he props his elbows on the counter, chin resting in his palms. “Can’t you do your best friend a favor?”

You drop down to his level, matching his posture with a saccharine smile. “Why would I do that?” You tease, voice pitched with faux innocence. 

Stu’s got a genuine grin on his face as you play along; it takes everything in you not to return it. “What are you doing?” The moment’s broken as you jump back, Jason’s harsh voice ruining the fun. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, you turn back to the monitor and pretend to type some nonsense into the system. “Nothing, just checking them out.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” your head whips up at the insinuation, but he barely spares you any attention. He turns toward the boys with a sneer, “Just because you're friends with her, doesn’t mean you don’t have to pay like everyone else. Have the movie back by tomorrow, or you’re banned.”

“Jason-” you object. 

“You’re already on thin ice,” he snaps, pointing his fat finger in your face. You resist the urge to snap your teeth at him. “Don’t push me,” he warns, as if he were scary at all beyond you not having a paycheck next week. 

Stu watches him walk away with furrowed brows and a sneer. “God, what a prick.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, “you’re telling me.” Feeling ever so slightly vindictive, you clear the charge from Stu’s account and toss him his tape. “Keep the movie, he’s an ass.”

Stu cares little for the other people waiting in line as he reaches across the counter and cups your cheeks. You let out a little squeak as he drags you closer, planting an obnoxiously loud kiss on your cheek.

“What are friends for?” He mocks, pushing back from you. 

“Ugh,” you wipe at your face and glare at him. 

“See you,” Billy says as he shakes his head, yanking up Stu’s sleeve and dragging him away before he can make an even bigger scene. 

You watch them leave with a disbelieving laugh. Stu could be a dick, but at least he was fun. Unlike other people, Jason, who got off on making everyone as miserable as them. Despite your general disinterest in drunk crowds of teenagers, you’d rather be at Stu’s party than deal with him the rest of the night. 

You, however, didn’t receive an invite. So, you turn back to your cart of tapes and force yourself to go back to restocking. 

Around midnight, you finish closing up the registers and pick up a cleaning rag and some spray. You hum to yourself as you move to the windows, beginning to wipe them down. 

Jason is hiding in the back. Shirking all his responsibilities on you as you close up tonight. Meaning you probably won’t be getting home until one at the earliest. 

Muttering to yourself, you work on scrubbing out a particularly tough stain. Whatever it is clings to the fabric of your rag, each wipe seeming to spread it more. With a huff, you lean down to spray some more cleaner when a dark shape moves in the corner of your eye. 

Frowning, you straighten back up. The window before you is fogged with whatever ruined the glass. Tilting your head past it, you find a screaming white mask staring back at you. 

“Fuck,” you jump back with a gasp, rag slipping from your hand. The figure stares, head tilting slowly as he surveys you. You can only stare for a minute, heart trapped in your throat as your chest stutters. Visceral panic fills you, spikes through your blood until you feel lightheaded. 

He takes a step forward and your body jolts back to life. Stumbling over yourself, you rush to the door, flipping the lock before he can get any closer. 

Of course, you knew all about the Woodsboro killer. Casey Becker's murder was worse than even Sid’s mom. But it still seemed so far disconnected from you that you hadn’t really thought about it.

After all, why the hell would anyone want to kill you? You never did anything. 

But he’s staring right at you now. Beneath that ridiculous mask are the eyes of a killer. And they're set on you. 

Too afraid to take your eyes off him, you stumble back until your hip is smashing into the corner of the counter. A pained hiss slips past your lips as your hand gropes blindly for the phone. He almost seems amused as he watches you, relaxed and at ease as his head follows your clumsy movements. 

Finally managing to wrap your hand around the landline, you hastily press it to your ear. The monotonous ringing on the other end is possibly one of the worst sounds you’ve ever heard. 

The phone slips from your hand, cracking against the floor as you stare at him. His head tilts and he shakes it slowly, mocking you. 

“Jason?” You shout, forcing your eyes off the killer in front of you. With a sharp breath, you push off from the counter and run to the back. The door to Jason’s office is cracked, light spilling out from within. 

You shove through, eyes burning as you fight back your panic. “Jason, we have to call-"

Your voice trails off into nothing as you take in the scene before you. His fan buzzes in the corner of the office, a droning noise amongst a scene straight from a crappy slasher movie. 

Blood drips from the open gash of his throat. It trails down his arms, pooling along his fingers until it splashes against the floor. The noise echoes through the quiet space as your breath trembles. You trip over yourself as you back out of the office, stomach clenching painfully the longer you look into the open flesh of his throat. His eyes have rolled back, hidden beneath his eyelids, as his body goes cold. 

“Oh,” you let out a revolted moan. “God,” you clap your hand over your mouth, tripping as you run from the room. 

He had already been in here. Somehow, that psycho killed your boss. Then, for some reason, he decided to wait around for you to notice him outside. He’d been smart enough to cut the phone line. Why is he playing with you now?

Racing back to the front, you find him right where you left him. Just outside the front door, head still tilted with amusement. “What the….”

He taps his knife against the window. Tap, tap, tap, slowly, he lifts his head, straightening up as he nods behind you. Just barely, you managed to turn in time to see the knife slashing toward you. 

With a shrill scream, you dive to the side, terror filling you as you realize there are two of them. They don’t give you long to dwell on that. The second one dives for you while the one outside works on breaking the glass door. 

Kicking your leg out, you manage to catch the one in front of you in the shin.  He lets out a raspy groan, muffled by the mask, as he falls forward. Your hands grope along the floor, desperate for any sort of weapon. The best you have is a VHS. You don’t let that stop you from smacking the sharp corner into the temple of the man next to you. His hand flies up to his head, another pathetic groan leaving him. 

You scramble to your feet just as the sound of glass shattering echoes through the store. A brick skips across the carpet, stopping just before your shoes. With a shaky breath, you look over to find the second man stepping slowly through the empty doorway. 

His gaze flicks to yours and you let out a small whimper as the other one begins getting to his feet. “Shit,” you hiss, not sparing them another glance as you rush to the back. You can hear their footsteps quick behind you, just barely managing to slip into Jason’s office as they catch up.

You slam the door shut, body jolting roughly as they try to barrel through. With a groan, you shove your shoulder forward, shoes squeaking against linoleum as you force the door the rest of the way closed. 

Panic-slick palms slip against the handle until you’re finally turning the lock. The door rattles violently as you step away, their bodies thudding against the wood as they try and batter their way through. 

You don't waste any time, whipping around toward Jason’s computer and dialing into the modem. You work around your boss’s dead body, eyes burning at the smell of death and copper that floods his office. Your fingers fly across the keyboard, quick to connect to emergency services. You just manage to send your address when the door flies open behind you. 

A scream rips from your throat as you jump around the desk. They both stand in the doorway, shoulders heaving as their muffled breaths fill the air. Your hands tremble at your sides as they split away from one another. The tallest lingers by the desk, the shorter one hovers in the doorway. They’ve cornered you, left you nowhere to run.  

You back up as much as you can, wincing as your back connects with Jason’s metal filing cabinets. The shorter one lunges first. Your hand wraps around the handle of one of the cabinets and you wrench it forward, jumping back as it slams into the ground. 

You manage to catch him off guard as he jerks back. You leap over the fallen cabinet and shove past him. A gloved hand wraps around your elbow, roughly shoving you forward. 

Right into the tip of his blade.

A low moan escapes you, heart beating furiously against your chest as blood begins to weep from your stomach. Your eyes flutter shut at the sharp burst of pain. Fire lights up along your nerves. 

When he begins to pull away, trying for another hit, you shove him back with all the strength you have left. He stumbles with a grunt, tripping over the cabinet and crashing into the other one. 

You press your hands against your stomach, running from Jason’s office, and leaping through the shattered front door. You can only hear the crunch of your shoes against the broken glass. You can’t spare any attention to what might be following behind. 

You don’t let yourself stop, pushing forward even as your lungs tighten until it hurts worse to breathe than it did to be stabbed. By the time your legs finally give out, lights are speeding down the road toward you. Doors slam and familiar voices call your name as you crash against the pavement, blood pooling from your hands and onto the asphalt below. 

“I’m not the one who thought we should test her.”

Consciousness is slow to come back to you. Distantly, you can hear familiar hushed voices. “Well, I’m not the one who tried to fucking gut her.”

You hear what sounds like a slap and then a harsh, “Shut the fuck up!” 

Your mind is fuzzy, dulled by the edges of pain and sleeping too long. You can hardly recognize the voices, let alone understand what they’re saying. 

“You’re lucky she’s still alive.”

There’s a brief pause and then a low chuckle that makes shivers run up your spine. “What the hell were you going to do if she wasn’t?”

A strange sound slips from your lips, a groan, maybe. It’s hard to tell as your eyes adjust to the sterile lights of the hospital room.  

Immediately, there’s a weight sat beside you, large hands covering your own. You blink slowly, forcing your eyes to focus as you take in your surroundings. “Stu?” You mutter, voice wrecked as your gaze dips from his concerned face to Billy’s stoic one. 

Your head tilts, nose wrinkling as you notice they’re both wearing hospital gowns. Stu even has an IV hooked to his arm.

“What’s going on?” You try to straighten up, but your arms buckle out from under you. Stu reaches forward, gentle for once, as he helps you sit up. 

Slowly, Billy makes his way to your side, perching just beside you, mirroring Stu. “How do you feel?” He asks, dodging your question. 

You blink, struggling to take inventory of yourself. “Uh,” you shrug, frowning at the pain burning through your stomach. “Weird.”

“That’s the meds. They’ve got us on the same shit.” Stu lets go of your hands to lift his gown, showing a large, red-tinted bandage along his side. 

“Jesus,” you reach out, fingers just brushing the edge. “What the hell happened to you two?”

“Sid’s dad,” Billy cuts in. Your head whips around to him so fast you’re surprised it doesn’t pop off. He offers a sardonic smirk as your jaw drops. 

“Sorry, what?”

“Yeah, apparently the dude lost it,” Stu cuts in, eyes wide with something you don’t like. “Freaked out and just went on a bloody spree. He got us last night.” Billy reaches over and swats Stu’s arm. He lets out a little huff, “He got Tatum, too.”

“Stu-“

“And Sid.” Billy cuts you off before you can even start to console. Your eyes clench shut before shooting back open. This is way too much to be processing when you’ve just woken up from a drug-induced coma. 

Your lips part, condolences ready on your tongue. But neither of them seems especially desperate for that. Stu’s got your hands in his, eyes watching every micro expression of yours like it's the most interesting thing in the world. Billy seems distant. Expected when your girlfriend is murdered by her father. But this is different, somehow.

There’s something he doesn’t want you to see. 

“I,” your mind races with a hundred different thoughts before settling on one. “I don’t get it. Why'd he come after me?”

Stu scoffs, “Why'd he murder his daughter? Nothing about this will ever make sense.”

“Yeah, but-"

“We should let the doctor know you're awake.” Billy gets to his feet, cutting you off again. Stu lingers for a moment before reluctantly releasing your hands. Your eyes dart between them, not eager to just be left on your own again. 

“We’ll stop by later,” Stu promises, the wheels of his IV drip squeaking as they both shuffle from your room. Your hand drifts to your stomach, mind growing consumed with the throbbing pain. Something isn’t right. 

When you’re well enough that your meds can be cut back, you go off on your own to find the boys. You’re sick of being alone in your room. Terrified that every time you look through your window, that screaming mask will be staring back at you. 

Sid’s dad is dead. Dewey and the others had reassured you a hundred times. But that didn't mean that Ghistface was dead. You saw him. 

Saw them. 

It wasn’t just one man behind the slaughter. But you hadn’t told Dewey that. Hadn’t told the sheriff. Not even the nosy ass reporter that kept sneaking her way past security. 

No part of you had been able to reason away why you kept that information to yourself. There was no plausible excuse to protect the men who tried to kill you. Still, you can’t help but feel that if murder really had been their plan, you wouldn’t have gotten away that night. 

Shuffling through the hospital halls, you keep an arm wrapped tight around your wound as you make your way to Stu’s room. 

He seems miserably bored as he flips through channels on his TV. His face lights up when he sees you in the doorway. You chuckle as he tosses his remote away. Beckoning you closer as he pulls back his sheets. 

Carefully, you help yourself into his bed, letting out a pained sigh as you try to get comfortable. “Where’s Billy?”

Stu shrugs, “I don’t know, probably using the bathroom. The meds they’ve got us on have me pissing like crazy.”

You let out a little snort and swat his arm. “You’re disgusting.”

Stu catches your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. His eyes bore into the scratchy hospital blanket, stare pensive. You think about offering to bring him something more comfortable when he speaks. 

“Do you even like horror movies?”

Your brows furrow. Out of anything he could have said, that was probably the last thing you were expecting. “What?” You let out a disbelieving chuckle and he shrugs. 

“We always force you through them on movie night. But I don’t think you’ve ever said you like them.”

You frown, picking at the threads of his fraying blanket. “I don’t know, what’s it matter?”

“Humor me,” he insists, tone unsettling. Looking back up, you nearly pull away. The vacant look in his eyes is disturbing. 

“No,” you whisper, feeling like you’re telling him something you shouldn’t. “I don’t like them.”

“Why do you watch them?” He pushes, sitting up until his nose is nearly brushing yours. You would pull back if it didn’t feel like his stare had frozen you to the spot. 

“I feel like if I don’t, you guys won’t want to hang out with me anymore.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Why are you asking me all this?” You whisper, eyes burning the longer Stu stares into them. He stays still for a moment, gaze running across yours. With a sharp bark of laughter, he falls back onto his pillows. You jump at the sudden movement and finally realize just how hard your heart is pounding against your ribs. His face cringes with pain as he tugs at his stitches. 

“Wanna know my favorite trope?” He brushes past your question, armed with another series of his own. Fingers flexing under his tight grip, you try not to grimace. He doesn’t wait for you to answer. 

“The final girl,” he whispers, waving one hand as if it’s some big reveal. “She never goes out. Never parties. Doesn’t care what she looks like,” his grip tightens infinitesimally around yours.

You want to tell him it hurts, but you can’t force the words from your tightened throat. “Always manages to outsmart the killers. She's always so perfect. Except,” he holds up one scolding finger with a sharp grin. “When she helps assholes like me cheat on his homework.”

You jerk back, flesh stinging like you’ve been burned. Stu lets you go, smile creeping ever wider. “What the hell are you saying?” You demand, voice cracking as you get to your feet. 

“What’s the matter?” He asks, barely concealing his excitement as you back out of the room. “It’s just a joke,” he needles. 

Your back slams into something firm and your breath catches in your throat. “I don’t think we ever asked,” Stu taunts with a chuckle. 

Tilting your face back, you see Billy standing behind you, eyes dark and cold as they bore into yours. 

“What’s your favorite scary movie?” He whispers. 

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘏𝘰𝘵?

𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳                  ♥︎

⇄              ◁◁  I I  ▷▷          ↻

⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵

💿 I saw the vision 💿

a/n: I lost the plot so hard y'all

end. — I do not own the characters or the movie Scream, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

You made room for his life before he even had to ask. You bent around the complicated edges of his world so naturally that, after a while, Max stopped noticing how much you were bending at all.

It was refreshing. Comforting, even. Being with you never felt like another obligation waiting for him when he got home. You were warmth, quiet, peace… but it also made it easy for Max to coast.

Because when you said you didn’t need flowers, he believed you. When you told him birthdays weren’t a big deal, he took your word for it.

When you said you didn’t mind that his attention was always half-distracted by Red Bull, his sim rig, his phone, or whatever new team crisis was unfolding in the background, he didn’t stop to wonder whether you meant it. He didn’t ask himself if you were genuinely fine with being loved in the gaps, or if you had simply learned to make your wants small enough that they never became inconvenient.

He didn’t notice that every time you said, “Don’t worry about it,” you were teaching him that he didn’t have to.

Until he saw the way your smile dimmed at Daniel’s girlfriend’s birthday party.

The boat was filled with champagne and noise, a private Monaco affair organised by Daniel, of course, because no one else could make a birthday party feel quite that excessive and still somehow charming. There was a neon sign glowing above the bar, a curated playlist that seemed suspiciously full of songs Daniel liked more than his girlfriend did, and custom cupcakes with everyone’s faces printed on them. Max didn’t even know you could do that.

You sat beside him with a drink in hand, your shoulder brushing his every now and then as the boat rocked gently against the water. To anyone else you looked perfectly fine, but Max had started paying closer attention now.

Your laugh came half a second too late, your smile faded too quickly, and your eyes kept drifting back to the couple across the deck.

Daniel’s girlfriend had her arms slung around his neck, his jacket draped over her shoulders, and a glittery tiara with Birthday Girl written across the front sitting slightly crooked on her head. Daniel kept adjusting it for her, grinning every time she swatted his hand away, and when she leaned into him, he kissed her temple without seeming to think about it. Thoughtless in the best way, like loving her out loud was simply instinct.

“You made it!” Daniel said, pulling Max into a hug before turning to you with even more enthusiasm. “And you look amazing. Seriously, come on, look at you.”

You laughed, a bit surprised, and looked down at yourself like you hadn’t expected anyone to notice.

Max noticed that.

Daniel’s girlfriend came over next, glowing, happy, adored. She hugged you tightly and thanked you both for coming, then turned to show you the bracelet Daniel had bought her. It was delicate and expensive, the kind of jewellery Max would never have picked out on his own because he would have convinced himself he didn’t know what he was doing and given up before trying.

“He surprised me with it this morning,” she said, beaming. “And he pretended he forgot my birthday for, like, ten minutes, which was evil, but then he had breakfast set up on the balcony.”

Daniel, overhearing, lifted his glass. “Romance is alive and well ladies and gentlemen.”

Normal Daniel. Loud, teasing, affectionate Daniel, who made a spectacle out of caring because he had never been embarrassed by warmth in the same way Max sometimes was, but then Max looked at you.

You were smiling. Of course you were smiling.

You were always polite. Always kind. Always good at being happy for other people, even when something inside you was quietly aching. There was something different about it then, something Max had never noticed before because he had never had reason to look for it.

Your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You didn’t look devastated, you didn’t withdraw your hand from his arm or go quiet in a way anyone else would pick up on. You just looked at the bracelet on Daniel’s girlfriend’s wrist, then at the flowers, then at the wall of photos, and for half a second your expression morphed into something almost wistful.

Max felt it like a punch he had no right to react to.

The conversation moved on around him. Daniel was talking about the cake, someone else was laughing about how long it had taken to get the decorations right. His girlfriend was telling you how Daniel had been secretly planning it for weeks, badly, apparently, because he almost exposed himself several times.

You laughed at the story.

You said, “That’s really sweet.”

Max heard the softness in your voice.

For the first time all night, Max looked at the party properly. He looked at the flowers. The photos. The custom menu cards with her name on them. The cake Daniel had apparently taste-tested three times because the first one “didn’t feel like her.”

Then Max looked at you.

You were standing beside him with nothing from him except your own practiced understanding.

No flowers.

No post.

No planned birthday dinner he hadn’t rescheduled.

No little public signs that he was proud to love you.

No evidence, really, that Max Verstappen had ever looked at the woman beside him and thought, she deserves to feel chosen.

His stomach twisted, because suddenly he remembered your last birthday with a clarity that made him feel slightly sick.

He had been in Milton Keynes for simulator work. He’d called you late, later than he meant to, and you had answered in bed, face lit softly by your phone screen. You had smiled like you were happy just to hear from him. He had apologised again for not being able to be there. You had said it didn’t matter and he had promised to make it up to you. You had said, “Don’t stress, honestly. I had a nice day.”

Had you?

Had you really?

Or had you said that because it was easier than admitting you had wanted him there?

He thought about the flowers you always claimed not to need. The birthdays you said weren’t important. The dates you never demanded. The posts you never asked for. The attention you pretended not to miss.

Beside him, you glanced up. “You okay?”

Max blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the gentleness of your voice. That made it worse somehow, even now you were checking on him.

“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. “Fine.”

You studied him for a moment, clearly not convinced, but you didn’t push. You never pushed. You simply nodded and looked back towards the others, your shoulder brushing lightly against his sleeve.

Max hated that too. He hated that you gave him space even when maybe he deserved pressure.

He hated that you had made yourself so easy to keep that he had forgotten keeping you was still something he had to actively do.

For the rest of the night, he couldn’t stop watching you.

He watched Daniel’s girlfriend pull you into photos, watched you laugh as someone handed you a party hat you refused to wear for about ten seconds. He watched you compliment the decorations, watched you ask questions about the planning, watched your fingers lightly brush over one of the flower arrangements when you thought no one was looking.

You liked flowers.

Of course you liked flowers.

Maybe not in the over-the-top, expensive, social-media way, but you liked them. He could tell by the way you touched the petals carefully, the way your face warmed when Daniel’s girlfriend told you Daniel had chosen them because they reminded him of a dress she once wore in Monaco.

Max stood there, silent and increasingly irritated with himself.

How many things had you convinced yourself you didn’t need simply because he had never offered them?

How many wants had you softened into jokes so they wouldn’t feel like demands?

How many times had you made yourself smaller around his life and called it love?

Later, when everyone gathered around the cake, Daniel made a speech. A terrible speech, because it was Daniel, so half of it was jokes and the other half was him pretending not to get emotional. Then he spoke about how his girlfriend made his life better. How she put up with him. How she deserved more than one night of being celebrated, but he hoped this was a decent start.

Everyone laughed.

His girlfriend cried.

You smiled.

Max felt like the worst boyfriend in the world.

He complimented you in private, usually quietly, usually after you’d done something for him. He told you he loved you, yes, but often in bed, or before hanging up, or in passing when one of you was leaving. He assumed you knew. He assumed choosing you privately counted the same as making you feel chosen.

On the drive home you were quieter than usual.

Your head rested against the window, city lights sliding over your face in brief flashes. Your heels were in your lap because you had taken them off the second you got in the car, and your fingers played absently with the strap like your mind was somewhere else.

Max kept glancing over. Usually he liked quiet with you, it was comfortable and easy, you didn’t need to fill every silence.

Tonight the quiet felt full of everything you weren’t saying.

“Did you have a good time?” he asked eventually.

You turned your head, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was lovely.”

Lovely.

The word sat between you.

Max swallowed. “Daniel did a lot.”

“He did,” you said, and your voice was warm. “It was really sweet.”

There it was again. That careful admiration.

Max’s hands flexed around the steering wheel. “You like that kind of thing?”

You looked at him properly then, brows lifting a little. “What kind of thing?”

He shrugged, trying to sound casual and failing. “All of it. The flowers. The photos. The big party.”

You looked away and gave a small laugh, the kind that tried to make a truth sound harmless. “I mean, I don’t need all that.”

Max’s chest tightened.

That wasn’t what he had asked.

“I didn’t ask if you needed it.”

Your fingers stopped moving against the shoe strap and for a moment you said nothing. Then you looked down and smiled again, but this one was worse than the one at the party because it was meant only for him, meant to reassure him, meant to protect him from feeling bad about something he had already done.

“I just think it’s nice,” you said carefully. “For her. Daniel clearly put a lot of thought into it.”

Max nodded once, jaw tense.

Thought.

That was the word that stayed with him.

You didn’t need a private room full of flowers or a custom cake or a wall of photographs. You probably didn’t even want something that big, but you wanted thought. You wanted evidence that he had paused, considered you, and chosen to make you feel loved on purpose.

Max, who could analyse tyre degradation over fifty laps, who could remember tiny setup changes from races years ago, who could spend hours perfecting a sim lap by half a tenth, had somehow convinced himself he was incapable of remembering to buy you flowers.

“I should have done more for your birthday,” he said.

You went very still.

The car felt smaller suddenly.

“Max…”

“No,” he said, because he knew that tone. He knew you were about to let him off the hook again. “I should have.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

You exhaled quietly and looked out of the window again. “I told you it was fine.”

“I know you did.”

“Then why are you bringing it up?”

Because I finally saw your face, he wanted to say. Because I finally realised you have been asking for so little that I stopped giving you even that and I do not know how to forgive myself for not noticing sooner.

But Max had never been good with words when they mattered most.

So he said, “Because I think you say things are fine when they're not.”

Your mouth pressed together. That tiny movement cut through him more than any argument would have.

You weren’t angry, but part of him wished you were. Anger would have given him something to meet, something to fix, something loud enough that he couldn’t ignore it, you just looked tired and that was worse.

“I don’t want to be difficult,” you said after a while.

“You're not difficult,” he said immediately.

You gave him a small, sad smile. “I know. I just mean… your life is already a lot. You have so many people needing things from you all the time I never wanted to be another thing on the list.”

“You are not a thing on the list.”

“Aren’t I?” you asked softly.

Max didn’t answer fast enough, once again words failed him, he hated himself for that.

You turned your face back towards the window, and the reflection showed him the truth he had been avoiding all night. You weren’t crying or making a scene. You weren’t asking him to turn the car around or apologise in some grand dramatic way. You were simply sitting there beside him carrying a hurt that had clearly existed long before tonight.

He figured you’d be home from your errands by now.

Probably curled up somewhere in the apartment, wearing one of his hoodies like you always did when he was away for more than a few days. Maybe on the sofa with your knees tucked beneath you, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, or half-watching one of those comfort shows you liked to put on in the background while you waited for him. The thought came easily, warmly, and Max found himself smiling before he had even opened the door properly.

He liked coming home to you.

He liked the small signs of you scattered through his space. Your shoes by the door, your hair tie abandoned on the coffee table, your mug in the sink because you always forgot to rinse it. Your presence had softened the apartment in ways he hadn’t realised he needed, turning it from somewhere he slept between races into somewhere that actually felt like home.

The apartment was quiet when he stepped inside, but not empty.

Max kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, already turning toward the living room when he heard your voice from the bedroom. Then he heard your best friend’s name, and realised you were on the phone.

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He was about to call out, to let you know he was back, but something about your tone made him stop before the words left his mouth. So he stayed quiet, halfway down the hall, one hand still resting against the wall.

“I’m not upset he did all that for her,” you were saying. “It’s sweet. It is.”

There was a pause.

Max’s body went strangely still.

He knew, instantly, what you were talking about.

“It’s just…” You exhaled shakily. “He’s never done anything like that for me.”

The words hit him hard. Max stared at the floor, heartbeat slowing into something heavy and uncomfortable.

“I don’t ask for much,” you continued, and your voice was smaller now, like you were embarrassed to even say it out loud. “I know I don’t. I never wanted to pressure him or make him feel like he had to go out of his way when his life is already so much. I thought if I was easygoing and low-maintenance, it would make things easier on him.”

His throat tightened.

“But sometimes—” Your voice broke so softly he almost missed it. “Sometimes I wish he’d do something without me having to ask.”

Max’s fingers curled around the edge of the wall.

He could feel every careless assumption he had ever made beginning to turn over in his head, one after another, each one worse than the last.

You didn’t care if he forgot plans, if he came home distracted, if he said he would make it up to you and then didn’t, because something else came up and you smiled like it was fine.

“Maybe I enabled it by alway saying I was fine... but I don’t need grand gestures,” you went on, voice wobbling now. “I know that’s not really him, and I don’t want him to be anyone else. I don’t want a big show just for the sake of it, but it would be nice to feel special sometimes… to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”

Max’s chest ached.

He looked toward the bedroom door, but he couldn’t move.

“I just want to know he wants to do those things for me,” you whispered. “Not because he’s apologising or because someone else did it first… because he loves me enough to notice.”

Max couldn’t breathe properly.

He hadn’t known.

He really hadn’t known.

He thought you meant it when you said you didn’t care about birthdays, anniversaries, flowers, or all the romantic things he had always been bad at. He had thought that was part of what made you you. Unbothered by the kind of performative relationship stuff he had never known how to do properly.

The conversation ended a few minutes later.

He heard the soft rustle of sheets then your footsteps moving across the bedroom floor. Max reacted too late, still trapped in the weight of what he had heard and only barely managed to step back into the hallway before you came out.

You stopped when you saw him.

For one awful second, neither of you said anything and then he smiled and wrapped you in a hug pretending like he hadn’t heard a word.

That night Max sat alone in the dark of the living room for a long time, head in his hands. He couldn’t bring himself to move, couldn’t bring himself to do anything except sit there in the silence and let every word he had overheard replay in his head until it felt carved into him.

He kept hearing your voice.

“to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”

He pressed the heels of his hands harder against his eyes.

God.

How many moments had you swallowed your disappointment before he could even notice it was there, dimming yourself down just to be easier to love?

It gutted him.

You hadn’t asked him for the world. You hadn’t asked him to become someone he wasn’t. You only wanted to feel considered. Somehow he had made the best thing in his life feel like she had to be grateful for whatever was left of him at the end of the day.

You deserved fireworks, even if you were the kind of girl who said she didn’t need them. You didn’t want more from him. You just wanted to matter enough for him to give it anyway.

You didn’t expect anything to change.

Max was always kind, attentive in the ways he knew how to be. He noticed when you were cold and passed you his hoodie without making a big thing of it. He reached for your hand in crowded places because he liked knowing exactly where you were. He remembered how you took your coffee, which side of the bed you preferred, the shows you put on when you needed background noise. He loved you. You knew he did.

So when he suggested you take a weekend off together “Somewhere quiet, just us” you didn’t overthink it. You figured he wanted to disappear for a couple of days, somewhere without cameras, team radios, sponsor obligations, or someone asking him about tyre degradation.

It wasn’t until you stepped onto the lakeside dock in Switzerland that you realised something was different.

The cottage was small but charming, tucked away by the water with warm wood walls, soft cream blankets, and floor-to-ceiling windows that made the whole place glow with the late afternoon light. It wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t the kind of place chosen to impress anyone, it felt private, thoughtful, almost painfully intimate.

Inside there were your favourite snacks arranged in the kitchen. Your favourite wine chilling in the fridge. Your comfort blanket folded over the armchair by the window. Your favourite book was already resting on the bedside table, the old, worn copy you had once told him you reread whenever your head felt too loud.

You frowned, turning slowly back to him. “Did you… did you set this up?”

Max leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, trying for casual and not quite managing it. “Maybe.”

You narrowed your eyes, sceptical. “What’s going on?”

His smirk softened a little. He just looked at you and there was something unusually careful in his expression, something that made your chest tighten before he had even said a word.

“I listened,” he said.

You blinked. Max glanced down briefly, like the words felt awkward in his mouth, but when he looked back up he didn’t look away again.

“I didn’t realise how much I’d taken for granted,” he continued quietly. “How much you gave by never asking. You made it easy for me, but that doesn’t mean I should’ve stopped trying.”

Your throat tightened.

“Max…”

“No, let me say it,” he murmured, taking a small step closer. “You always said things were fine. That you didn’t need flowers, or birthdays, or plans, or all the extra stuff and I believed you because it was easier because it meant I didn’t have to think about whether you were only saying it so I wouldn’t feel bad.”

You swallowed hard, looking away before your face could betray too much.

He walked you further inside, his hand warm at the small of your back, and that was when you noticed the little table by the window. It had been set for two, facing the lake as the sun began to lower behind the mountains. Candlelight, flowers, two plates, homemade pasta that looked slightly lopsided and very clearly like his doing, and a little folded note beside your place.

You stared at it for a second before picking it up.

In his messy, all-caps handwriting, it said:

I SHOULD HAVE MADE YOU FEEL SPECIAL BEFORE NOW. I’M GOING TO DO BETTER.

Max’s face shifted immediately, concern cutting through the nervousness. “Schatje…”

You shook your head quickly trying to laugh it off, but your voice came out thin. “I wanted to be cool,” you whispered. “I wanted to be the girlfriend who didn’t care about all that stuff. I thought if I asked for too much then I’d just become another pressure for you.”

Max stepped closer and cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slipped out despite your best efforts.

“You are the most important person in my life,” he murmured. “You always are.” His voice dropped softer, rougher. “I wish I could give you the world and I’m sorry it took me this long to show it.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, at the nervous set of his mouth and the careful way he held you, like he understood now that easiness was not the same thing as not needing anything.

Then you finally kissed him.

Later that night you were curled against his chest with the fireplace crackling softly in the background, the cottage wrapped in that quiet, golden kind of warmth that made everything outside feel very far away.

Max had one arm around you, his hand resting beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns against your skin.

You smiled into his shoulder, cheek pressed against the soft fabric as you listened to the steady beat of his.

“So,” you mumbled, voice sleepy but teasing, “is this a one-time gesture or…”

Max’s chest moved beneath you as he chuckled. “Oh no.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Oh no?”

“No,” he said, tightening his arm around you. “You’re getting so much romance now it’ll annoy you.”

You looked up at him trying and failing not to smile. “Really?”

He nodded solemnly, like he was discussing race strategy. “Really. I’m talking airport reunions. Flowers for no reason. Random poetry.”

“Poetry?” you repeated, laughing already.

“Bad poetry,” he corrected. “Very bad. Rhymes way too much.”

“Oh, God.”

“And a cheesy playlist,” he added, completely serious. “Maybe several. One for the car. One for when I’m away. One with songs you’ll make fun of me for.”

You laughed properly then, burying your face in his neck as warmth spread through your chest. It was never about the playlist, or the flowers, or whatever terrible poetry Max Verstappen might attempt in the name of love.

It was that he was thinking about it. That he had finally understood the difference between you not needing to be spoiled and you still deserving to be cherished.

Max turned his head and pressed a kiss into your hair. “I’m serious,” he murmured, quieter now. “I don’t want you wondering anymore.”

Your laughter softened. You lifted your face again, looking at him through the firelight. “Wondering what?”

“If I think about you,” he said. “If I notice. If I care enough to try.”

Your throat tightened, but this time the feeling wasn’t painful. Max brushed his thumb along your cheek. “I do,” he said. “I’ll show you better now.”

For a moment you just looked at him, then you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth before tucking yourself back against him.

“That sounds perfect.” you whispered, smiling against his neck.

A WORD TO DESCRIBE MAX VERSTAPPEN? dickhead. bastard. asshole—oh wait, that’s three words… well, he deserved more than that.

he deserved a thesaurus, honestly, a whole fucking dictionary of every cuss word the english language had ever coughed up, because one word could never be enough to capture the particular flavor of his existence. the way he walked through the paddock as if he owned the place, the way he looked at other drivers—especially you, as if you were beneath him… you had figuratively compiled a list over the years, kept it within your headspace, added to it after every race, every interview, every time his name appeared on the timing screen at p1.

oh, how it drove your blood pressure to spike. 

more precisely, he deserved a monument built to his own enormous ego, a statue carved from pure entitlement, standing tall in the center of some dutch square where pigeons could shit on it for eternity. you would definitely pay a visit. you would bring bread. you would pack a picnic. you would make a day of it, watching the white streaks cascade down his stone-cold face, and you would feel nothing but profound satisfaction.

but here was the thing… you hadn’t always felt this way.

there was a time, once, when you had looked at max verstappen and seen something other than arrogance wrapped in a racing suit. a time when you had watched him climb through the ranks, from karting to finally taking a seat in a formula one car, from boy wonder to youngest winner, then a world champion.

well yes… what you felt for him was contradicting your present self. back then, it was admiration, pure and uncomplicated. as far as you wanted to shove dirt down your throat… you had to admit that you were a fan.

you had been younger then, newer to the sport. still naive enough to believe that talent was all that mattered, still innocent enough to separate the driver from the person, still stupid enough to think you could ever be anything other than a footnote in his life.

you had watched his first win in spain, his first championship in abu dhabi… you remembered crying when he finally made his appearance with the trophy, all messy hair and a victorious smile. 

you remembered thinking… ah, he deserves this.

you remembered being genuinely happy for him. 

you remembered shamelessly screaming along with your friends as he was the first to cross the finish line.

you had wanted to meet him, had imagined it a thousand times; bumping into him in the paddock, catching his eyes across a crowded room, finding yourself seated next to him at some obligatory fia dinner. you had rehearsed conversations in your head, imagined what you would say, how you would make him see you as something other than just another face in the crowd.

then, you started racing against him. you had signed with mercedes and teamed up with george.

and everything had changed ever since. you started to see max verstappen not as a person but the villain of your career, and the hatred had taken root.

george russell was not the reason you hated max verstappen. that would be too simple, too reductive, too easy. however, george was the lens through which you had learned to see max—the filter that colored every interaction, every incident, every casual cruelty disguised as competitiveness.

you had arrived at mercedes as a rookie, wide-eyed and desperate to prove yourself. you had no allies, no friends, no one to be your mentor. and george, with that opportunity, took you under his wing.

he had stood with you when everyone else avoided you. he had answered your endless questions about setups, tire management, and how to handle the media. he had defended you in meetings when the engineers dismissed your feedback, had stayed late to help you analyze data, had celebrated your first podium like it was his own.

he had also, over time, told you stories.

not maliciously. not with any obvious agenda. just… casually. over coffee. during long flights between races. in the quiet moments when the two of you were the only ones left in the karaoke room.

"it was completely reckless. he pushed me wide in a corner where there was no runoff—just a wall. i could have been seriously hurt."

"he doesn't respect anyone who isn't a threat to him. and he doesn't think i'm a threat."

"he said, and i quote, 'i will purposely go out of my way to put you on your fucking head in the wall...' i don't really get the unnecessary violence."

you had absorbed these stories like a sponge, not questioning them, because why would you? george was your friend, your teammate. and everything he said about max aligned with what you saw with your own eyes—the aggressive driving, the dismissive interviews, the way he treated other drivers.

that was when the admiration curdled, when the distance between fan and rival collapsed into something sharper, colder, something that lived in your chest and hissed every time you saw his face on a screen.

because max verstappen also didn’t look at you like a proper rival… you were rather a nuisance, someone who had absolutely no business being on the same track as him. perhaps it was both your fear and insecurity speaking. 

and the worst part? he wasn’t entirely wrong… not yet. 

but you were getting there. and the thought of noticing you, not as a mere rookie but as a threat, was the only thing that kept you going some days.

all of your thoughts were thrown out the window as you stepped into the cooldown room. 

it felt… incredibly suffocating. 

not surprising. that was the first thing you noticed the moment you pushed through the door; the way the air had gone still and heavy, thick with tension, with something unspeakable that had crystallized in the space between two men who had forgotten how to be civil to each other approximately three seasons ago. 

the way the two men inside seemed to have forgotten that anyone else existed—that the cameras would be arriving soon, that there were protocols, expectations, and a thousand unspoken rules about how drivers were supposed to behave after a race.

none of that mattered to the mighty max verstappen.

the dutch lion stood in the center of the room like it belonged to him. arms crossed above his chest, chin lifted, jaw set. his fireproof still clung to the broad lines of his shoulders, the top half of his race suit hanging loose around his hips. he was perfectly, unnervingly still, the kind of stillness that came before something snapped. 

and george—

george was seething.

you had never seen your teammate like this. george russell, with his polished manners and his carefully curated press persona, the man who never raised his voice in public, who always had a diplomatic answer ready, who had always been your 'role model'… that george was gone.

in his place stood someone raw and furious, his usual composure shattered like glass against concrete. his race suit was still zipped to his neck, yet his gloves had been torn off and thrown somewhere. his face was flushed, his chest heaving, and when he spoke, his voice cracked with the effort of containing his rage.

the replays showed it; the clips the stewards were reviewing, the clips that made this whole situation so damn complicated:

max had been ahead.

he had been ahead the entire time, defending his line the way he always did—aggressively, yes, but appropriate. and george, so desperate to prove that he belonged in that top step conversation, had lunged—had gone for a gap that was never really there, had put his front wing where it didn't belong and paid the price.

the crash was entirely george's fault.

everyone knew it despite you hating to admit it. the data would show it. the stewards would probably penalize him for it.

however, max, being max, wasn't content to let the facts speak for themselves. no, he had to confront it. he had to push. he had to make sure george understood exactly who was to blame.

“your ego wrote a check your talent couldn't cash, russell,” max spat, and his voice was low, cutting, each word a scalpel. “you saw a gap that didn't exist and you went for it anyway. like you always do.”

classic max. no hesitation, no filter, no mercy. just the cold, hard truth served with a side of that smug arrogance that made you want to slam his face into a wall—anything to stop the dutchman from ever speaking.

“my ego?” george laughed, short and humorless, and there was nothing pleasant about it, “you squeezed me. you've been squeezing me all race. what was i supposed to do—just sit behind you and let you drive off into the sunset?”

“i was ahead,” max stepped closer, and the height difference became almost comical; george towering over him, yet somehow appearing smaller. “that's exactly what you were supposed to do. i had the line. i had the corner. and you—”

he jabbed a finger into george's chest. “you decided your ego mattered more than other’s safety.”

george returned the action, an ugly frown festering on his lips, “you ruined my race.”

“you ruined your own race. i just happened to be there when you did it.”

his jaw ticked, “you're unbelievable."”

“and you're predictable,” max’s expression soured even further, “every single time. you get desperate, you make a mistake, and then you blame everyone else. it's exhausting, honestly. do you ever take responsibility for anything?”

“i—”

“maybe if you weren't so desperate to prove that you belong in that seat,” max continued, stepping even closer to george, shoving him backwards, “maybe if you spent less time playing politics and more time learning how to race—”

“that's enough.”

the words left your mouth before you could stop them. they cut through the tension like a dagger, sharp and unexpected, and both men turned to look at you.

max's expression flickered. for a fraction of a second, something that looked almost like surprise crossed his features. he had forgotten you were there—well, they both had.

you, with little courage left, walked towards them, boots stomping against the polished floor. you were still in your race suit, the top half pulled down and tied around your waist like max's, your fireproofs sticking to your skin with sweat and adrenaline. your hair was a disaster; pulled back in a ponytail that had come half-undone during the race, strands escaping to frame your face. you probably looked like hell.

well, you didn't care.

“the stewards will make their decision,” you announced, and your voice was steady, measured, the voice you used when you were negotiating your contract or facing down a hostile interviewer, “screaming at each other isn't going to change what happened.”

“stay out of this, y/n,” max's tone was dismissive, the same tone he always used with you. as if you were a child who had wandered into a room full of adults. like your opinion didn't matter. as if you didn't belong here, in this conversation, in this sport, in his orbit.

something hot and familiar flared in your chest.

“don't tell me to stay out of anything.” you stopped a few feet away, close enough to be a presence, close enough to remind them both that you existed. the words came out flat, “you've made your point. he made a mistake. congratulations.”

you let the word hang there for a beat, let it drip with exactly as much sincerity as it deserved, “now grow up and wait for the update like everyone else.”

turquoise-blue eyes found yours in a slow, deliberate sweep; the kind of look that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t startled, wasn’t anything close to impressed. the way he looked at you made you feel like you were a mildly interesting insect that had dared to crawl across his path, as if he had all the time in the world to decide whether or not to step on you. 

he caned his head to the side, just lightly, just enough to make it clear he had heard every word and was already bored of them. 

or so you thought.

“always the loyal little teammate,” the words slithered out of him, akin to smoke curling from a cigarette—smooth, unhurried, but lethal. a noxious chortle followed, “does toto give you a bonus for that? or do you just enjoy being russell's sidekick?”

the words landed like knives between your ribs.

sidekick.

you had been called worse. you had been called every variation of ‘not good enough’, ‘replacable’, and ‘only got the seat because she's marketable’. you had developed calluses over the soft parts of yourself, built armor out of spite and determination, and the stubborn refusal to let anyone make you feel small.

however, to hear that from the world champion himself and your idol… it hit somewhere you hadn't known you were vulnerable.

it hit the part of you that still remembered being that young fan watching him on tv, the part of you that had once hoped he might see you as an equal, a rival, someone worth acknowledging, the part of you that had spent three years convincing herself she didn't care what he thought—when clearly, devastatingly, she did.

you didn't think. you didn't pause. you didn't give yourself a single second to consider the consequences.

your hand moved.

“y/n, no—”

the slap cracked across his face like thunder, sharp and final, the sound echoing off the marble walls of the cooldown room. his head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming instantly across his cheekbone, stark against his pale skin.

silence.

max's nostrils flared, jaw tightened. his hands balled into fists, trembling crescively. and in his eyes—in those blue eyes that you had once, in the privacy of your own mind, admitted were beautiful, something cracked.

you couldn't name what you saw there. hurt? anger? worse, hatred? it was there and gone too fast, swallowed by the mask he wore like armor, the mask that had been forged in the fires of his family's expectations and the weight of a nation's hopes.

“this isn't over,” he muttered finally.

he didn't even look at george, didn't even bat an eye. he looked at you. 

oh, if eyes could kill.

following that, he walked out, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound like a period at the end of a sentence.

george exhaled heavily beside you. his hand found your elbow, warm and grounding. “you didn't have to do that.”

“...whatever, george,” you mumbled softly, still staring at the door. still feeling the ghost of max's gaze on your skin.

THE MEDIA PEN WAS A ZOO. microphones stretched toward you like hungry mouths, cameras flashed in rapid succession, bleaching the world white between shots, leaving spots of color swimming behind your eyelids every time you blinked. reporters shouted questions over each other, their voices blending into a cacophony of noise that made your head throb, that made the lights overhead seem somehow brighter, somehow more cruel.

you had done this a thousand times; attending these conferences should be easy for you by now… just practiced smiles and measured words. 

however today, you were beyond exhausted. you were still angry. you could still feel the phantom heat of max's gaze on your skin, and something reckless was coiling in your chest.

“y/n! your thoughts on the incident between verstappen and russell?”

you paused. adjusted the mercedes cap on your head. took a deep breath.

your pr manager was standing just outside the pen, watching you with an expression that said 'be careful' in capital letters. toto was somewhere behind her, probably already on the phone with the fia, damage control already underway.

the sensible thing would be to give a boring answer. these things happen in racing. the stewards will handle it. my focus is on the next race.

however, you were so tired of being sensible.

especially when it came to max verstappen and his violent personality.

“george made a mistake.” you responded carefully, “he's admitted that. but max's reaction after the crash was... disproportionate. there's a difference between holding someone accountable and what he did.”

“are you saying verstappen was out of line?”

“i'm saying that his behavior was unnecessary. the crash happened. it's being reviewed. there was no need for him to escalate the situation even more.”

violent. the word was on the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken. you thought about max's face in the cooldown room; the way his nostrils had flared, the way his skin bloomed in red, the way he had looked at you—

nevermind. you didn’t want to think about it anymore. for your own peace.

“would you describe his behavior as violent, y/n?”

there it was. the opening you hadn't meant to create.

you should have closed it. should have laughed and said that's a strong word and pivoted to something safer. however, the recklessness was still there, burning in your chest, and you were so tired of being careful.

“i think there's a pattern of aggression that goes beyond what's acceptable,” you disclosed slowly, choosing each word like a weapon. “and i think it's time someone pointed it out.”

in instant, the space broke open.

the reporters erupted. questions overlapping, cameras tilting, someone gasping a laugh that didn’t sound like a laugh at all. it was chaotic, beautiful, and irreversible.

and on the other side of the pen, max was answering his own questions.

his back was facing you; that should have been a wall, a barrier. something to soften the blow, muffle the intent, turn his words into background noise swallowed by the thick swarm of bodies between you.

yet the crowd, dense as it was, elbows and shoulders, along with hungry recorders held aloft, might as well have been made of air.

you could still hear him.

that flat yet menacing voice that never seemed to waver, even when the questions were hostile, even when the cameras were rolling, even when the world was watching.

“max, what do you say to y/n's comments about your behavior?”

a pause. you peered over your shoulder, taking a peek at him. you imagined him tilting his head, that infuriating half-smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“she's entitled to her opinion.”

“do you think her comments were fair?”

he could’ve said no. could’ve shrugged and moved on. could’ve been the bigger person—

instead…

“i think,” his tone lacked temperature, texture, nothing to hold onto, “that some people are more interested in being popular than being fast. and when you can't defend your teammate on track, i guess you have to defend him in the media.”

motherfucker.

“are you referring to y/n specifically?”

i’m going to kill him.

"i don’t know," his mouth curved—not a genuine one, instead the skeleton of one, a simper that had been gutted and hung out to dry, "why don’t we ask miss y/l/n herself?"

oh my god. he did not—

the question hit hard like a freight train made of glass; shattering and over before anyone could duck. you felt the heat rush to your face, felt the cameras swivel towards you to capture your reaction, felt your teammate holding his breath. 

“would you like to respond to that, y/n?”

you forced a smile. no, you couldn’t let him win. you would not give him the satisfaction.

“no comment.”

yet your nails were digging into your palms so hard that you left crescent-shaped marks in your skin.

YOU HAD SURVIVED MONACO AT NIGHT IN THE RAIN. you had survived a 300 kilometer per hour crash that should have broken more than just your confidence. you had survived four seasons in a sport that had tried, repeatedly and enthusiastically, to chew you up and spit you out.

but this? this dinner was going to be the death of you.

the entire grid was there: drivers, a few of the team principals, along with a few invited celebrities. you never really had any problem with any of the drivers. in fact, other than george, you were great friends with alex. he was one of the first drivers who made you feel welcomed during your rookie season. you remembered being lost and overwhelmed in the chaos of the paddock, and he simply made his presence known by sitting down next to you, trying to start a conversation.

you loved alex for that—well, you loved a lot of people for a lot of reasons. carlos, who always saved you a seat at dinner when the grid went out together. fernando, who had always been a good mentor to you. and charles, who always sent you stupid memes whenever he couldn’t sleep before a race.

you had friends in this sport, real friends. people who celebrated your podiums and commiserated your losses, and never once made you feel like you didn’t belong.

and yet… somehow, the room still felt like a battlefield—if only because of a specific dutchman and the silhouette he carved in the corner of your eye. 

“earth to y/n?”

you blinked. once, twice, regaining your reality as george had finally returned from the bathroom and was sliding into the seat beside you, a curious expression plastered on his face. 

the casual grid dinner was already in full swing: plates of pasta being passed around, bottles of wine scattered across the table, everyone talking over everyone else in that chaotic, comfortable way that only happened when the cameras weren’t rolling.

“you okay, love?” the british driver studied you for a moment, before reaching for the bread basket, “looked like you were having an existential crisis.”

a soft sigh escaped you, “just thinking.”

“dangerous habit,” he said it lightly, the way he always did, and his arm found its familiar place across the back of your chair—not possessively, just comfortably. the way two friends who had spent countless hours side by side tended to settle into each other’s space without thinking about it.

you leaned into him slightly, letting your shoulder press against his. the table was undoubtedly crowded; mercedes claimed the middle section of the table, with toto across from you, already deep in conversation with susie about something that made her laugh. it was casual, it was normal… it was exactly the kind of casual dinner you had attended many times before.

so why did it feel like the walls were closing in?

“are you sure you’re okay?” george asked, quieter now. his hand found your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, “you’ve been off all night.”

you shrugged, now reaching for your glass of wine, “i’m fine, george.”

a light scoff, “you’re a terrible liar.”

“i’m an excellent one. you’re just annoyingly perceptive.”

he grinned, flashing those perfect teeth, “one of my many talents.”

you rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips. this was good. this was safe. george was here, solid and familiar, and the food was good and the wine was better and nothing bad was going to happen at a casual team dinner in a private room above some restaurant that toto had booked out for the night.

you just had to get through it.

you just had to not look at the other end of the table.

you just had to—

too late.

you were already under the lion’s watch. max was already watching you.

of course he was. the man had never seemed to let go of the incident. not really. not the time you had assaulted him across the face. not the time you had made offending comments on him in front of the media, words you couldn’t take back, words you weren’t sure you wanted to take back.

okay fine, you regretted hitting him. it was out of line. 

not the words though, they were facts and needed to be disclosed; in hopes that the dutchman would stop bullying his fellow drivers.

his gaze was heavy from the other end of the table, a weight you could feel pressing against your skin without meeting his eyes. he wasn’t even pretending to be subtle about it. his chin rested on his hand, his posture relaxed, almost lazy, yet his eyes… those turquoise blues, they were fixed on you with an intensity that made your stomach burn.

no, he was not glancing. not looking in your general direction while his attention was elsewhere. staring. as if you were the only person in the room. as if the table could catch fire and the walls could crumble, and he wouldn’t notice any of that because his eyes were on you.

his jaw was set tight, his grip on his wine glass white-knuckled. he wasn’t looking at george. just you.

the noise of the dinner faded. the clinking of glasses, the rumble of conversation, the sound of lando laughing at something three tables over—all of it blurred into white noise. there was only him. only those eyes. only the weight of his gaze pressing against your skin like a brand.

you should have looked away.

you should have dropped your gaze and gone back to your conversation and pretended you hadn't seen anything. that was what sensible people did. that was what professional athletes did. that was what someone who wasn't secretly, desperately, pathetically curious about what was happening behind those blue eyes would do.

instead, you held his stare.

and then, slowly, your lips cracked a smile.

a teeny-tiny smile. the kind of smile that could be explained away as nothing, as a reflex, as a trick of light. innocent, almost. the kind of smile you might give an acquaintance across a crowded table, harmless and fleeting.

however, max saw the intention behind it. you knew he saw it, judging by the tightening grip on his glass, knuckles going white, the whine inside trembling ever so slightly. something malicious flickered across his expression, there and gone in less than a second, yet you caught it right on the spot. you were learning to catch his tells.

his eyes dropped, just for a moment, to where george’s arm rested on your shoulder, casual and familiar, the easy intimacy of two people who had spent years trusting each other’s weight. 

when they came back to yours, they were burning. you could feel your pulse quicken, the heat crawling up your neck, spreading across your cheeks, betraying you in ways you couldn’t control.

he then looked away.

fuck, that was hot—

ahem. 

you watched him clear his throat, turn back to checo, forcing himself to participate in whatever conversation he had abandoned. yet his posture was rigid now, shoulders tense, jaw still working as if he was grinding his teeth into dust. the easy confidence he had worn earlier was gone, replaced by something coiled, something waiting to explode.

carlos, sitting next to max, had noticed. you saw the spaniard lean in, say something with a concerned expression. max shook his head, waved him off, yet his eyes kept flickering back toward you.

towards george's arm on your shoulder.

towards the way you were leaning into your teammate's side.

towards the smile that was still playing at the corners of your lips.

interesting.

you should have stopped there. you knew you should have stopped there. every rational cell in your brain was screaming at you to turn away, to focus on george, to pretend that you hadn't just started a fire you had no idea how to control.

but something had awakened in you… something reckless and curious. something that had been sleeping for years, buried under layers of loyalty, obligation, and the desperate need to belong. something that wanted to see how far you could push him. something that wanted to know what would happen when he finally broke.

you scooted closer to george, your thigh pressing against his. the leather of the booth creaked beneath you.

“alex is trying to get your attention,” you murmured, your lips almost brushing george's ear. from across the room, it would look intimate. from across the room, it would look like exactly what he didn't want to see.

george glanced at alex, then back at you, a small furrow appearing between his brows. he shifted in his seat, turning slightly so he could look at you properly. his hand dropped from your shoulder to the table, fingers drumming once, twice, “what are you on about?”

“nothing,” you kept your voice light. innocent. the voice of someone who had absolutely no ulterior motives whatsoever, “just talking to my teammate.”

“you're up to something,” he leaned closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne—something clean and familiar, the scent of safety. his knee pressed against yours under the table, not pulling away, just... anchoring.

“i don't know what you're talking about,” you smiled, sweet yet hollow, and reached out to straighten his collar. your fingers lingered there for a beat too long, brushing against the fabric, against the warmth of his neck.

george caught your wrist. not hard—just enough to stop you. his thumb pressed against your pulse point, feeling the rabbit-quick beat of your heart. his eyes searched your face with an intensity that made you want to squirm.

“you're being weird,” he mumbled quietly, “and you're never weird unless you're nervous or plotting something. which one is it?”

you pulled your wrist free, slowly, letting your fingers drag across his palm, “maybe i'm just feeling friendly.”

“you're never this friendly,” he didn't look convinced. his gaze flickered toward the other end of the table—and something clicked behind his eyes, “ah.”

“mhm?”

“nothing,” he reached for his own wine glass now, taking a long drink. when he set it down, he was smiling. not his usual warm smile. something sharper. something that looked almost like... disappointment, “nothing at all.”

you frowned, “george—”

“i'm not going to ask,” he said, cutting you off. his hand found your arm again, squeezing once, “i'm not going to pry. but whatever you're doing… just know what you're getting into, yeah?”

“i don't know what you mean—”

he shook his head. “again, you're a terrible liar.”

you let your hand rest on his forearm, your fingers curling around the fabric of his suit jacket. he didn't pull away. he didn't even seem to notice… or maybe he just didn't mind. his thumb traced idle patterns on your arm, absent and familiar.

you tilted your head so that your hair fell across your face, creating a curtain, a private world that no one else was invited into. to make it, you knew, even more ambiguous.

and then, because you were cruel, because you were curious, because you had spent years being someone's shadow and you wanted to know what it felt like to be seen—

you glanced across the room.

max's chair was empty.

the door was still swinging shut behind him, the wood clicking softly against the frame.

you watched it close, and you couldn't stop the smirk that spread across your face.

gotcha.

but even as the satisfaction bloomed in your chest, something else was stirring beneath it. something that felt too much like… guilt. 

what are you doing?

god, you’re so childish.

you didn't have an answer.

you weren't sure you wanted one.

THE DINNER WENT ON WITHOUT MAX FOR THE NEXT FIFTEEN MINUTES. or perhaps it was twenty. or an hour. time had become something slippery in his absence; a river you couldn't hold, water slipping through your fingers every time your gaze drifted to that empty chair at the far end of the table. the seat sat there like a wound, like a missing tooth, a negative space that had been bothering you ever since his sudden exit.

you told yourself it didn't matter. you told yourself you were glad he was gone. you told yourself that the knot tightening in your stomach was relief, not disappointment but satisfaction.

definitely not... regret.

well, you told yourself a lot of things.

none of them felt true.

george was still beside you, his arm still draped across the back of your chair, his voice still a warm murmur in your ear; the steady current beneath your chaos. he was talking about something. testing, maybe. or the upcoming season. or some restaurant in monaco that made the best pasta he'd ever had. you nodded along, made the appropriate sounds, laughed when you were supposed to laugh.

yet your mind was elsewhere. it had drifted to a different shore, and it was refusing to come back.

the moment played on a loop within your headspace; those turquoise eyes burning right through every wall you'd ever built, every brick you'd laid, every carefully constructed inch of distance you'd placed between you. it kept coming back to the way he acted... differently; the way he had stared at george's arm on your shoulder like he wanted to rip it off with his bare hands

and then he left.

just... left. walked out without a word, without a glance back, without any indication that he cared about the scene he was causing or the questions he was leaving behind. the door had closed behind him with a soft, final click, and the room had exhaled—or maybe that was just you.

good, you thought. let him leave. let him go. it's better this way.

but the knot in your stomach tightened. your thoughts began to spiral, tangling into knots you couldn't untie, vines wrapping around your ribs and squeezing. what if he's upset? what if he's angry? what if—

“you're doing it again,” george murmured, pulling you back to the present like a beacon through fog.

you blinked, “doing what?”

“spacing out,” he tilted his head, studying you with those perceptive eyes that missed nothing: the slight furrow in your brow, the way you kept going blank, the way your gaze kept drifting toward the door like a compass pointing north, “you've been staring at that empty chair for a long time.”

“no—”

“no seriously,” there was a softness to his voice, undercut by something else—concern, perhaps. or a warning, "what's going on with you tonight?"

“nothing. i'm just tired.”

“y/n.”

“i swear, george.”

“doesn't seem like it,” he turned in his seat, giving you his full attention, “what's going on in that head of yours?”

you opened your mouth. closed it. opened it again.

what were you supposed to say? max hasn't returned to his seat and i'm kinda concerned? i think i might not hate him as much as i've been telling myself i do? i think i might have just done something incredibly stupid?

none of those felt like words you could speak out loud. they sat on your tongue like stones, too heavy to lift, too sharp to swallow.

“it's just…” a soft sigh escaped you, deflating the tension in your chest, “it's been a long weekend.”

george's expression softened. he knew you well enough to know when you were deflecting. however, he also knew you well enough not to push. that was one of the things you loved about him; he gave you space when you needed it, even when he wanted to dig deeper, even when the questions were burning on his tongue.

“why don't you get some air?” he nodded toward the door, “you look like you could use it.”

you blinked at him, confusion evident by your tone, “what?”

“go,” he squeezed your hand once, warm, reassuring, before releasing it, “take five minutes. clear your head. it’ll help.”

you hesitated for a moment longer, searching his face for something—judgment, maybe, or suspicion. however, all you found was the same steady warmth he'd always offered, the same unwavering support that had carried you through your darkest moments as a rookie, the same certainty that he would be there when you came back.

“okay...” you exhaled, the tension in your shoulders loosening just slightly, like a fist unclenching, “five minutes.”

“take ten,” he winked. 

you smiled, a genuine one this time, and pushed back from the table.

the chair scraped against the floor, a sound that felt too loud in the warm hum of conversation, a crack in the careful fabric of the evening. a few heads turned. toto glanced up from his conversation with susie, his brow furrowing. you offered him a small wave, mouthing bathroom, and he nodded, returning to his wife.

you walked toward the door.

your heels clicked against the hardwood floor, each step echoing in your chest like a heartbeat. the room seemed to grow quieter as you approached the exit… or maybe that was just your imagination, the way your senses sharpened when you were about to do something you knew you shouldn't, the way the world held its breath when you were standing on the edge of something.

the door loomed before you. without further thoughts, you reached for the handle and pushed.

immediately, you could feel the change of temperature; the hallway was cool, the air blessedly free of the wine-and-perfume haze that had clouded the private dining room—clean and sharp, like the first breath after surfacing from deep water. the lights were dimmer here, softer, casting everything in shades of amber and gold, painting long shadows across the floor. your heels clicked against the polished wood as you stepped out, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft thud.

you stood there for a moment, breathing.

the silence was different out here. not the heavy, suffocating kind from the cooldown room. it was something gentler, something that let you breathe normally. finally.

you leaned against the wall, pressing your palms flat against the cool surface, and let your head fall back. the ceiling stretched above you, white and empty, a blank canvas for all the thoughts you didn't want to have.

what are you doing?

the question echoed in your mind, relentless, accusatory, a moth beating against the glass of your skull.

you didn't have an answer. not a good one. not one that made sense.

you had spent years building walls between yourself and max verstappen. years convincing yourself that you hated him, that his arrogance was insufferable, that the way you felt belittled by him was reason enough to despise him. you had curated that hatred like a garden, watered it with every insult, every dismissive glance, every time he opened his mouth. you had tended it carefully, lovingly, because it was easier to hate him than to admit—

no, you would rather not say it.

yet tonight… tonight, something had shifted. the ground had moved beneath your feet, and you were still trying to find solid ground.

tonight, you had looked at him and felt something other than anger. something you couldn't name. something that scared you more than any crash ever had, more than any high-speed spin, more than any wall rushing toward you at two hundred miles an hour.

no. what the fuck is wrong with you?

you closed your eyes. pressed the heels of your hands against them until you saw stars. counted to ten. to twenty. to thirty.

when you opened them again, the hallway was still empty. still quiet. still waiting, patient as a held breath.

and somewhere, at the other end of the corridor, you thought you heard footsteps.

you didn’t have time to react. to comprehend the situation. the footsteps grew louder, closer, faster… and before you could move, before you could even draw breath to speak, a hand clamped around your wrist.

you gasped, tried to pull away. yet the grip only tightened, and then you were being yanked, dragged, your heels skidding against the polished floor as you were pulled through a doorway, through a shadow, through the threshold of somewhere you hadn’t intended to go.

the door slammed shut behind you, the lock engaging with metallic sound, final.

the men’s restroom… you registered it in fragments: the urinals along the far wall, dark marble and cold chrome. the sinks with their gold fixtures, gleaming under harsh fluorescent light. the black-and-white checkered tiles beneath your heels, cold even through the thin soles of your shoes. the smell of cologne and something sharper, something electric, something that was just him.

and then there was no more time for registering.

your back hit the wall, and a figure pressed against you, caging you in, pinning you in place. broad shoulders blocked out the light. hands found your waist, fingers splaying across your hips; gripping, holding, pressing you into the plaster like he was trying to fuse you there. a chest heaved against yours, rising and falling with ragged breath, and his face hovered inches from your own.

max verstappen.

his white dress shirt was untucked, wrinkled, the top two buttons undone, revealing the hollow of his throat and the smooth, unmarked skin of his collarbone. his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, forearms tense, muscles coiled like springs. his hair was a disaster, falling across his forehead in messy waves, like he had been running his hands through it in frustration. or desperation. you couldn't tell the difference anymore.

his blue eyes were blazing.

not the cold, dismissive gaze he wore like armor in the paddock. not the sharp, cutting look he used to eviscerate rivals in press conferences. something else. something raw. something that looked almost like hunger.

“what...” he began, and his voice was low, rough, barely above a whisper, “the hell do you think you're doing?”

your spine straightened on instinct. chin lifted. shoulders squared. four years of facing down aggressive drivers and hostile interviewers had taught you how to stand your ground, even when your heart was trying to escape through your ribs.

“i could ask you the same thing,” you bit out, proud of how steady your voice came out, “this is the men's restroom.”

“and?”

“so maybe you should—”

“for fuck sake, y/n,” you found yourself flinching as the words exploded from him, raw and frayed, his composure cracking at the edges. his free hand slammed against the wall beside your head, the impact reverberating through the tiles, through your skull, through the careful armor you had wrapped around yourself, “can’t you be serious for once?”

the silence that followed was deafening. neither of you looked away. his chest was heaving, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and there was something in his eyes; something you had never seen before. something that looked like…

get yourself together, y/n.

“i am being serious…” your voice was softer now, stripped of the sharp edges you usually wielded like weapons, “what do you want, max? if this is about the interview—” 

“no, it’s not—”

“then, what is it?” frustration leaked out of your tone, mixing with something else… well, you couldn’t quite name it. or you were scared to acknowledge it, “what do you want from me? aren’t you tired of constantly dragging me?”

his jaw tightened. the muscle jumped beneath his skin, a tell you had learned to read across years of watching him from a distance. his other hand remained anchored on your waist, fingers pressed into the curve of your hip as if he feared you might evaporate should his grip loosen.

his eyes searched your face, flickering across your features like a man trying to memorize a landscape before daylight faded: your eyes. your lips. the furrow etched between your brows… and your heart was a prominent traitor, hammering against your ribs like a caged bird, betraying your ‘well-maintained’ composure.

not that there was much composure left to maintain.

“i want you to stay away from russell.”

the words came out low, flat, brooking no argument. not a request. not a suggestion. a command. the kind of voice he used on the radio when he was telling his engineer exactly what he needed to win… and expected to get it.

you blinked. of all the things you had expected him to say, that hadn't even made the list.

“what?”

“you heard me,” his thumb traced a slow, deliberate arc across your hip bone, and his eyes never left yours, “stay away from him.”

what. the. fuck. 

“you’ve officially lost it, verstappen,” a puff of air fled from your lips, resembling a scoff—bitter, incredulous, sharp enough to cut the tension between you, “seriously, you need help.”

his expression didn't waver. didn't crack. didn't offer you the satisfaction of a single tell. he simply looked at you, those blue eyes flat and awfully unreadable, and the silence between you grew teeth.

“i don't need help,” his voice deadpanned, “i just need you to listen.”

“listen to what? your delusions?”

“listen to the truth.”

“the truth?” a laugh escaped you, hollow, disbelieving, “you want to talk about the truth? fine. let's talk about the truth.”

you planted your palms against his chest and pushed. not hard enough to displace, but just enough to carve an inch of space between your bodies. just enough to remind yourself that you still possessed fight, still possessed will, still possessed the capacity to resist whatever gravitational pull he exerted.

“he’s my teammate. we’ve driven together for four years.”

his expression further hardened. the lines of his face seemed to sharpen, his jaw tightening, his pupil dilating. yet he didn't move, didn't retreat, didn't give you an inch more than you had taken.

“four fucking years,” your voice rose, echoing off the marble walls, “what made you think you have the right to just order me around?”

you leaned closer—not much, just enough to close the small gap your hands had created, just enough that your chest brushed against his, just enough that your lips hovered dangerously close to his jaw. you could feel the heat radiating off him, could feel the way his breath hitched. 

“i can talk to whoever i want, befriend whoever i want, date whoever i want—fuck whoever i want,” your eyes held his, unblinking, daring him to argue, daring him to push back, daring him to do anything other than stand there looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole, “i don’t owe you shit.”

just as you thought you were winning, his hand moved. his fingers found your chin, gripping it firmly between his thumb and forefinger; a touch so electric, commanding… most definitely possessive, sending a shockwave down your spine that you desperately tried to hide. 

no, you refused to back down, to look away, to let him see how much he rattled you, how deep he got under your skin. instead, you tilted your head slightly, leaning into his grip rather than away from it, and let a slow, mocking smile spread across your lips.

“oh… someone is hurt,” you continued to taunt him, your voice dripping with false sympathy, “what? can’t handle the truth? jealousy is surely a disease—”

words died in your throat as you felt his thumb pressed against your lower lip. 

not hard. not painful. just… there. firm. demanding. pressing down just enough to silence you, just enough to make a point, just enough to steal the breath from your lungs and the words from your tongue.

“me? jealous of george russell?” he pronounced the name like it was something foul on his tongue. like garbage. like something he had stepped in and was now scraping off his shoe.

his head tilted, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. him? jealous of george russell? he would rather swallow a bullet than to ever admit that someone else might be worth his attention, let alone his jealousy.

“tell me… what exactly would i be jealous of?”

little did you realize, you had fucked up.

the comparison was… well… max was a four-time world champion, a living legend, a man who had already secured his place in history books. and george was… george was your teammate. your friend. a talented driver, yes, but not in the same stratosphere… not yet.

the silence stretched between you, heavy and asphyxiating. the fluorescent light hummed above you, casting strange shadows across his face; the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the dark intensity burning behind his eyes.

“well?” max’s voice was now soft, almost gentle, and somehow that was more terrifying than if he had shouted, “i’m waiting. what exactly does george russell have that i don’t?”

your throat tightened. “that’s not—”

“this is why we think before we speak, prinses.”

the petname rolled off his tongue like honey laced with hemlock—sweet, deadly, intimate in a way that made your stomach invert.

prinses. princess. he had never called you that before. no one had. and the way he said it had successfully, shamelessly, sent a shiver down your spine that you desperately tried to hide.

“sure,” his breath was warm on your lips, his forehead inching closer and closer to yours. “you've spent all these years hating me… always defending him.”

his thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, and you hated the way your body leaned into his touch, hated the way your heart thundered so violently you were certain he could feel it through the inches between you.

“which explains why…” his voice trailed off as his gaze drifted downward; lingering on your lips, before snapping back to yours. he squeezed your chin lightly, “your personality is very undeveloped. i understand.”

the words hit like a slap.

not because they were cruel, though they were. but because there was a sliver of truth in them, a needle-sharp point that pierced right through your armor and lodged itself somewhere deep in your chest.

you had spent years defining yourself in opposition to him. years building your identity around hating him, around defending george, around being the loyal mercedes driver who would never back down to the red bull champion. you had poured yourself into the role, shaped yourself around it, made it the bedrock of everything you were.

but who were you without that?

you should push him away.

your hands were now pressed against his chest, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white. you could feel his heartbeat beneath your palms—steady, unhurried, maddeningly calm… a counterpoint to your own racing pulse, the wild staccato of a heart that had forgotten how to hide.

you should push him away.

his gaze didn’t waver. didn’t blink. didn’t beg. it just waited… the kind of patience that knew with absolute certainty, that you would break before he did.

you should push him away.

yet you didn't.

instead, you pulled him closer. your chin lifted, your eyes never leaving his, and you let a slow, mocking smirk spread across your lips; a mirror of his own.

“my personality… my life,” your voice barely a whisper, now overwhelmed by his presence, “none of them are your concern.”

“isn't it?” his forehead pressed against yours, his lips lightly brushing yours, “you've made it my concern. every time you open your mouth. every time you try to overtake me. every time you act like a loyal dog—“

“fuck you,” the words tore out of you, virulent acid spilling through gritted teeth; meant to wound, meant to cut, meant to destroy one’s ego. a defense mechanism, the last wall standing between you and the… ‘strong emotions’ you had been running from for years.

you expected him to flinch. to recoil. to mirror your anger as acid hit his skin, sizzling. you expected him to get the hint, to read the room like the genius he claimed himself to be.

yet, the side effects differed from the original intention. instead, he laughed. 

and just like that, he was under your skin… again.

“there she is.”

his voice wrapped around you effortlessly, low and honeyed, as his thumb skimmed the edge of your jaw. the touch was almost reverent, as if he were handling something precious, something breakable. it made your chest ache in ways you refused to name.

“i still find it amusing,” he breathed against the corner of your mouth, “that you get all so defensive when it's the fact.”

his lips charted a path down the side of your face—slow, languid, as if he had nowhere else to be, no one else to see. each kiss landed like a spark, igniting nerve endings you had forgotten existed. your breath stuttered as his mouth discovered the tender hollow just beneath your ear.

“always racing behind him,” he continued, his voice a velvet rasp against your throat. his teeth scraped over your pulse, and a violent shudder wracked your frame, “poor y/n. she might always be in the second seat.”

“what are you—“

a fractured sound slipped past your lips as his mouth sealed over that sensitive spot on your neck, sucking, pulling, stealing your thoughts, your breath, and your carefully maintained composure all at once. the word evaporated on your tongue, replaced by something rawer, something you couldn't take back.

you felt the curve of his smile pressed into your skin. 

…and fuck was he good at it.

“you know,” he mumbled, his lips grazing the ridge of your collarbone, “you're not exactly a good teammate either.”

“huh—”

the dutchman withdrew just enough to meet your gaze, close enough that his lashes almost swept your cheeks, far enough that you could see the storm churning behind his irises. his hand glided from your jaw down to the column of your throat, fingers spreading wide, cradling the base of your neck like a trophy.

his thumb pressed gently against your trachea; not enough to constrict, just enough to remind you how exposed you were.

“sneaking around with the rival,” he murmured, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic rhythm against your skin, “what would people think of this, schat?”

the dutch endearment dripped from his tongue like molten gold; foreign and intimate, a key turning in a lock you hadn't known existed. your stomach clenched further.

“you dragged me in here,” you managed, though your voice emerged threadbare, stripped of its usual steel.

“and you stayed,” his head cocked, a predator studying prey that had stopped running, “what does that say about you? hm?”

“stop putting your words in my m—”

he didn’t let you finish; his mouth found yours with a precision that suggested he had been rehearsing this moment, mapping the terrain of your lips long before he ever touched them. the kiss was not gentle; it had never been gentle, would never be gentle, and some part of you was grateful for that. gentleness would have felt like pity. this felt like recognition.

his hand remained on your throat, thumb pressed to your pulse, feeling every staccato beat as if he were taking its measure. his other arm wrapped around your waist, hauling you flush against him, eliminating every inch of space you had tried to preserve.

you should resist.

but no, you simply couldn’t.

your body refused to obey the commands your mind issued. your hands, which should have been shoving at his chest, remained fisted in his shirt; holding on rather than pushing away. your knees, which should have been driving toward his groin, stayed pressed against his thighs. your mouth, which should have bitten down on his invading tongue, opened wider instead, welcoming him deeper.

he swallowed the small sound you made: a whimper, a sigh, a surrender you hadn't given yourself permission to voice. the vibration of his satisfied hum traveled through your chest, through your bones, through every cell that had forgotten how to feel anything but cold.

this is wrong, a distant part of you whispered. this is so wrong. 

he kissed you like he was trying to consume you—like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and live there, take up residence in the spaces between your ribs, make a home of your heartbeat. his tongue slid against yours, demanding and insistent, and you met him with equal fervor, your arms now wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer even as the tiles bit cold through the silk of your dress.

“you still think george is the better person?” the words were murmured against your lips, spoken into the tiny space between one kiss and the next. his mouth never left yours—he asked the question as if he were breathing, as if the words were simply an extension of the kiss, inseparable from the press of his tongue against yours.

“shut up—” you tried to respond, but when his teeth grazed your lower lip, your thoughts scattered like startled birds, wings beating against the inside of your skull, going nowhere.

his hand left your throat, slowly, reluctantly, fingers trailing down your chest, your ribs, your waist, leaving a wake of fire behind them. you watched through half-lidded eyes as his palm slid lower, lower, until his fingers found the hem of your dress and pushed beneath it.

your breath caught when his hand closed around your thigh.

his fingers spread wide, spanning the soft flesh, gripping firmly... possessively, as if he had every right to touch you there, like he had been waiting years for permission he had finally decided to grant himself. his thumb stroked the sensitive skin of your thigh, and your hips arched toward him involuntarily.

“and i'm the one between your legs,” ‘mad max’ murmured, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth, “try harder.”

he kissed you again, harder this time, hungrier, as if he could make up for four years of tension in a single press of his lips. his hand remained on your thigh, fingers gripping firmly, anchoring you to him even as the world tilted and spun around you.

“should've signed with your idol, schat,” his voice was a velvet rasp against your skin, his lips tracing the line of your jaw between kisses, “bad decisions, as always.”

before you could protest, his other hand found your hip, before lifting you, hauling you off the wall. you let out a high-pitched yelp, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, ankles locking behind his back. he carried you across the restroom as if you weighed nothing, as if you were something precious, something breakable.

the sink met your backside, cold marble against your thighs, and he set you down on the edge, stepping between your spread legs, his hands finding your hips and pulling you to the edge until there was no space left between you, until you were pressed flush against him, his belt buckle cold against your inner thigh.

he stepped between your spread legs like he belonged there. like the space had been carved out for him years ago, and he was only now claiming what was his.

“i would've made you a star in that grid,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm on your lips.

his mouth then found your neck—not gently, not tentatively, but with purpose. his lips latched on the sensitive skin just below your ear, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, to see purple blooming on your skin, to make your fingers reach and clutch on his hair.

“unlike some incompetent bastard.”

his teeth grazed the spot he had just kissed, tongue soothing the sting, and you felt the heat bloom beneath your skin; a bruise forming, a brand, a claim he was etching into your flesh. your eyes fluttered closed, your head tipping back, giving him better access, surrendering to the sharp pleasure of it.

“stop talking—” the words came out fractured, breathless, stripped of all authority.

he ignored you. his mouth moved lower, finding the curve of your throat, the hollow where your pulse beat its frantic rhythm. he kissed there first, soft, before his teeth scraped, lips sealed, marking you yet again.

“you're an idiot to even like him. to even worship him.”

his hand slid from your thigh to your hip, fingers gripping firmly, holding you in place as he worked his way across your collarbone. each kiss was a statement. each bruise a sentence. each mark a word in a language you were only beginning to understand.

“but that's fine,” his lips brushed against the base of your throat, “i forgive you—”

this time, you didn't let him finish.

your hands fisted in his hair and yanked his mouth back to yours, swallowing the rest of his sentence. you kissed him with a ferocity that surprised even yourself; teeth, tongue, along with a hint of feelings that you never wanted to explain.

he made a strangled sound against your lips, half-groan, half-laugh, and his hands flew to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. 

“fuck you, max,” the admission clawed its way out of your throat, ragged and ruined, spoken into the seam of his lips, “i hate you. so much.”

he laughed, a low, wrecked sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. he drew back—just slightly, just enough to look at you, “liar.”

you wanted to argue. you wanted to shove him, to prove him wrong, to list every reason on why you hated him. however, your hands were already fisting in his collar, already dragging him back toward you, already craving for the taste of his mouth again.

you wanted to kiss the smugness off his face. wanted to swallow every word he had ever spoken against you. wanted to devour the jealousy that had burned in his eyes and replace it with… something else entirely.

your lips were a breath away from his when the sound cut through the air like a drill alarm.

his fucking phone.

the ringtone was jarring: ordinary, mundane, utterly foreign in this small, charged space. it shattered the cocoon you had woven around yourselves, splintered the tension into a thousand fragments that scattered across the tile floor.

max froze. his forehead remained pressed against yours, his breath warm and uneven on your lips. his hands stayed locked on your hips, fingers pressing into your flesh as if he could anchor himself there and refuse to let reality intrude.

however, the phone kept ringing.

once. twice. three times.

his jaw tightened. his eyes fluttered open, and you saw something flicker across his face. annoyance, yes. but also something else. something that looked almost like… regret.

he released you reluctantly, his fingers trailing down your thighs as he stepped back, as if the separation cost him something he couldn't afford to lose. the cold rushed in to fill the space where his body had been, and you had to resist the urge to pull him back.

he reached into his pocket and withdrew the phone, his eyes dropping to the screen. his expression shifted. something tightened in his shoulders. he looked at the display for a long moment, and when he raised his gaze back to yours, something had changed. the hunger was still there, banked but burning. yet now it was tempered with something else… something that looked almost like resignation.

“...412,” he muttered, a ghost of irritation in his voice.

the number hung in the air between you, weighted with meaning.

he didn't explain. didn't apologize. didn't offer any of the words you might have expected: a promise, a reassurance, a plea.

just the number. just the hint. just the space for you to decide.

he turned toward the door, the phone still buzzing in his hand, and pressed it to his ear as he walked. you caught fragments of his voice–low, clipped, speaking in dutch, before the door swung shut behind him and the lock clicked into place.

you remained on the sink for what felt like years.

the marble had grown warm beneath your thighs; your body heat bleeding into the stone, claiming it the way he had claimed your skin. your dress remained bunched around your hips, the fabric wrinkled beyond repair. your lips throbbed, swollen from his mouth, from your own.

room 412.

the digits carved themselves into your memory, each one a splinter, each one a hook.

you exhaled softly, sliding off the sink. your heels met the tile with a soft click, the sound swallowed by the oppressive quiet. you turned to face the mirror—and stopped.

wow… what a mess.

your hair had collapsed from its careful styling, tumbling around your face in disheveled waves. your lipstick had migrated beyond the borders of your lips, smeared across your chin, your jaw, transferred onto skin that wasn't yours. your cheeks burned with a flush that no amount of cold water could extinguish.

but it was your neck that piqued your attention.

you lifted your hand, fingers trembling, and touched the marks he had left. the skin was tender, each bruise a testament to his mouth, his teeth, his refusal to let you forget. you traced the edge of the darkest one, just below your ear, and a shiver raced down your spine.

oh.

…dickhead.

you smoothed your dress over your hips, tucking the fabric back into place. you raked your fingers through your hair, though it barely helped—nothing could fix the wreckage he had made of you. you wiped the smeared lipstick from your chin with the back of your hand, then froze, staring at the faint red stain on your skin.

...can't believe that really happened.

you turned away from the mirror and walked toward the door. your heels clicked against the tiles, your hand reaching for the handle.

room 412.

you hesitated.

the door loomed before you, heavy and dark. beyond it, the hallway stretched towards two choices; one where you returned to the dinner, to george, and one where you would knock on a door you had no business approaching.

oh, y/n, you’re in huge trouble.

© verslyns 2026

The café is quiet in that mid-morning way—soft chatter, cups clinking, sunlight spilling across the table like it’s been carefully placed there for atmosphere. You picked it for privacy. You tell yourself that’s the only reason your pulse is slightly annoying.

He arrives exactly six minutes after you.

Not late. Not early. Lando somehow manages to be both punctual and still make it feel like he’s showing up just for you.

The bell above the door rings.

You look up immediately this time.

He spots you, and there it is—that easy grin. Except it softens halfway through, like the moment he sees you, he forgets he was supposed to be anything else. He walks over, hands running through his curls, shoulders slightly raised like he’s trying not to look too eager.

“Hi,” he says.

You nod. “Hi.”

He sits opposite you, but instead of immediately leaning back like he usually does, he stays slightly forward. Like he’s closer than necessary on purpose but pretending he isn’t.

“You got here early,” he says.

“So did you,” you reply.

“I got here on time,” he corrects, smiling.

You almost roll your eyes. Almost.

A waitress comes over, and you order quickly—iced coffee.

He watches you order like he’s studying you.

“What?” you ask.

“You always order that?” he says.

"Yes, why?"

"Just keeping track of what you like" he says simply.

"Oh..." That was... sweet, no one else really cared about your favorite order, let alone mentally keeping track of things that you like.

He orders a cappuccino and—of course—a cupcake. Vanilla. And insists you have a donut which he ordered for you.

When the drinks arrive, he leans forward, elbows on the table, chin slightly tilted like he’s settling in. And then he starts talking.

Not about racing. Not about HR. About something stupid—something about a team meeting where someone tried to explain tyre strategy using a cooking analogy and got absolutely roasted for it.

You laugh once before you can stop yourself. His eyes flick up immediately.

“That was a laugh,” he says.

“It was not.”

“It was. I heard it.”

“You’re imagining things.”

He smiles like he doesn’t believe a word you’re saying but also doesn’t care.

And then he takes a bite of the cupcake.

Immediately—

Frosting. Right at the corner of his mouth. You see it instantly. And you make the fatal mistake of looking too long. He keeps talking, unaware. Something about the team meeting earlier and how awkward HR looked when he requested “formal disclosure procedures.”

You’re not listening anymore. Because he licks his thumb. Misses the spot. Still there. You exhale quietly through your nose. He notices. Of course he does.

“What?” he asks, mid-sentence.

“Nothing.”

Too fast.

His brows lift. “You always say ‘nothing’ like it’s a full sentence.”

“It is a full sentence.”

He leans back slightly. “You’re staring at me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m observing.”

“Observing what?” he presses, amused.

You hesitate. Because now he’s looking at you properly. Waiting. Patient in a way that makes it worse. And the frosting is still there.

“Lando,” you say, trying for neutral, “you have—”

“I know,” he interrupts.

You pause.

He tilts his head. “I’m enjoying this.”

“You’re enjoying what.”

“You looking at me like that.”

“I am not looking at you like anything.”

He hums, unconvinced. Then—slowly, deliberately—he leans forward again and takes another bite.

This time, he doesn’t clean it. On purpose.

He just sits there, chewing slightly, eyes on you like he’s waiting.

You blink. “You did that on purpose.”

“Did what?”

“You know what.”

He shrugs lightly. “I don’t.”

You exhale. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Am I?” he says, wiping his mouth… very deliberately everywhere except the corner again.

You catch it. He sees you catch it. A small smile tugs at his mouth.

“You wanna fix it for me?" he asks

Your throat tightens slightly. “I don’t.”

He leans in a fraction.

“You do,” he says softly. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

You reach for your coffee to buy yourself a second. Bad move. Your fingers brush the cup. You don’t even realize how distracted you are until he speaks again.

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he repeats, slower this time, like he’s enjoying how quickly you’re losing control of the conversation.

You glare at him over the rim of your cup.

He looks delighted.

“Stop smiling like that,” you mutter.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re winning something.”

“I am,” he says simply.

You pause.

“That’s not how conversations work.”

“It is when I like the person I’m talking to,” he replies.

That lands. Annoyingly. You look down at the table immediately, because looking at him feels dangerous.

“So,” he says lightly, dragging the word out, “you’re not going to fix it?”

You look up. He taps the corner of his own mouth again. Your brain betrays you instantly. You reach forward before thinking. His hand lifts slightly—not stopping you this time, just hovering there like he’s waiting to see if you’ll actually do it. Your thumb brushes his skin,soft and warm. Too familiar for how new this is.

“There,” you say quietly.

You start to pull away.

He catches your wrist gently.

Not tight. Just enough to stop you from disappearing too fast. Your breath catches immediately. Lando places a soft kiss to the back of your hand. His thumb moves slightly against your wrist—barely there, but enough that your brain short-circuits for half a second.

“You’re very distracting,” you say, quieter than intended. His smile shift, less teasing now,more pleased.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

You regret everything immediately.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You did a little bit.”

“I did not.”

He finally lets go—but only so he can lean back, still watching you like he’s memorising your reactions.

“You’re very easy to fluster,” he says.

You cross your arms. “You’re just... doing that on purpose”

“I haven’t even done anything.”

“It's not nice to lie”

He laughs under his breath, then takes another bite of the cupcake—slower this time, deliberately neat, like he’s trying not to give you another excuse. Except he still looks at you while he does it. Which is worse. Because now he’s not even trying to hide it. And you realize, with growing frustration— It’s not the frosting. It’s him.

The way he looks at you like he’s quietly entertained by every reaction you try to hide. The way he knows exactly when you’re about to look away and waits for it.

The way he keeps doing things just slightly too intentionally, just to see if you’ll react again.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you say finally.

He smiles.

“Yeah,” he admits easily. “I am.”

Then, softer—like it’s not a game anymore:

“Mostly because I like seeing you like this.”

You freeze.

“Like what.”

He tilts his head, watching you carefully now.

“Human” he says.

And somehow, that’s the part that makes your chest go tight. Because you realize you’ve barely been thinking about control for the last ten minutes. Just him,just this.

You stare at him.

“That’s your explanation?” you ask quietly.

He shrugs one shoulder, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “You try very hard to act unaffected.”

“I am unaffected.”

He smiles softly. “You’re blushing says otherwise.”

There’s no teasing in it this time. Just certainty.

And that makes it worse.

You look down at the table again, trying to recover, but that’s when you feel it.

His foot nudges yours under the table.

Light. Barely there. You assume it’s accidental. Then it happens again. Slower this time. Intentional. You look up immediately. He’s sipping his cappuccino like he’s never done anything wrong in his life.

“Your foot’s in my space,” you say carefully.

“Oh.” He glances down briefly. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

He hums thoughtfully. Doesn’t move it.

Instead, his foot slides just slightly against yours. Your breath stutters.

“Lando.”

“What?” he asks mildly.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

You narrow your eyes at him. He smiles into his cup. You try to ignore it. You really do. But then his knee shifts too, brushing against yours under the table. It lingers this time. Not pressing. Just there. Close.

Like a quiet reminder.

“You’re very touchy today,” you mutter.

“Am I?” His voice is calm, almost innocent.

“Yes.”

He tilts his head. “You don’t like it?”

That question lands heavier than expected. You hesitate half a second too long. And he sees it. His expression softens slightly. His knee presses just a fraction closer.

“I didn’t say that,” you reply.

He sets his cup down carefully.

Then, slowly, he reaches across the table again. Not for your hand this time. His fingers brush your forearm. Light. Testing. You freeze. He pauses. Watching your reaction. When you don’t pull away, his fingers slide a little further—tracing from your wrist up toward your elbow. Not grabbing. Not gripping. Just brushing.

Your skin feels hypersensitive everywhere he touches.

“You tense up,” he murmurs softly.

“I do not.”

“You do.” His thumb moves in a slow, absentminded line along your arm. “Right there.”

He taps lightly near your wrist where your pulse jumps.

Your heart betrays you again. A small smile curves at the corner of his mouth.

“That’s because of me,” he says quietly.

You swallow. He leans in slightly, elbows back on the table, but his fingers don’t leave your arm. Instead, they move lower again. Back to your wrist.

Then—without breaking eye contact—he turns your hand over. His thumb traces across your palm. Slow. Deliberate. Your brain short-circuits.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whisper.

“And you’re flustered,” he replies gently.

His thumb draws lazy patterns against your skin like he’s mapping your reactions.

He watches your breathing change. Watches your shoulders rise and fall quicker. Watches you try to hold it together.

“You keep reacting,” he says softly. “I'm barely doing anything."

He slides his hand from yours entirely. You almost sag in relief. Almost. Because then he shifts his chair closer. Your thighs brush.

His arm rests along the back of your chair.

Not touching you. You look at him sharply.

“You’re crowding me.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

He leans just a little closer. Now you can feel his warmth.

“You could move,” he says quietly.

You don’t. His lips twitch.

“That’s what I thought.”

Your breath is shallow now. His fingers slide from the back of your chair to your shoulder. Then lower. Tracing down the length of your arm again. He watches every single micro-expression. Like he’s collecting them. Like he likes seeing how much power he has over you.

“You keep doing that,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“Doing what?”

“This.”

He finally lets his fingers rest at your waist. The contact feels louder than it should.

“You haven’t told me to stop,” he says gently.

You look at him. And for a second, the teasing drops completely. There’s something softer there. Something curious. Almost cautious. You exhale slowly.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you admit before you can think.

His entire expression changes.Not smug.

Not victorious. Just warm. His thumb moves slightly at your waist. Slowly and carefully. Like he’s savoring it now instead of testing you.

“That’s what I was checking,” he murmurs.

“Checking?”

“Yeah.” His forehead almost brushes yours now. “If you actually wanted me to.”

Your heart stumbles again. His hand slides from your waist back to your wrist, fingers threading through yours.

“You react,” he says softly. “But you never pull away.”

“You like seeing me flustered,” you say.

“I do.”

“And you like knowing you’re the one causing it.”

He smiles slowly.

“Very much.”

Then his thumb lifts to your chin.

Tilts it up gently.

“So what happens,” he murmurs, voice lower now, “if I keep going?”

“You’re late.”

“I’m three minutes late.”

“You’re three minutes and forty-two seconds late.”

Lando drops into the chair across from your desk and stares at you like you’ve personally offended him.

“You time me?”

“I schedule you.”

“That’s worse.”

You don’t look up from your laptop. “You have media in twelve minutes. If you’re not downstairs in five, I’m sending someone to drag you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

You finally glance at him. “Try me.”

He grins. There it is. That stupid grin that makes interns trip over themselves and charms the whole paddock. You don’t react, that’s new for him.

He tilts his head. “Did I do something to offend you?”

“No.”

“Then why do you act like I’m a problem you have to solve ”

“You are a problem I have to solve.”

He laughs, amused at how serious you always were.

“You’re harsh,” he says.

“I’m efficient.”

“You’ve never laughed at one of my jokes.”

“That’s not in my job description.”

“Maybe it should be.”

You close your laptop. “Downstairs. Now.”

He stands, but he lingers at the door.

“You know,” he says casually, “most people like me.”

“Most people don’t manage you.”

That one makes him pause.

He doesn’t understand yet why he keeps coming back to you. You don't bother entertaining him.

It starts subtly. He begins staying after meetings. Everyone filters out, everyone but him, he’s still leaning against the table while you gather papers. 

“You don’t have to hover,” you say without looking at him.

“I’m not hovering.”

“You’re hovering.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I just enjoy your company.”

“That would be unproductive.”

He smiles slower this time. “You always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you're incapable of feelings ”

You zip your bag. “Feelings complicate things.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sometimes that’s the point.”

You pretend not to hear that.

The first real shift happens after a race weekend in Barcelona. He finishes P5. Solid, but not what he wanted. In the motorhome, the engineers leave. The cameras are gone. He drops into the couch and stares at the ceiling.

“I could’ve done better,” he mutters.

“You executed the strategy correctly.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

You hesitate before sitting across from him.

“What do you mean?”

He glances at you, surprised you asked.

“I don’t know. I just… I hate feeling like I’m almost there but not.”

“You’re improving.”

“That’s such a PR answer.”

“It’s true.”

He watches you for a long second.

“Do you ever just say what you feel?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

He sits up.

“I think it’s relevant.”

You hold his gaze,calm and steady.

“What do you want me to say?”

“That you believe in me.”

“I do.”

He blinks.

“You’ve never said that.”

“You’ve never needed me to.”

“I do.”

The room feels smaller suddenly. You clear your throat. “You’re one of the most talented drivers on the grid.”

“That’s still professional.”

You stand. “Because that’s what I am.”

His eyes follow you.

“And what if I don’t want you to be just that?”

You turn slowly. 

“That’s not your choice.”

After that, he pushes more openly.

During a sponsor shoot, he leans closer than necessary.

“You know,” he murmurs while cameras adjust lighting, “you’d look good in one of these team jackets.”

“I already have one.”

“I mean mine.”

You stare at him.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re being inappropriate.”

He smiles faintly. “You like using that word.”

“It fits.”

“You know what else fits?” he smirks.

“Don’t.”

He studies your expression.

“You feel it too.”

“No.”

“That was too fast.”

“It’s still no.”

He laughs, but it’s strained now.

“You don’t even hesitate.”

“Because I’ve already thought about it.”

His smile fades.

“And?”

“And it’s not happening.”

He swallows.

“Why?”

“You’re younger.”

“By five years. Not fifteen.”

“It matters.”

“Only because you want it to.”

“It matters because you're my client.”

“I want to be more.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“You treat me like I’m a kid.”

“I treat you like you’re my client.”

“And that’s all I am to you?”

You don’t answer.

He searches your face.

“Say it,” he challenges quietly. “Say you don’t feel anything.”

You hold his gaze.

“I don’t feel anything.”

The lie tastes bitter.

He nods slowly.

“Okay.”

But he doesn’t look convinced.He tries again two weeks later. It’s late, the paddock is mostly empty. You’re reviewing revised sponsor terms when he steps inside and closes the door.

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I’m working.”

“You always are.”

“Pretty much yeah that's usually what a job is .”

He moves closer.

“Can I take you for dinner.”

You stand immediately. “Stop.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re crossing a line.”

“Then move it.”

Your breath falters.

“You think this is a game?”

“No,” he says, softer now. “I want to go out with you and you're not giving me a chance”

“You’ll get over it.”

“I haven’t.”

“You will.”

His voice drops.

“You really think I’m that shallow?”

“I think you’re young.”

“And I think you’re scared.”

That hits.

“I’m not scared.”

“Then why won’t you even consider it?”

“Because if this goes wrong, I lose my job.”

“And if it goes right?”

“It won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

He steps closer until there’s barely space between you.

“One date”

“No”

It comes out immediately, too fast, too automatic, like your body is answering before your brain can catch up.

He doesn’t move away, he just stays there, close enough that you can’t ignore the fact that he’s waiting for something from you that you keep refusing to name.

“You didn’t even think about it,” he says quietly.

“There’s nothing to think about.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

A pause.

“You’re lying again.” he says

Your jaw tightens. “I’m not lying.”

“You are,” he says, not accusing, just certain.

You step back immediately, like distance can fix everything.

“Just let it go Lando” you say, voice rising slightly. "pushing me isn't gonna turn my answer into a yes.”

“I’m not pushing you,” he replies.

“You are standing one step away from me and asking me out.”

“I’m asking,” he corrects gently. “Not forcing.”

The distinction makes you angrier.

“Do you hear yourself?” you snap. “Do you understand what this looks like? I’m your PR manager. I’m responsible for your image. For your sponsors. For your career decisions in public. And you want to - what? Complicate that because you’re bored?”

His expression changes instantly, hurt in a way he tries to hide too late.

“I’m not bored,” he says quietly.

“Then what is it?”

A beat.

And then he says it — simple, unguarded, like he’s tired of pretending you don’t already know.

“I like you.”

That alone makes everything go quiet for a second too long.

You don’t answer right away. Not because you’re thinking carefully - because your brain kind of stalls.

Then you recover too quickly.

“You can't,” you say.

It comes out flat. Like you’re shutting a door before it can open properly.

He nods once.

“Okay.”

He says without any argument. And that bothers you more than if he’d pushed.

You look back at your screen, but you’re not reading anything anymore.

“we'll work on it” he says.

“There is nothing to work on Lando ”

A pause.

Then he shrugs slightly,

"We'll see"

You don’t know what to even say to that.So you default to what you always do.

“Goodbye Lando ”

He hesitates like he wants to say something else. Then just nods and leaves.

The next few days you actively tried to avoid Lando, which was hard because well, he was everywhere, but you needed time to sort through this. To snap back. On your third day of mission avoiding Lando, you hear his laugh, you turn to catch a glimpse of him when you see it. One of the newer staff. You notice her laughing with him near the garage. It’s nothing serious. Nothing you can even justify being annoyed about. But you still feel it. Which annoys you more. You’re standing nearby pretending to check emails, but you’re not actually reading anything.He says something. She laughs. He smiles back. And something tightens in your chest before you can stop it. You look away first immediately. Like that fixes it, it doesn’t.

Later that night, he finds you still in the paddock office.

“You’re still here?” he asks, leaning on the doorframe.

“I’ve got work.”

“You always say that.”

You don’t look up. “Because I always do.”

He steps in but doesn’t sit.

Just stays standing there like he’s not sure where he fits in the room anymore.

“Are you okay?” he says.

You pause for half a second.

“I'm fine”

“Don't give me that”

You finally look at him.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to talk to me”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

He sighs.

“Right."

A pause.

“You didn’t like seeing me talk to her earlier.”

That hits too directly. You immediately shut it down.

“I don’t care.”

He doesn’t react to the speed of it. Just watches you.

“You do that thing,” he says.

“What thing.”

“Say no too fast.”

You let out a short breath, annoyed now.

“Lando, don’t start reading into everything.”

“I’m not reading into it,” he says. “I’m just… observing.”

That makes you stand up.

A bit too quickly.

“ I don't wanna do this tonight lando.”

“Do what” he says, a bit sharper now.

“Cross lines that are not supposed to be crossed."

“I'm just asking you why you look like that when I talk to other people.”

That stops you for a second but you recover quickly.

“I don’t look like anything.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“Okay, sure.”

A pause. Then he adds, softer again

“You’re allowed to just say you don’t like it, you know.”

“I don’t like what?”

“Me talking to other women ”

You don't answer. But your silence was all he needed to know that you didn't like it.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s what I thought.”

"Just leave Lando I'm not in the mood"

“I’m not trying to make your life harder,” he says.

“I know.”

A pause. Then he looks at you properly.

“I just don’t think I can pretend I don’t feel something anymore.”

That hits you in the chest and you don't like it because you can’t answer it cleanly.

"Just go on one date with me please"

He asks quietly. You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you shut your laptop a bit too firmly.

"I don't understand why you're doing this ”

“I told you why.”

"You're unbelievable" she snaps

“You’ve been like this all week,” he says.

“Like what.”

“ Avoiding me, barely talking to me. Then acting like I’m doing something wrong just by being around.”

You let out a breath through your nose, already tired.

“You are doing something wrong.”

That makes him pause. Not offended, just confused.

“What?”

You stand now. Because sitting down makes it feel contained and it isn’t contained anymore.

“This,” you gesture vaguely between you, voice tightening. “This whole… thing you keep doing. Acting like it doesn’t matter what the consequences are.”

“I do know the consequences,” he says.

“No, you don’t,” you cut in immediately. “You know them in theory. Not in reality.”

He opens his mouth, but you don’t let him in.

“You think it’s just you,” you continue, words coming faster now. “But it’s not just you. It’s me. It’s my job. It’s my entire career if this gets out and someone twists it the wrong way.”

He goes quiet at that. You keep going anyway, because stopping now feels worse.

“I am older than you,” you say, voice breaking slightly at the edge of control. “I manage you. I am literally responsible for keeping your image intact and you think I can just—what? Date you and nothing happens?”

“It’s not like that,” he tries.

“It is like that!” you snap, finally losing the careful tone. “To everyone else it is. To PR. To sponsors. To the paddock. To your team. Do you understand how fast that turns into a problem that I carry?”

He steps forward slightly. Not close enough to touch you. But enough that it registers.

“I don’t care about all of them,I'll be by your side I'll protect you just give me one chance” he pleads.

“You don’t get it,” you say. “You’re not the one who loses everything if this goes wrong.”

His expression tightens slightly at that.

“I’m not asking you to risk everything” he says.

“You are, by not stopping” you interrupt.

That’s the moment it tips. Because he exhales like something inside him finally shifts from patience to frustration.

“I did stop,” he says, a bit sharper now. “I backed off. I gave you space. I did everything you wanted and you still look at me like I’m doing something wrong just for existing near you.”

Your chest tightens immediately.

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“It is what it feels like.”

The silence after that is heavier. And when you speak again, your voice is lower, strained.

“This is exactly why it can’t happen,” you say. “Because you don’t even see the weight of it. You think feelings are enough.”

“They are enough for me,” he says immediately. You shake your head once, like you can physically push that away.

“No,” you say, voice tightening again. “No, they’re not. Not here. Not like this.”

He steps closer this time.

“Then what is it going to take?” he asks. “Because I’ve been here. I’ve waited. I’ve backed off. I’ve tried doing it your way and you still—”

“You’re too young for me,” you cut in suddenly.

It comes out harsher than intended. But it lands. He stills. You push forward before you lose the thread.

“I have to think about every single consequence,” you say, voice shaking slightly now. “Every headline. Every sponsor meeting. Every person who will say I’m unprofessional or worse. And you get to just—want me without that weight.”

His jaw tightens.

“That’s not fair,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you say immediately, and it almost breaks there. “I know it’s not fair,but it's the truth"

After a long beat he speaks up again

"So what will it take for me to earn you?"

He asks,eyes almost looking hopeless.

"You can't, you can't assure me that I won't lose my career you can't assure me that I won't get torn apart just for being romantically involved with you, it would just be instant destruction for me."

"And if I could?"

"Could what?"

"Assure you that no matter what happens between us you're career will remain untouched. Then would you date me?"

You pause "You can't do that though"

"That wasn't the question"

The room feels smaller all of a sudden.

“You’re asking me to gamble my entire life on a hypothetical,” you say, keeping your voice even, controlled. “On feelings.”

“I’m asking you if that’s the only thing stopping you.”

“It’s not the only thing.” You look at him properly then, and that’s your mistake. His hair’s messy from pulling at it, hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms, eyes tired in a way that has nothing to do with jet lag. “You’re younger than me. You’re my driver. I manage your schedule, your image, your interviews. If this goes wrong, it doesn’t just go wrong privately. It explodes.”

“And if it doesn’t go wrong?”

“You don’t know that it won’t.”

“You don’t know that it will.”

You exhale sharply, frustrated. “You’ll be fine, Lando. You’ll still have your seat. Your sponsors. Your fans. If they find out you’re seeing someone older? They’ll call you lucky. If they find out I crossed a professional boundary? I’m done. Blacklisted. Finished.”

His jaw tightens. “You think I’d let that happen?”

“You wouldn’t get a choice.”

Silence stretches between you. He steps closer, not touching you, just close enough that you feel the warmth of him.

“If I spoke to the team,” he says quietly. “If I went to HR myself. If I made it clear this is something I’m pursuing, not you. If I put it in writing that you’ve never encouraged it, that you’ve tried to shut it down every time. If I take the risk publicly so you don’t have to.”

You stare at him. “You’d tell them.”

“Yes.”

“Before anything even happens?”

“Yes.”

“You’d risk the media circus? The headlines?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

Your throat feels tight. “Why?”

He laughs softly, but there’s nothing amused about it. “Because I’m already miserable. You think this is fun for me? You think I enjoy you looking at me like I’m some kid with a crush?” His voice wavers, just slightly. “I know what this is costing you. I know you’re scared. I am too.”

You swallow. “Then stop.”

“I can’t.”

“That’s not good enough.”

He nods, once, like he expected that. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he repeats. “Then I’ll do it properly. I’ll speak to the team. I’ll make sure there’s a clear disclosure. I’ll request you get reassigned if that’s what makes you feel safe. I’ll deal with whatever fallout comes with it.” His voice is steady now, resolved. “And if after all that you still don’t want me, I’ll stop. Completely. No more pushing. No more lingering. I’ll be whatever you need me to be. Just tell me it’s not because you’re afraid.”

Your composure cracks.

“Do you have any idea what this looks like from my side?” you burst out, the words sharp and uneven, nothing like the calm, measured tone you’ve perfected over the years.

He doesn’t interrupt you. That almost makes it worse.

“I worked for this,” you continue, voice shaking now, not from anger but from something deeper. “I worked through internships where I wasn’t paid, through bosses who didn’t take me seriously, through being the youngest woman in every room. I built this reputation from nothing. And one rumour—one headline—and it’s gone.”

He swallows but stays quiet.

“You get to be impulsive,” you say, softer now, more honest. “You get to follow what you want because you’re talented and indispensable and the team revolves around you. I don’t have that protection. If this blows up, they won’t say you chased me. They’ll say I blurred boundaries. They’ll say I was unprofessional. They’ll say I used access.”

His jaw tightens. “I would never let them paint you like that.”

“You wouldn’t get to control the narrative,” you snap, then immediately shake your head. “That’s the point. You don’t understand. I’m older than you. That alone changes how people see this. Five years isn’t dramatic to us, but to the outside world? I’m the irresponsible one. I’m the one who should’ve known better.”

The silence stretches.

You drag a hand over your face, frustrated at yourself for even letting him see this much.

“And it’s not just my job,” you admit quietly. “It’s my family. My parents already think this industry is unstable. They think I’m one bad season away from unemployment. If this turns into a scandal, they’ll look at me like I proved them right.”

His expression softens completely.

“And you,” you say, looking at him properly now, “you’re… you. You’re still figuring things out. You’re still growing. You still have so much ahead of you. I don’t want to be the person who complicates that.”

“You wouldn’t,” he says immediately.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You don’t,” you insist, but your voice is weaker now. “What if you wake up in a year and realize you wanted someone easier? Someone who doesn’t overthink every single thing? Someone your age?”

“I don’t want easier.”

“You don’t know that yet.”

“I know what I feel.”

You let out a brittle laugh. “Feelings aren’t protection.”

“No,” he agrees quietly. “But they’re real.”

You look at him then—really look at him—and he doesn’t look reckless. He looks terrified. Determined. Vulnerable in a way he rarely allows himself to be.

“I’m not rejecting you because I don’t feel anything,” you confess before you can stop yourself.

The words hang between you.

His breath stutters. “You don’t?”

You close your eyes briefly. “Of course I do. I wouldn’t be this upset if I didn’t. I wouldn’t be losing sleep over this if it didn’t matter.”

His voice drops. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one fighting for it?”

“Because you’re the only one who can afford to.”

That hits him. You see it. You step closer without meaning to, your voice lowering. “If I let myself want this, I lose my objectivity. I lose my guard. And if something goes wrong, I don’t just lose you. I lose everything I built.”

He doesn’t argue. He just says, very softly, “Then let me carry some of that.”

“You can’t carry my career.”

“No,” he admits. “But I can make sure you’re not the one taking the fall. I can go to the team. I can disclose it before anything happens. I can put it in writing that you’ve shut me down every time. I can make it clear this was me. My choice.”

Your heart pounds.

“You’d risk that?” you ask.

“Yes.”

“Even if they advise against it?”

“Yes.”

“Even if it damages your image?”

His answer doesn’t waver. “Yes.”

You search his face for arrogance, for carelessness. There’s none. Just sincerity and something fragile underneath it.

“And if I still said no?” you whisper.

His throat works. “Then I’d stop. I wouldn’t make your life harder. I just… I need to know it’s not because you think I won’t step up.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“You don’t get how hard this is for me,” you say, quieter now, almost pleading. “I’ve spent years being the serious one. The responsible one. I don’t fall for drivers. I don’t blur lines. I don’t risk stability for something that might fall apart under pressure.”

“I’m not asking you to stop being responsible,” he says gently. “I’m asking you to let me be responsible too.”

The words land heavier than you expect.

You look at him,this man who everyone assumes is impulsive, playful, unserious - and you see how carefully he’s choosing every word. How he hasn’t once raised his voice. How he’s giving you an out even while he’s standing here baring his pride.

“I’m scared,” you admit finally.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to lose everything.”

“You won’t.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“No,” he says honestly. “But I can promise that I won’t let you be alone in it.”

Silence fills the room again, but it’s different now.

“If you’re serious,” you say slowly, “you talk to the team first. Not after. Before. You make it clear I didn’t pursue you. That I’ve tried to keep it professional.”

“I will.”

“This is such a bad idea,” you murmur.

“Probably,” he agrees.

You study him for a long moment.

“You don’t get to be careless with me,” you say softly. “If I let you in, you don’t get to wake up one day and decide it was just a crush.”

“It’s not.”

“You can’t be so sure.”

“I am,” he insists quietly. “I’ve known for a while.”

Something inside you finally give, not because he pushed, not because he cornered you, but because he stayed. Because he listened. Because he understood what this would cost you and offered to shoulder it anyway.

“Talk to them,” you repeat.

His eyes flicker with something fragile and bright. “And when I do?”

You hold his gaze.

⠀⠀⠀NOTE. 𓍢ִ໋ ִֶָ ִֶָ Ahhh yes. I ghosted this long enough. I am actually embarrassed that I did- I was actually thinking about abandoning this but :( I don’t have the heart to do it so expect many late fics…

It's always the three of them from the start they started studying for college... Tashi, Art, and Patrick. There's no ‘you’ in the picture because you're ahead of them, and you don't have the common bond they have, which is tennis. It's actually surprising that you got stumbled inside their established web. It's so established that, at first, you thought they were in a poly relationship. At least that's proven to be wrong when you saw Patrick and Tashi together without Art. A date night outside the campus, and you're in the right place at the right time to catch them in a restaurant when you pass by the glass wall.

You're not... well, you're not desperate to meet them or befriend them. No, you're not desperate for new friends when you already have them, but you can't help but get curious about it, considering many people are talking about them as if they're the tennis team's royalty. In reality? They're kind of like that, especially with the special treatment they received from people. You're no different from their charms. It's hard to say no when the moment you get the chance to talk to one of them, Art specifically, just happens to pick the table where you're studying at the library. You can't blame him, though, since it's a secluded area and you're alone.

Many study sessions happened with him first before you were introduced to the two. You also hear how they met... and that little bet they had about who won the match will have Tashi's number. Who would have thought that would happen? Maybe everyone but not you, since you already sense some tension from the start. Eventually, it led to getting close to Tashi, which turns out to be easier than you expected. Not because she's warm or welcoming, as people say, but because she doesn't care enough to make it hard. Honestly, she just doesn't think you'll hang around for the long term. At least that's what you thought because you're just there one day. Then again, the next. Then suddenly you're part of the group.

It becomes four of you without anyone saying you're part of something. It just happens. You sit with them after practice, even if you don't play. You listen more than you talk at first. Art talks when the quietness starts to linger in the room. Patrick fills it when Art doesn't. Tashi talks when she wants to, and everyone else adjusts around that. Also, you're not dating Art, and that never happens. He's friendly in a way, like he's always making sure not to cross a line he already drew in his head. He studies with you. He shares notes. He asks if you ate. It's all platonic.

Patrick, on the other hand, is easier. Patrick Zweig is always easy. He jokes like he's known you longer than he has. He steals your food without asking because he's shameless. He leans too close, but not because he's going to flirt with you. He will just talk too loudly and say things he probably shouldn't. You don't mind it, not really. As long... as long he doesn't do some "overly friendly" thing you have in your vocabulary that will consider disrespectful to his girlfriend- to Tashi. With him, it never feels like it has to mean something, even though you don't want to admit it. Tashi watches all of it like she's observing the three of you.

She doesn't interrupt, and she doesn't react much either. Sometimes she looks bored, and other times she studies everything, as she always does when it comes to tennis. She answers you without hesitation when you talk to her directly. She doesn't soften her words, nor does she overreact, yet her answers feel simple and easy to follow. You know she's not being mean because that's just how Tashi is. She watches you while you speak, then nods when it makes sense, while tilting her head when she's curious or engaging more. Talking to her doesn't feel awkward, even though she keeps her distance at first.

The four of you end up having a group chat that mirrors how things work in person. Patrick floods it with jokes and dumb tennis posts while Art says Patrick is annoying, but still replies every time. Tashi messages when she feels like it. It somehow manages to shut both of the boys up whenever they argue over small and shitty things. Plans happen there, and gossip happens there, too. Nothing ever feels serious until… well, when the four of you don't get along with something, it always gets fixed right away. You talk less than they do at first, but no one points it out. They still talk anyway and make you feel like you're tagging along anymore, and start feeling like you're expected to be there.

All this time, you never noticed how easy it felt to follow Tashi around until you started doing it too. At first, it was just to be useful as you helped carry her bag from practice and stayed close while she walked to the lockers. The more time you spent beside her, the more you caught yourself watching. Her shirt fits too tightly to her body, and it makes you swallow when she moves around. Your eyes can't help but drift on their own when she bends to grab something, and you hate that you notice. You tell yourself it means nothing, and you tell yourself you're only helping.

Sometimes she asks you for a towel or asks you to wipe sweat from her back after a long drill. You always try to make it fast and gentler than it should be, but your hand stays there longer than it should. You feel heat through the fabric, and the way her shoulder twitches reminds you of how close the two of you are. You feel a little stupid for noticing so much, like you got caught staring. She never reacts, though, and maybe she sees it, but she just doesn't care enough to call it out. You can also remember vividly that there's the day after a match when she asks you to help her in the locker room because her ankle hurts too much to do it on her own.

You kneel in front of her bench and set her shoe aside while she rests her heel on your thigh. Your hands move slowly as you unwrap the tape, and she watches you, as if this part means nothing. Her skin feels warm under your fingers, and you tell yourself to focus on the task. You don't. Instead, you notice how smooth her skin feels under your fingers even after all the times you've touched her. It surprises you and makes it hard to focus on just helping. You press the ice pack gently against her ankle, and she exhales as it relieves the pain. Her knee shifts closer, and her leg stays relaxed in your hands. You keep your head down because looking up feels too intimate.

Your thumb drifts over her skin on purpose, but you yank it back the second it touches her, and your chest clenches instantly. For a second, you imagine leaning forward and pressing your mouth there instead. The idea makes your stomach twist, and you hate how badly you want it. She talks about the match like it's a joke to your existence, and you nod while kneeling between her legs, pretending this means nothing to you. Sleepovers feel worse. She storms over after an argument with Patrick, then drops onto your couch, as the place belongs to her. You end up sharing the bed more than once because she refuses to go back to her place, and your body reacts before your brain catches up.

You watch her as she undresses, and you tell yourself she has no idea while she laughs at something on her phone. Her naked back faces you, and the curve of her spine makes your chest clench in a way that burns. You want to reach out and press your lips along her skin while your hands trace the line of her shoulders, but you don’t move, and you hate yourself for thinking it. Every movement she makes makes you imagine marking her back with scratches or a hickey. You're here, there, pretending to be calm as these thoughts cloud your mind and you feel worse than anyone else in the room.

There's also a time when you helped her zip up a dress for an event, and your hands brush over her skin. Her shoulder leans into yours like she doesn't even notice, and your fingers pause in the middle of you zipping her up, even while your brain tells you to move. You want to remember how she feels against you. The warmth of her body and how her weight rests against you, but she talks about tennis plans like nothing matters at all. You nod while you're clearly distracted, and your heart pounds hard as you try to act normal. Don't forget that it's insufferable for you to watch the way she walks and the way she laughs or the little impatient scoffs she does when Patrick texts annoy her.

It all makes you want her more. You keep telling yourself it starts as admiration, but it feels harder to explain. She never means to tease you, but the way she lets you stay so close feels like an invitation you keep taking the wrong way because you need her. She's the one you notice first, even in the moments when the four of you are together. The day after practice, she plays a friendly match with Patrick and Art, while you end up sitting on the side of the court to watch. It’s two against one, but she knows how the two play, and she's smart, so her score stays ahead. Your eyes are supposed to be in the game, but you can’t stop looking at her instead.

It's actually shameless with the way your eyes focused when her skirt lifts the moment she bends down to reach for the ball. Every step she takes and every turn of her body makes something burn in your stomach. Of course, you tried to shift in your seat to focus on the game, but your eyes follow her without permission. You realize you’re turned on just from watching, with your face heating up because you’re probably worse than a man and not even one, yet you feel like you’d be raging hard if you were. Your hands tighten in your lap because you don’t deserve to do anything else with your hate brewing, and how much you want her just from standing there or moving across the court.

It becomes a routine where every gesture makes you read into it, even the smallest things. You watch her sip water as she fixes her hair, then reaches for something. Each movement she makes affects and pushes a feeling into your chest that makes your stomach turn upside down. How can it start as curiosity and will stay harmless when you catch your fingers twitching the moment she leans forward, with your eyes following the line of her neck? You know it's not curiosity anymore. You're waiting, and you keep waiting. You already plan ways to be closer even when she's not aware of it. It's fucking annoying at this point that you're being Needy Lesnicki while she's your Jennifer Check.

Helping her turns into more than help because it becomes a reason to touch her and to stay longer than needed. It’s almost fucked up how easy it feels to forget Patrick’s her boyfriend when all your attention stays on Tashi. That same boyfriend ends up catching you off guard late at night, after too many drinks, already sitting around the table. Empty glasses crowd every surface, and the music plays too loudly, so people lean closer just to hear each other talk. You don’t notice yourself watching Tashi until Patrick does. She laughs at something Art says, then tips her head back while sweat runs down her neck. Your eyes follow her without stopping, and Patrick catches it from across the table.

He doesn’t stare or call you out, but his gaze stays on you for a moment, as if he's realized something. Art and Tashi stand to grab another round while Patrick stays where he is. He turns toward you as he has finally decided to speak. “You always look at her like that,” he says casually, like he’s talking about the music. He swirls what’s left of his drink. “I don’t think you even realize you do it.” You laugh and reach for your glass out of habit, even though it’s already empty. You roll it between your fingers like you meant to grab it for a reason. “Like what?” you ask. Patrick looks at you with his mouth pulled slightly to one side. It doesn’t feel friendly, and it doesn’t feel like a joke either.

“Like you’re waiting,” he says. He keeps his eyes on you now, like he wants to see what you’ll do with that. “If she were single,” he adds with a lighter tone, like he’s testing you, “what would you do?” Your answer takes longer than you want it to. You keep your eyes off him while you speak. “Probably nothing,” you say, even though it isn’t true. You sigh, then glance toward the bar where Tashi stands with Art. “Or maybe I’d finally stop pretending I don’t want her.” Patrick lets out a small sound through his nose like the answer confirms something for him. He doesn’t push you further. He just smiles and says, “Huh,” like the idea sits easier than it should.

Patrick feels different after that night, and you can’t pretend you don’t notice. Thankfully, he doesn’t tell Tashi, but somehow that makes it worse. Nowadays, he starts to get closer to you, like brushing past you and leaning in as if he owns the space, when the four of you hang out. You can't help thinking about the day you kind of admit to him about Tashi, and it makes you feel stupid that you said anything at all, because you know how Patrick is. His jokes feel different now and make your stomach twist sometimes while he looks at you longer than he should. You justify it by telling yourself it means nothing, and you don’t stop it because part of you wants to be noticed by him in a way you never admitted you wanted.

You know you should address it to Patrick, but you didn't. It gets complicated because you let it happen. He really gets closer in a way that his hands touch you more often in ways that could still pass as friendly if anyone asked. He didn't make it uncomfortable at all because, honestly, you didn't even notice it when it happened, but you only do after it happened. Like his arm around your shoulder or hand at your back, guiding you through a crowd. It's also scream 'Patrick Zweig' in that matter because he's very friendly, or like that in a way, before that 'conversation' happened. You know it doesn’t matter because he’s not the one you want.

You tell yourself this might even help you! You're delusional like that because you think being closer to him means being closer to Tashi, too. Maybe it makes you feel pathetic that you feel that way. Maybe it makes you worse that you don’t stop it. It’s too bad because the moment Patrick starts acting like that, Art notices. Not just notice in a way he can brush it off. He reads the situation and knows Patrick well enough to tell when he’s playing around. Right now, Patrick is doing that, and Art can see it in the way Patrick laughs a little too long at your jokes. He can see it in the way Patrick turns his body toward you when he thinks no one is paying attention.

Patrick doesn’t realize how obvious it looks from Art’s side because he sees all of it play out in front of him, while you laugh a little too much and lean a little too close. He notices because he sees himself in you. Maybe in a way that he was being the one trying to get Tashi to look his way before, but never enough to compete with Patrick. Watching Patrick get closer while you let it happen brings back the same frustration and interest he felt back then. It leaves him on edge whenever eyes are on it, even though he never admits the little jealousy he feels. That's when he... let's say get a little closer without making it obvious to anyone.

Yes, he's careful. Sometimes his hand rests on the back of the chair you're sitting in instead of putting it on your back, while his knee turns toward yours under the table. The three of you got into something complicated without the shit of getting out of it. Patrick thinks he has control over you whenever he makes contact, just to watch how you react. You let it happen while letting Patrick think he's so subtle about it, but you noticed it while your attention always stayed on Tashi. Art thinks he’s keeping it together, yet his thoughts are messy with the ways to pull you back out of the mess between Patrick and Tashi without stepping fully into the image. Honestly, without messing anything at all.

But you? You just want Tashi, and you knew it, but you also didn’t want to make it something that would ruin the friendship. Sometimes you catch yourself smiling at the mess, even though you don't want to feel anything. Your stomach tightens with guilt or want because you know you shouldn’t play along so much. You know, you keep feeding Patrick’s teasing plus Art’s tension. But how can you stop it when it feels unavoidable? It feels just right. And through it all Tashi stays… Tashi. While you stay caught between the three without knowing how it happened. Wanting her doesn’t fade. You don't even know if you want it to fade.

And heavens help you because you were wrong when you thought it couldn’t get worse. It did get worse, and it's something you still remember because it might be the very same day that nothing can take back what happened. Tashi had a match that afternoon, where Patrick stormed off somewhere after a fight he had with her. It started over something stupid. Small, even before it turned into ego-bruising words. You were the only one, and Art watched the game in the end because leaving her alone never felt right. Art also always knows when something feels wrong, so he texted Patrick before the match started to ask if he planned to show up, but he only said he can't. So it was just the two of you there.

The court stayed the same while Tashi played as if she had only shown up with half of herself. You noticed it right away as her eyes kept sliding toward the sidelines more than the ball. It's obvious she's looking for Patrick as she tapped her bounce the ball against the ground before serving, and her shoulders look tense every time she swings. You kept watching her, with your hands on your knees, and something uneasy twisted in your stomach. Art sat quietly beside you, which somehow made it worse because he never said anything; his eyes kept moving between her and you, like he already knew exactly where your thoughts were going.

She doesn't look like herself from the start, and every serve she gave felt off, while every moment of her feet feels like the fight with Patrick. It already took something out of her before the game even began. Then... unfortunately, it happened when the opponent gave the ball back to her, and she took one wrong step, or, instead, bent her knee so the ball hit her knee rather than her racket. Her body folded in half before she even reached the ground, as if she were trying to reach for her knee. She collapsed under her own weight, and you saw the exact second her knee got injured, while your stomach felt sick at the scene you witnessed.

She screamed loudly, where it was the sound of piercing pain and ragged cries. It was not only the pain but also the shock of what happened and the disbelief that hit all at once. She grabbed her leg and pulled it close while crying hard. Her racket was long forgotten across the court as everything stopped around her. It was like her dreams were shattered in that moment. You didn't hesitate when you jumped over the bleachers without thinking, while your heart raced. Art followed right behind you and ran fast too, with a focus on her. Tashi looked at you for one second with wide eyes full of fear before she hid her face against her arms and curled over her bent leg. It thudded uselessly as you realized you didn't know how to help her.

Patrick being gone made things worse, but part of you felt glad he wasn’t there to witness this firsthand, while another part of you hated that it was just you and Art left to handle everything. The fear lies heavily in your chest while it was mixed with panic and the need to do something more than hold her hand or say things that didn’t fix anything. Tashi tried to breathe through it and tried to force herself to suppress what she felt because that’s how she always handled things, but you caught every emotion in her face. You watched each small attempt to stand up, but it ended the same way, with her dropping back down and letting out a sound she couldn’t hold back. Always ending up hugging her leg after she tried, as if it was the only thing keeping her hope for something.

She looked helpless, and she never looked this way until that moment because she never ever lets anyone do her like that. That sight alone wants you to turn back the time where you can prevent her from playing that day. You wanted to fix this for her, even when nothing could change except being there for her and telling her reassurances while your hand smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “It’s okay… I’m right here… I’ve got you,” you murmured, and her lips quivered into a small smile, as if she didn't believe it. Art murmured something about calling the medic and about getting her off the court safely, but your ear ignored all the noise beside the ones she made.

You stayed focused on her as small sounds slipped past her lips. You hated the powerless feeling, and you hated how it made your chest tighten for her. The only thing you could give is your presence and your comfort. You leaned back slightly when the medic finally arrived and kept holding her. She cried softly into your hand, and her face twisted when you moved away. It made you swear under your breath because you wanted to do more and because you wanted to take the pain away from her. You wanted nothing to ever hurt her like that again. Art stayed on the other side as he helped guide her onto the stretcher, but your eyes never left her.

That day changed everything, and Patrick never truly saw Tashi again. After the injury, she didn’t call him and didn’t reply when he tried to message her, which made it clear she didn't want him in her life anymore. You weren’t surprised exactly because she was always firm when she decided to do something, but watching it happen and watching her shut him out so completely made you scared. You and Art tried reaching out through texts and calls while asking how she was before offering to bring food or study with her once she was allowed to move around. She tried her best to respond at first, but her words were short and cold, yet polite enough to keep things civil while staying distant.

It's actually enough to remind you that she's shutting everyone out until nothing can enter that small wall she created for herself to breathe in. It wasn’t long before the replies started coming less compared to the ones that were already short and little. They grew shorter over time, if that's even possible, until she stopped responding at all. Art tried harder than you expected, and he kept showing up on campus, where he offered help with errands while sitting with her in the moments when she avoided everyone else. You couldn’t do that anymore because you’d graduated and left campus behind.

So you can't see her much that anymore because you don't stay live at the university dorm anymore. The distance just cut deeper because of the circumstances, and you had always been ahead of her. Always moving forward, yet now you're stuck and have no way to reach back into her life. You can't help but think about the little excuses you have to be close to her. Like sleepovers when she had a fight with Patrick or wiping her sweat from her neck after a game. Those moments always make your heart flutter, but you never say it out loud. The memory affects you more now that you don't have any of that. It made your chest tighten, and your stomach turn.

She wasn’t just out of reach physically- she was slipping away from you emotionally, too. It made you realize that you never knew what you had meant to her. Well... you know the answer. Friends. That's the most basic and obvious one, but you couldn't stop to think if there was a tiny moment that she questioned something too. The scraps of attention, along with the closeness you once shared, felt easy to lose once Patrick was gone, and Tashi stayed quiet. It hurt more than you wanted to admit. You never asked, and you never dared to think about your place in her life, but now the question starts bothering you- had you only been there for fun? You had always been careful, and you worked so hard to hide what you felt.

Art updates you about Tashi when she asks because, according to him, he still checks in sometimes, but it never feels like enough. The details he provided were always a little, which showed the walls she built around herself. The walls are far taller than you could ever climb. Doubt stepped in first every time your fingers lingered above your phone as you thought about reaching out. Did she even want to hear from you? You wanted to be the one she leaned on and the one she let close again, but she's not letting me you. All of what happened forced you to face the truth during the moments when you felt most alone. You wanted her, and you didn’t know if she had ever wanted you back or if you had been nothing more than someone who passed through her life?

So it didn't really take any effort to keep your distance when you see her. You tried to fool yourself into thinking that catching up is enough. Maybe one nostalgic conversation, then you'd walk away from her. Just like how you practice in your head. Stupid of you to think that when you forgot to do that, the second you felt her skin under your fingertips. You don’t even remember who suggested going to a hotel. You only remember following her and not stopping your track until both of you end up in the elevator to go up to the unit. You didn’t even bother looking around for privacy. The restraint you have literally disappeared the moment the elevator doors close behind you and Tashi.

Your lips find hers because you can't stand waiting with your hands already on her body. Fingers tangling in her hair while her lips pressed against yours. She groaned and pushed you harder against her chest while tilting her head. “Fuck… I was hoping you’d catch me first,” she murmured against your lips the moment she pulled a little. You could feel her hot breath against your lips, which made you whimper and grab the back of her neck tighter before your lips crushed hers again. “I-I can’t wait anymore,” you rasped. Her hand slid down your side, and you shivered when her fingers brushed your hips.

The elevator continued moving, and she growled before pushing you against the wall. “You’re so greedy,” she said with her teeth nipping your bottom lip. You gasped while you let her pull your lips back to hers. “I need you, Tashi,” you admitted, and your voice trembles as your body pressed into hers. She teasingly smirked against your lips. “How much, hm? Only a little?” You didn't answer her because it's also the same time the doors opened where you stepped out with your hands still on each other, while your mouths still attached to each other. Both of you walked down the hall and didn’t even make it to the end when her back hit the wall as your mouth kept devouring her while you pulled her closer.

Your lips opened to suck and bite her lower lip. It made her moan into your mouth and let you slip your tongue inside. Your tongues tangled together to push and drag against each other. Tongues rolling and spit mixing together with the kiss until your mouths feel sloppy. You nipped and sucked her lips hard while she groaned before sucking back hungrily. The way her teeth grazing yours makes it enough to sting. “Shit… you’re insane,” she breathed while letting her hands rake down your back and dig into your hips. You pressed your mouth to hers again to let your tongue shove deep into her while she sucked hard enough to make your knees feel weak, and your hips jerk forward.

“Mhmhm- yeah,” you growled while grinding into her as your hands clutched her waist and tasted her mouth like it was all you’d ever need. She tipped her head back as one hand held your waist firmly while the other was grasping your hair to keep you right there. “Don’t think for a second I’m letting you get away,” she growled as her thigh slid between yours and pressed hard enough to make you gasp. Your body shook against hers with your chest pinned to hers, and you whispered, “I don’t want to. Not even for a second…” You were already desperate when you two reached the hotel room door with your fingers, trying your best to get the keycard and to open it.

Her mouth stayed on yours the whole time just to steal breath and sound with every kiss. “Hurry… Tash- hurry, I need-” you gasped, but she cut you off when she took your lips again before you could finish. The door opened, and she pushed you inside while keeping her mouth on yours the whole time. She turned you by the waist and shut the door behind you without breaking the kiss. Your back met the door as she pressed into you right after her lips moved slowly and deeply, like she had all the time in the world. The door barely clicks shut before she’s on you again, and there’s nothing gentle or careful about it.

Her mouth finds yours like she held it back for years and finally snapped. Your back presses hard against the door, then it rattles as she hisses into the kiss, but refuses to slow down. “God,” Tashi mutters against your mouth. “You always-” You don’t let her finish as your hands slide up her sides to pull her closer. You kiss her deeper and messier, trying to make up for the months you didn’t touch her. She responds instantly with fingers digging into your hips. Her thumbs press like she needs an anchor. You move first and nudge your feet forward while keeping her close. She leans into you and backs up slowly. One hand slides along your waist for balance. The other stays tangled in your hair.

Your fingers trace down her spine to keep her pressed against you as you guide her steps. Each time she stumbles, you steady her with your chest flush to hers. She bumps lightly into the walls and corners of the hallway. When her foot catches on the rug, you hiss into the kiss and tighten your hold. “Careful. We’re gonna break something,” she gasps and laughs breathlessly into your mouth. “I don’t care,” you murmur against her lips as you tug her closer. She turns slightly with her shoulders brushing yours. Your bodies twist together while you step around the hallway corner. She tilts her head, then presses her mouth to yours until your body turns into hers. The kiss forces you back as your balance slips and the space closes fast.

Your hands catch under her top and tug at the fabric, but she does not hesitate. She grabs it herself and yanks it up over her head in one hard motion, then lets it drop somewhere behind you. There’s barely time to breathe before she is on you. Her grip finds the hem of your shirt while she pulls it up your ribs and over your shoulders. The fabric leaves your body fast and disappears to the floor. A sound breaks from your throat as you stumble together around a chair, but she keeps control and drives you back. Your back meets the wall, and she pins you there with her weight. Cool air hits your bare skin while her eyes stay locked on you like she wants to take everything in at once. Your chest lifts fast and unevenly while heat spreads through you and leaves no room to think.

Tashi doesn’t waste a second, and her hands slide around your back while she leans closer. Her fingers slip under your bra straps, then find the clasp as she keeps you pressed to her. The catch gives way fast before you can speak, and the bra opens under her hands. She removes the cups so your chest falls free while she presses closer. Her mouth moves down your neck with heat and intent until it reaches your nipple. She takes it into her mouth slowly at first, and your body lifts into her while your hands grab her shoulders to keep her close. A soft sound slips from you between kisses while your hands move over the curve of her waist, then along her ribs before sliding into her waistband and pulling her closer.

Her mouth stays on your nipple as she makes a quiet sound against your skin, then her tongue moves once before her teeth catch just enough to pull a gasp from you. Her fingers hold both your hips as she pulls back from your chest and leans in just enough to give you a quick peck at your lips, like she only wants the taste. Her mouth leaves yours and drifts down along your collarbone, where you respond right away by leaning into her, even when she pulls back like you’re trying to keep her close. One of your hands stays firm at your hip while the other slides around your back and up your spine until it cups the back of your neck. “Fuck… Tashi,” you breathe as your voice turns rough while your lips brush hers again, and you pull her closer.

“Yeah?” she murmurs against your skin. “You like that, don’t you?”

You can’t answer, and you just answer with your hands sliding into her hair to pull her up to your mouth again, but she dodges it on purpose. She laughs against your chest teasingly before her lips drift down to suck one of your nipples and tug lightly while she hums just enough to make you squirm. “Just because you want it doesn’t mean you get it,” she murmurs like she knows it’ll get under your skin. You make a small sound of protest and tug at her again. “Tashi, come on,” you whine impatiently. She stays right where she is, and her fingers slide down your side, then hook firmly at your hip while her arm tightens around your waist. Your thighs press together without thinking, and she feels it immediately.

“See,” she says, quietly lifting her head just enough to look at you. “That’s why I won’t.”

Her tongue slides over your nipple again before she pulls back just enough to grin at you and say, “Ask better.” She stays right where she is just to make you wait, and it almost makes you mad how much she enjoys it. “Fuck- Tashi- stop teasing me,” you snap while pressing closer to her, even though you know she won’t listen. Her lips clamp around your nipple before she sucks it eagerly like she can’t get enough, with her tongue swirling and nipping at the tip that makes your back arch. She flicks her tongue over the tip before removing her mouth there to drag her lips along your chest.

You suck in a breath before you grab her hair when you realize she’s going to leave marks on your skin. “Tashi-” you breathe out weakly while your body betrays you. “You’re gonna leave marks,” you murmur with the effort to sound disapproving, yet your voice betrays you when it comes out gently. Butterflies rush through your stomach as she keeps going while your eyes watch what she's doing and it makes you want more. She doesn't hear a thing you said when she started to leave tiny marks around it and trail it up to your collarbone until her mouth brushes your neck. “I want to see it on you,” Tashi whispers as her lips brush your skin before her eyes look at you as if she's daring you to argue. “You think you can stop me?”

It takes her five or maybe more before she gets satisfied with the hickeys she left there, before she moves her head down to the curve of your shoulder just to give a few kisses on it. “Pretty,” she whispers against your shoulder and trails kisses again to go back down to your chest until her lips close around your nipple. Your hand stays in her hair as you feel her lips wrap around your nipple as she needs it. Your chest arches towards her more while your fingers dig into her shoulders. You still try to push her away regardless of how your body reacts, but she only leans closer against you. Her other hand cups your other breast and works your nipple between her fingers as she claims it. You tug at her hair before muttering her name with frustration and need, “Tashi- stop it-” She ignores you and drags her tongue over your nipple again until you gasp.

You try again harder this time by shoving her a little, but you can’t get her off you because her weight keeps you pinned. She moves her mouth from your breast to your collarbone, which makes your stomach twist. You groan and press yourself as close as possible to her mouth while feeling like you’re about to throw a tantrum because you can’t take it anymore. The need you have to take this to bed is screaming in every bone of your body. “You’re such an asshole-” you breathe, “Tashi- seriously- fuck- you’re killing me.” She smiles against your skin like she’s enjoying how worked up you are. Her mouth keeps marking your chest while her hands stay busy like she’s seeing how far she can push you.

The way she licks and sucks it makes your head spin. Your pussy throbs while your knees press together as your chest lifts with each broken breath. You want more than what she gives you as she keeps you pinned against the wall. “Mmhm…” she hums with your nipple in her mouth, while the other is receiving attention from her fingers. Her free hand moves lower without warning and slips under your waistband before placing it right against your clit. You freeze for a second as your hips jerk at her touch. Her fingers rub slowly enough to make your body shiver while your back arches further against the wall. “God,” she murmurs against your skin while her lips tease your nipple. “You’re so wet already.” Your face heats at her words while your stomach twists with frustration and need.

You push at her shoulder to shove her off for a second to breathe and get a grip, but she doesn’t move. “Tashi, I- stop it, seriously, we need to move,” you growl out. Being pinned to the wall makes you embarrassed and needy at the same time. She presses closer and her lips skim your collarbone, then her mouth trails down your chest as she murmurs, “Move where? You like it too much to leave me alone.” Your legs almost fold as you press into her hand that is placed under your panties. Your body betrays you even though you try not to give her satisfaction. You groan softly as you grab her waist to try to pull her back just enough to break the contact, but it’s not enough to get her off you. “Tashi, bed now, I can’t take this here, I need-” Your voice turns into a whine as she keeps teasing you with her mouth on your chest.

Her other hand is still doing little circles that steal your breath away while your pussy pulses harder from it. Your face heats up while your chest rises faster because the feeling keeps getting stronger. You stay under her weight while she breathes softly against your skin and looks at you with that smug expression like she knows exactly how much she’s affecting you.

Her lips leave your chest, and her fingers slip from your nipple in a way that makes your body tense. The other hand slips out from under your waistband, and your hips follow after it like you’re trying to chase the breadcrumbs of please she gave you while it twitches in frustration. A sound leaves your mouth before you can swallow it down. It comes out almost pleading, which only makes it worse since you were the one asking for the bed minutes ago.

She smirks down at you, then tips her head while pushing her hair back like she’s proud of how worked up you are. “I thought you wanted the bed,” she teases while her fingers hover just above your chest right where her mouth had been, and tracing the skin like she’s deciding whether to touch you again. Your lips pout in response. Your chest heaves as something flutters tight in your stomach. “I do! I want it!” Your voice comes out rough and needy when you speak. “Exactly,” she murmurs with a raised brow, “so we’re going there.” She starts walking towards the bed, and the way her hips move makes it very clear she knows you’re watching. You huff and pout, yet your eyes stay glued to her back, which has you press your thighs together.

The teasing smile on her face didn't disappear even though you couldn't see it. Your hands twitch at your sides with the want to touch her again and feel her against you. She takes her time with every step and makes no move to hurry even though she knows making you wait drives you crazy. She glances back over her shoulder, and that small smile on her mouth says she is taunting you to react. “Don’t pout too much,” she murmurs in that teasing tone, “or you’ll lose focus before we even make it to the bed.” She stops near the bed and turns back to face you with that look on her face. Her fingers slip into her waistband, and she slowly pushes it down her legs until it falls at her ankles. She keeps her panties on, letting them rest on her hips, so that’s left on her is just her bra and panties.

Seeing her like this makes your cheeks heat up like a girl having a crush for the first time. She doesn’t look away and makes sure her eyes meet yours. She holds your gaze with that enjoyment like she wants you to make a move. Her bra fits her perfectly, and it becomes impossible to ignore the second she shifts. You can't stop looking at her, and your body is craving every inch of her. Your breathing turns uneven by the time she reaches the bed. The hair on your skin rises because she hasn’t even touched you yet, and your body is already reacting. She climbs onto the edge of the bed and sits at the center as she owns it. Her hand pats the space beside her like it’s both an invitation. "Come here," she teases as her voice turns soft but stays firm. "You’ve been whining enough."

You keep pouting while you're hesitating and only let out a frustrated sound when you watch Tashi still tapping the bed. The need between your thighs makes your legs move toward her anyway. Your hands rest on her shoulders, and you grip her shoulders to steady yourself. She looks up at you with a smug grin, like she knew you would give in eventually. “Don’t just stand there, baby,” she murmurs, and her hand finds your hip first, then slides to hook into your waistband while the pet name makes you sick. Not in a vomiting way, but rather where your stomach couldn't explain what you feel. “Mm,” she hums with dark eyes, “you heard me, now let me take care of you.” She doesn’t even hesitate when her fingers slip under the waistband of your bottoms and your panties to pull them down in one smooth motion.

The fabric slides down past your hips then it crowds at your feet, where it leaves you naked in front of her. “Go on,” she says patiently with her gaze fixed on you, “step out of those for me, baby.” She gestures to the fabric pooled at your feet, and then you step back so she can look at you fully from head to toe. Your chest rises fast while your thighs press together, but her gaze stays fixed on you without breaking even when you move backward. She trails her eyes over you and pauses on the marks she made while a small smirk forms as she watches how your nipples hardened from her teasing. Her fingers twitch at her side like she wants to reach for you again, and you shiver when the thought crosses your mind.

“Look at you,” she murmurs in a low voice, “so wet already… You can’t hide it from me, baby.” The effect she has on you is wild because why is your cunt pulsing by just hearing her words even if it's embarrassing to think that she does that to you? Standing there fully naked under her gaze leaves you open to her completely. Tashi shifts from the edge of the bed and settles into the middle of it while her back rests against the headboard. Her posture is relaxed, but her eyes remain focused and playful as she watches you. She pats her thigh and tilts her head slightly to call you closer. “Come on, baby,” she says softly in a low and inviting voice “get on.”

You went up to the edge of the bed, and your toes pressed into the soft mattress as you knelt on it. The hesitation is present for a moment as your eyes move down to her thighs. Your gaze drops to the one where her knee was injured years ago, and instinct makes you want to avoid it. “I… I’ll sit on the other one,” you murmur as you try to sound gentle, but your voice shows that you’re nervous about it. Tashi chuckles and tilts her head slightly. “It’s fine, baby, really… You can sit wherever you want. My knee can handle it.” You shake your head while your teeth press into your lip as stubbornness keeps you from changing your mind. You lower yourself slowly onto her other thigh and avoid the other one that makes you hesitate.

The bed dips under your weight as your body settles into her thighs. Your hands move to her shoulders without thinking for balance, and you feel her gaze follow every movement as you sit. She hums in approval and lets her hand rest on your hip for a brief moment while she watches you adjust. A smirk pulls at her lips as her eyes travel over you. “Good girl,” she murmurs softly before looking you over once more. “Perfect.” You move your hips a little and press your pussy against her thigh as you grind there on purpose. Tashi makes sure she's touching you with one hand placed on your hip to keep you steady while her other hand is between your legs and guides them open before her thumb presses on your clit.

The sudden pressure makes your hips thrust, and a sound slips past your lips. “You like that, baby? ” she murmurs as her thumb keeps moving while she watches your face. “Is this what you’ve been wanting? ” You bite your lip, and your face feels hot as you try to keep control of your pleasure. Your hips press harder into her hand while you move your hips in circles without thinking. “T-Tashi… god… yeah, I…” Your voice falters into a needy whine, “I want more… I need you-” She hums under her breath and smirks while pressing her thumb deeper as she rubs in patterns meant to make you desperate.

“You’re so greedy, baby. Always want more, huh? ”Her other hand tightens on your hip as a reminder of who’s in charge while her thumb brushes in lines over your clit as your thighs start to shake. You whimper and press closer even though she already has you exactly where she wants. “Yes… yes, Tashi… please…” You manage to say while embarrassment creeps in and your breath comes in ragged gasps. Your heart pounds against your ribs while she keeps holding and letting you guide your own movements. You grind and rut against her thigh like you've lost all patience for pretending you don't want this for a long time. Cunt rubbing into her thigh to follow the friction it makes against you while she doesn’t stop you.

Her hand leaves your hip, then slides up to your chest, where her fingers close around your breast and squeeze just enough to pull a whimper from you. She rolls your nipple between her fingers with steady control while her other hand stays in place. Her thumb moves over your clit in slow circles until your thighs begin to shake. She doesn’t kiss you or speak right away, and instead, she just watches with heavy eyes while you move against her leg. She takes in every broken sound you let out as you grind yourself on her thigh. You get bold, and it even surprises you. Your hands move up to her chest and onto the bra, where you tug the fabric down until only one cup slips aside to show her breast.

A pleased sound escapes you like you just claimed a prize. She exhales through her nose and tightens her grip on your wrist while her other hand’s thumb presses more firmly against your clit. “You just can’t help yourself,” she mutters. You grin at her with the need to push her more as your fingers keep teasing her nipple while you whisper, “Hmhm I know… I’m not sorry about it.” She keeps holding your wrist firm in her hand as she lifts it toward her mouth and tips her head to take your fingers between her lips. Her tongue moves over your fingers to draw them into her mouth while her thumb stays pressed against your clit. Her eyes never leave yours the whole time as she watches the reaction on your face.

Even with her mouth around your fingers, she lets you move your other hand freely, so you use it to grope and then knead her exposed breast. You roll her nipple between your fingers while your hips grind against her thigh like you can’t get enough. She makes a quiet sound against your fingers, and it makes your stomach tighten. She doesn’t pull away when you press closer to take what you want while she keeps controlling the pace. You rub desperately against her thigh before your face buries into her neck to hide your expression as you whimper. Your fingers keep working against her nipple, and her body craves more contact, if that's even possible.

Her thumb works over your clit at a pace that matches yours. She put pressure on your sensitive bud to make you look up at her when rubbing wasn't enough to get your attention.

You didn't budge, and you stayed nuzzling her neck because you refused to meet her eyes. The sounds you make end up swallowed or muffled since you keep being stubborn and acting up on purpose. She finally pulls your fingers from her mouth before she murmurs in a low voice, “Look at me, baby.” You let out a bratty sound and shake your head before biting at her neck. It's your stubborn attempt not to listen to her. “No, I don’t want to,” you replied. She pulls her thumb away from your clit and tips her head, then brushes her lips through your hair.

“You think you can hide from me? ” she asks you quietly. “Do you even hear how loud that whine was? ” You whine again, with your face pressed against her neck. “It’s not fair. You’re teasing me…” She presses both of her hands against your hips to stop you from moving while her voice drops. “I said, look at me. Stop hiding or I’ll stop.” You freeze under her firm hold for a brief second before your chest rises unevenly and your body trembles with helpless need. “No... You’re mean,” you whine into her neck with your face hidden as your body moves against her thigh. “So mean.” Tashi laughs as she breathes against your skin. “Am I now, baby? ”She caresses your hip while her other hand lifts from your side just to guide your own hand to your clit.

The action alone made you whine. “Rub it,” she murmurs in a soft voice. “Use your fingers.”

You don't need to be told twice, and your fingers move over your folds while you keep grinding down on her thigh. You move your hips faster because rubbing your clit won’t be enough for you, and try to ride her in the way you like. Her nails dig into your hips hard enough to sting and strong enough to make you gasp. Her gaze never leaves you as you struggle not to take control, but stubbornness runs in your body despite how her hand forces you not to do it. You still try to move faster, and you grind harder against her thigh, but she pushes her nails into your hips. “Trying to go faster, baby? ” she murmurs. Her voice carries a soft tone that makes you focus back on her.

You whine and fuck her thigh anyway and do your best efforts to keep your pace in the way she wants. She laughs, and it almost sounds like she's taunting you from it. Tashi leans closer before her lips brush your ear. “Careful, don’t hurt yourself,” she teases. She holds you tighter against your hips to keep you steady. The way she touches you and the way she speaks to you makes your stomach twist with your cunt clenches around nothing. You realize she succeeded in guiding you without saying much. Tashi finally managed to gently push your face away from her neck and make you look at her. Your chest pulls back from her chest and leaves you more exposed for her to see. Her hand moves down and brushes over your folds.

You let out a whine when her fingers brush over there, and your hips jerk against her before you can stop yourself. She spreads your folds with two fingers that form a 'V' shape. It gives her a clear look at how wet you are before she teases you, “You’re soaking, baby. Want me to make it even better?” The way her voice affects you goes straight to your pussy, and it throws your body off enough that your hips falter before moving harder against her thigh. You barely catch your breath when she pushes two fingers inside you slowly so you can adjust around them. The sudden fullness from her fingers makes you almost stop using your own fingers on your clit, but you don't get to do it when she speaks again, “Want me to do it for you?”

You whimper and move closer to her even though she already has you where she wants you. “Yes-p-please…” You manage to say as your breath comes out ragged and your heart pounds against your ribcage while she keeps your hips moving. Your hand stays between your legs along with her fingers moving inside you. The feeling has you pushing against her hand to roll your hips to get her deeper inside you, and a whine escapes your mouth. She watches you with a small smirk, and she stops the fingers working on your clit with her thumb, and you gladly remove it for her. She starts moving her thumb in slow circles. Every touch she does feels like she pulled it to make your hips desperately rut against her.

“You feel that? ” she murmurs against your ear in a soft voice, “So tight and so wet… just how I like it, baby.” Your back arches a little while her fingers keep moving inside you and filling you at a slow pace that makes your breath stick in your throat. She keeps holding you as she controls how much you can take while her thumb keeps rubbing your clit. Your body reacts on its own, where your pussy keeps clamping tight around her fingers, which makes it harder to thrust it inside without extra force. Every up and down of her thumb on your clit makes the pressure in your lower stomach build until it’s too much. She holds your hips firmly so you can’t move even if you try.

You fall apart under her hands as your thighs shake. She keeps thrusting her fingers the way she wants while you grind against her because she makes it clear who's in control.

A moan slips out along with your hips lurching against her thigh when her fingers slide deeper inside you and it curls just right. She keeps moving over your clit before she witnesses how your body takes over and you ride her more desperately. You turn your face away because you can’t handle the way she watches you, and you bite your lips to suppress the sounds trying to break out. She doesn't stop you from what you're doing because she doesn't have to. Well, she enjoys what she's looking at too. The way you fuck her on her thigh is enough for her to lean back a little against the headboard and just watch you fall apart under her hands that give you pleasure.

“You’re so tight, baby,” she compliments in that calm voice as her fingers thrust deeper inside you after she pulls them out. She doesn't pull it out completely, though, but it was enough not to remove the tips inside. The words she said to you make you clench around her right away, and your body feels goosebumps on your spine before you can stop them. “I-I… Tashi, so… s-so good…” You whine as your voice breaks and your pussy tightens around her again. You feel good, and it's obvious how your words come out shaky, but there's a little embarrassment to it. Her smirk grows when she hears it. “You like that? You’re doing so well,” she says.

Her other hand slides up from your hips to your chest, then kneads it slowly with your nipples brushing against her palm while you grind against her. “Look at you… pretty, so good for me, baby… God, you feel amazing.” Every word coaxes a gasp or a whine from you, and then your body moves before your mind can catch up. Slick trails down her thigh as your hips jolt on their own, with no way to stop it. You open your mouth to say something, and your voice cracks, “I-I… I can’t… s-so much, Tashi…” Her thumb keeps rubbing your clit like she didn’t even hear you. “Shh… you’re doing perfectly, baby.” Your head tips back as you bite your lip to stay quiet. The way she praises you and how her thumb keeps moving made your hips rut harder against her thigh to chase what she was giving you.

Your hand moves to reach and try to stop her thumb from rubbing your clit, but she murmurs against your ear, “Don’t touch it.” You wrap your arms around her neck instead to pull her closer, just because you need more skin contact. Your body starts to shake when it gets too much, and you squeeze her thigh between yours as you grind down on it. Your eyes start to water because it feels too good. You try to stay still, but her fingers keep thrusting inside you, and every rub of her thumb on your clit makes your thighs squeeze on her thigh. Your pussy clenches around fingers too as you whine and start shaking from what she's doing to you. She breathes softly against your hair, and her warm breath brushes your scalp while her thumb gently glides over your clit.

A second later, she pushes her fingers back inside with the perfect curl. “Mmm… that’s it, baby… just like this,” she murmurs softly. “You’re so good… feel so good about me…” Her words really affect your head, and her fingers move inside you. Your head falls back against her shoulder, and you press your face into her skin while you grind against her thigh. You keep crying from pleasure, and it blurs your sight while your hands cling to her shoulders. Your hips keep moving on their own and grind harder even though you already feel too much. The slickness you made on her skin makes it easy for you to grind against her. Each thrust of her fingers inside you with her thumb rubbing your clit releases another broken sound that leaves your throat.

Your body jerks at the feeling, and you stay right on the edge of your orgasm, but it doesn’t happen yet. The way you shake is getting harder to stop, and your tears make her skin more soaked because it's not just a few droplets anymore. It started to flow continuously over your cheeks while your hips kept rocking against her thigh, and you didn’t even try to slow down.

She hums near your ear and touches your hair with her free hand before she uses it to guide your face gently to look up at her. Her other hand keeps working between your legs without planning to stop until you're done. “You’re okay, baby… I got you. You’re doing so good,” she murmurs against your temple while her fingers curl and move inside you as if her actions will also comfort you.

The slick coming from your cunt is gushing out on her thigh as she keeps working her fingers in and out inside you. You gasp and grab her shoulders when your hips push down harder against her. Mmf- ah-! ”A sound comes out of your mouth as your pussy squeezes tight around her fingers before you come over them and soak her palm. Your legs clamp around her thigh as your hips keep jerking and your whole body trembles through it. You cry out, and the sound turns into messy, shaky whines while you cling to her shoulders. Her hands don’t stop as she works you through your release, where she keeps rubbing your clit while her fingers move inside you.

Your body presses closer into her chest while your face hides deeper against her neck and your back arches more as you move yourself harder over her thigh. Your hips begin to stutter against hers while your pussy tightens around them as the feeling becomes too much. It leaves you with an empty head where you don't know if your body is reacting that way because you want it more or you're trying to get off from the pleasure. Messy and loud moans keep spilling from your mouth, which probably will embarrass the hell out of you if she makes a comment on that later. Your legs squeeze her thigh and do not let you go while you're shaking from overstimulation. “T-Tashi-” you murmur quietly as your pussy clenches tightly again around her fingers while your hips grind slowly against her palm and thigh.

“Mhm? " she responds as if she doesn't know what she's doing to you, especially with her fingers that keep thrusting inside you and won't stop yet even though your cum already soaks her hand wet. Your chest is heaving against hers as your legs shake, and you're sure she can feel your panting as if it were her own with how close you are to her.

She gives you a few pushes and pulls of her fingers, along with her thumb gently rubbing on your clit, before she decides to slowly remove her fingers from your pussy. It started releasing the remaining cum from your hole, and it drips down onto her thigh, which blends together with the one already spilled there with your slick that made her thigh damp.

The feeling of her skin against you made you not want to pull away from her chest. Also because you're still trembling and a few tears flow on your cheeks as you bury your face against her shoulder while you're holding her tight. Tashi sighs and wraps one arm around your back. She starts caressing your skin gently before she starts drawing imaginary shapes and tracing your spine while her other hand holds your hip. “So good,” she murmurs softly, but her voice almost sounds like she’s teasing you. “Look at you, baby… so pretty like this.”

Her words got you whimpering softly into her shoulder while you're trying to catch your breath from the activity you two just did.

You can just feel and guess that she's grinning against your hair when you hear the quiet sound of satisfaction from her while she's holding you close. Then she leans down a little, and her lips brush your ear. “That was fun… we should do this again next time.” The moment you heard her words made you freeze against her with your heart dropping before you pulled away from her to look at her. Your lips form a little pout while your eyes are still glossy from the tears you just shed. “Next time? ”you ask quietly while your voice comes out like you didn't like what you heard to the point it made your stomach turn upside down. Disappointment doesn't fail to show in your feelings. While here you are sweaty and sticky from how she just made you cum, her words make your chest tighten.

She laughs at your expression as she thinks that you're just acting cute in front of her. Her hand brushes your hair away from your face before she says, “Yeah… you did so well though.” You don't know if you're being sensitive because of the post-sex emotions you're having or if you're just expecting something. You end up just giving her a small nod that almost looks reluctant. Your cheeks are burning hot, and you whisper, “Yeah… next time.” Your hand remains resting on the side of her neck just to have her close to you. The way her warmth feels against you and her words made your mind start to race about maybe this means nothing more than fun to her.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

The first thing you were aware of was warmth. Not the gentle, ambient warmth of a sunlit room, but a deep, radiating heat that seemed to emanate from a single point, spreading through your entire body like a slow, pleasant fever. The second thing was the weight. A heavy, solid weight across your waist and a leg tangled possessively with yours, anchoring you to the bed, to him. You shifted slightly, a soft sigh escaping your lips, and the arm around you tightened, pulling you impossibly closer. You were cocooned in Lando, wrapped in his scent and his warmth, and a feeling of profound, bone-deep contentment washed over you, so potent it was almost dizzying.

You weren't awake, not fully, but you were drifting in that hazy, liminal space between sleep and consciousness, a place where the edges of reality were soft and blurred. Here, there were no ethical dilemmas, no professional boundaries, no fear of consequences. There was only the steady beat of his heart against your back, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest with each breath, and the overwhelming sense of rightness, of coming home.

Lando, however, was awake. He had been for a while. He had opened his eyes to the pale, pre-dawn light filtering through the curtains and had immediately been struck by a sense of disbelief so profound it had stolen his breath. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming. He had dreamed of this so many times – waking up with you in his arms – that the reality of it felt surreal, fragile, like a soap bubble he was terrified of popping.

He shifted his head slightly on the pillow, his gaze drinking you in. Your face was turned away from him, pressed into the pillow, your hair a wild, soft tangle spread across the white linen. He could see the elegant curve of your neck, the delicate line of your shoulder where the duvet had slipped down to pool at your waist. He could feel the soft, even puffs of your breath against his arm. He watched the gentle flutter of your eyelids as you dreamed, and a wave of emotion so intense it felt like a physical blow washed over him. It was a cocktail of awe, gratitude, and a love so deep and so pure it scared him.

He remembered the despair of the morning before, the crushing humiliation of failing to dress himself, the raw, helpless tears he had shed in front of you. He remembered the anger, the resentment, the feeling of being less than a man. And then he remembered you. Kneeling on the floor in front of him, your touch gentle and sure as you dressed him. Your arms around him as he sobbed, your voice a soothing balm on his wounded pride. He remembered the breakthrough in the gym, the phantom feeling in his legs that was the first spark of hope. And he remembered the look in your eyes afterwards, the shared memory that had hung between you, thick and electric.

Last night hadn't just been about sex. It had been about healing. It had been about him reclaiming a piece of himself he thought was lost forever. It had been about you letting go of your fear and choosing him. It had been about them, together.

He couldn't resist. He slowly untangled his arm from around you, his movements careful so as not to wake you. He propped himself up on his elbow, his eyes never leaving your face. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers hovering for a moment, hesitating. He wanted to touch you, to memorize the feel of your skin under his, but he was still afraid it wasn't real, that you would vanish.

Gently, he brushed a stray strand of hair away from your cheek, his fingertips ghosting over the soft skin of your temple. You stirred, a soft murmur escaping your lips, and a shy, hopeful smile touched his mouth. He did it again, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw, his touch reverent. He leaned in, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He couldn't not kiss you. It was a physical need, a compulsion as strong as breathing.

He pressed his lips to yours, a soft, tentative touch at first. It was a question. A prayer. When you didn't pull away, when you sighed softly against his mouth, he deepened the kiss. It was slow and deep and impossibly tender, a kiss that spoke of all the words he couldn't find, all the emotions that were churning inside him. It was a kiss of gratitude, of wonder, of a love that was still new and fragile but already stronger than anything he had ever known.

You felt the kiss in your dreams, a warmth that spread through you, pulling you slowly towards consciousness. You responded instinctively, your lips parting under his, a soft sigh of contentment escaping you. Your eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, you were disoriented, your mind still fuzzy with sleep. All you could see was his face, so close to yours, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed in concentration. And then it all came rushing back. Last night. This morning. Everything.

Your heart swelled, a feeling so intense it was almost painful. You lifted a hand, threading your fingers through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and kissed him back. It was your turn to pour your emotions into the kiss, your turn to show him how you felt. You poured in your regret for yesterday morning, your pride in his progress, your overwhelming affection for the man he was. It was a silent conversation, a perfect, heartfelt exchange that said more than words ever could.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathing heavily. His eyes were open now, and they were shining. Shining with a light so bright and so full of love that it took your breath away.

"Morning," he whispered, his voice husky with sleep and emotion.

"Morning," you smiled back, your thumb stroking the soft skin behind his ear. "I could get used to this."

"Me too," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I really could."

You lay there for a while longer, just looking at each other, the silence comfortable and intimate. But reality, in the form of a bladder and a schedule, eventually intruded. "We should probably get up," you said, though you made no move to leave his arms. "Big day today."

"I know," he sighed, but he was smiling. "Walking day."

The words hung in the air between you, charged with a new significance. This wasn't just a physical milestone anymore. It was the first day of the rest of your lives.

You helped him into his chair, the movements now imbued with a new level of intimacy. As you guided his legs, one at a time, over the side of the bed, your hands lingered on his skin. As you helped him position himself in the chair, your gaze met his, and you shared a small, secret smile. You pulled on his clothes, the routine task now a tender act of care. You chose his McLaren t-shirt, a symbol of the life he was fighting to get back to, and a pair of comfortable sweatpants. As you dressed him, he didn't take his eyes off you. He watched your every move, his expression soft and adoring, a lovesick look that made your heart flutter and your cheeks flush. He was looking at you like you hung the moon and the stars, and it was the most wonderful, overwhelming feeling in the world.

"What?" you asked, your voice soft as you smoothed the fabric of his t-shirt over his chest.

"Nothing," he smiled, reaching out to take your hand. "Just… you."

You squeezed his hand, your heart swelling. "Come on, Norris. Let's get you some breakfast."

You wheeled him down to the kitchen, the atmosphere between you charged with a secret, happy energy. You were both acutely aware of the change, of the new dynamic that existed between you. You were no longer just therapist and patient. You were something more.

You started preparing his usual oatmeal, your movements efficient, but you could feel his gaze on you, a warm, steady weight. You were just adding the berries when you heard footsteps on the stairs. You and Lando exchanged a quick, slightly panicked glance. The secret was still new, still fragile, and you weren't ready to share it with the world. Not yet.

You immediately adopted your professional mask, your expression becoming neutral, your posture straightening. Lando seemed to understand, his own expression shifting into one of polite indifference. It was a performance, a sudden, clumsy shift back into your old roles, and it felt awkward and stilted.

"Morning!" Cisca's cheerful voice filled the kitchen. She was followed by Adam, who was already scrolling through something on his phone. They both looked bright and happy, their faces glowing with a quiet optimism.

"Morning," you replied, your voice a little too bright. "Sleep well?"

"Like logs," Adam said, looking up from his phone to smile at you. "Excited for today, Lando?"

"Can't wait," Lando said, his voice carefully neutral. He picked up a piece of fruit from the bowl on the table, his movements deliberately casual.

You placed the bowl of oatmeal in front of him, your hands brushing briefly. The touch was electric, a secret spark in the mundane moment. You pulled away quickly, your cheeks flushing.

Breakfast was a strange, surreal affair. You and Lando were hyper-aware of each other, of every glance, every accidental touch. You talked about the plan for the day, about the walking therapy, your voice a steady, professional monotone. But underneath the words,  a silent, desperate conversation was taking place. Every time his parents looked away, Lando's eyes would find yours, a silent, questioning look that asked, Is this okay? Are you alright? And you would respond with a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, a reassuring glance that said, I'm here. We're in this together. It was a dance of concealment, a performance for an audience you desperately didn't want to have. The air was thick with unspoken words, with the memory of his hands on your skin, the sound of his whispered promises. It felt both thrilling and terrifying, a delicious secret that burned on your tongue.

You could feel Cisca's gaze on you, more than once. It wasn't suspicious, not exactly, but it was… knowing. It was a look that held a soft, amused light, a look that suggested she saw far more than you were letting on. You found yourself fidgeting, stirring your own coffee with a little too much force, avoiding her eyes as much as possible. Lando, on the other hand, seemed completely oblivious, his focus entirely on you, his lovesick expression barely concealed behind a mask of casual interest in his breakfast.

The drive to the rehabilitation facility was another exercise in controlled tension. You drove, your hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly. Lando sat in the passenger seat, his long legs folded to accommodate the space. He didn't speak, but he didn't have to. He kept his hand on the center console, his pinky finger just barely brushing against yours. The small, point of contact was a lifeline, a constant, grounding reminder that last night was real, that you hadn't just imagined it.

The facility was a modern, bright building, all glass windows and polished floors, smelling faintly of antiseptic and hope. You had arranged to use one of their specialized physiotherapy gyms, a large, open space equipped with parallel bars, treadmills, and a bewildering array of resistance equipment. His parents had insisted on coming, and you had agreed, knowing how much this moment meant to them.

As you helped Lando transfer from his chair into the specialized walking frame, his parents hovered nearby, their faces a mixture of hope and anxiety. "Now, remember," you said, your voice calm and steady, the professional mask firmly back in place. "This is all about control. We're not aiming for distance. We're aiming for quality of movement. Use your arms to support your weight, but try to engage your core. Feel the floor with your feet. Don't rush."

He nodded, his jaw set with determination. You positioned yourself on one side of him, his father on the other. His mother stood back, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her eyes wide and fixed on her son.

"Alright," you said, meeting his gaze. "On three. One… two… three."

He pushed down on the handles of the frame, his biceps straining with the effort. You and Adam provided a steadying hand on his back, not lifting, just supporting. Slowly, painstakingly, he lifted his body. His legs, which had been still for so long, trembled with the effort of bearing even a fraction of his weight. He took a shuddering breath, his face a mask of intense concentration.

"That's it," you murmured, your voice low and encouraging. "You've got it. Now, shift your weight to your right. Lift your left foot. Just a small step."

He did. It was more of a shuffle than a step, his foot dragging a few inches along the polished floor. But it was movement. It was a step. A collective, shaky breath was released in the room. Cisca let out a small, choked sob.

"Lando," she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth.

He didn't respond. His entire being was focused on the monumental task in front of him. He shifted his weight again, his movements slow and deliberate. He lifted his right foot, and it joined the left. He had taken two steps. He was standing. He was walking.

Tears were streaming freely down Cisca's face now, silent, happy tears of pure, unadulterated joy. Adam's grip on his son's back tightened, his own eyes shining with a pride so profound it was almost painful to witness. "That's my boy," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Look at you, son. Look at you."

You continued to guide him, your voice a steady, calming presence. "Good. That's perfect. Again. Shift, lift, place. You're doing amazing."

He was. He was a machine. Fueled by adrenaline and a fierce, unyielding determination, he moved again, and again, and again. Each step was a victory, a small miracle of muscle and nerve and will. The parallel bars stretched out before him, a seemingly insurmountable distance, but he was conquering it, one painful, glorious inch at a time. You watched his face, the sweat beading on his forehead, the vein throbbing in his temple, the fierce, focused light in his eyes. He was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only five minutes, he reached the end of the bars. He was panting, his body trembling with exhaustion, but he was standing tall, a triumphant, exhausted grin on his face.

"I did it," he breathed, looking at you, his eyes shining.

"You did it," you smiled back, your heart so full it felt like it might burst.

That's when his parents descended. Cisca was first, rushing forward to wrap her arms around him, burying her face in his chest, her body shaking with sobs of relief and happiness. "Oh, my baby," she cried. "My beautiful boy. You're walking. You're really walking."

Lando wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight, his own composure finally cracking. You saw a single tear trace a path down his cheek, a testament to the enormity of the moment. Adam was there a moment later, his big hand clamping down on Lando's shoulder, his face a mess of conflicting emotions. He was trying to be stoic, trying to be the strong father, but the pride and love shining in his eyes gave him away. He pulled his son into a rough, one-armed hug, kissing the side of his head.

"We're so proud of you, son," he said, his voice gruff with unshed tears. "So damn proud."

You stood back, giving them their moment, your own eyes wet. This was what it was all about. This was why you had pushed him, why you had endured the sleepless nights and the emotional turmoil. Seeing him here, standing in his parents' arms, was the greatest reward you could ever ask for.

After a few minutes, when the initial wave of emotion had subsided, you stepped forward again. "Alright, champion," you said, your voice gentle. "Let's not push it. Time to head back."

The journey back was slower, more labored, but he made it. Every step back was a confirmation, a solidifying of the incredible achievement. When he was finally back in his chair, he was drained, but his eyes were bright with a new kind of energy. The energy of hope.

The drive home was different. The tension was gone, replaced by a light, buoyant sense of celebration. Cisca and Adam chattered excitedly in the back seat, replaying every moment, every step, every expression on his face. You and Lando sat in the front, your hands now openly clasped on the center console, his thumb stroking the back of your hand in a slow, rhythmic caress. The secret was still there, but it felt different now. It felt less like something to be hidden and more like something to be savored, a private, precious joy in the midst of a public celebration.

Back at the house, the atmosphere was euphoric. Adam broke out a bottle of champagne, pouring glasses for everyone, including you. "To Lando," he said, raising his glass. "Our miracle worker."

"And to y/n," Cisca added, her eyes shining as she looked at you. "The real miracle worker."

You felt a familiar flush of shame, but this time it was mixed with something else. A warmth. A sense of belonging. You clinked your glass with theirs, the cool, bubbly liquid a welcome distraction.

You were all gathered in the living room, the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows, bathing the room in a golden glow. Lando was in his chair, looking relaxed and happy for the first time in weeks. He was watching you, his expression soft and open, the lovesick look from the morning back in full force. You couldn't look away. The champagne, the emotion of the day, the warmth of his gaze, it all combined to lower your defenses. You were looking at him like he was the only person in the room, and he was looking at you like you were his entire world.

It was in that moment, surrounded by his parents, buoyed by the champagne and the euphoria of the day, that something inside Lando shifted. The fear, the hesitation, the need to keep this precious thing to himself, it all fell away. He saw the love in your eyes, and he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his soul, that he couldn't, and wouldn't, hide it anymore.

He took a sip of his champagne, his eyes never leaving yours. "I have something to say," he said, his voice quiet but clear but it cut through the celebratory chatter like a knife. All eyes turned to him. Cisca and Adam fell silent, their expressions shifting to one of curious anticipation. You felt a jolt of adrenaline, a nervous flutter in your stomach. You knew that tone. It was the same tone he had used before, a tone that preceded something momentous, something that would change everything.

He took another slow sip of his champagne, his gaze still locked on yours. It was as if the rest of the room had faded away, as if you were the only two people in the universe. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick with an emotion so raw and so pure it made your heart ache.

"I've been trying to figure out how to say this for a while," he began, his eyes searching yours. "I've been scared. Scared of what it means, scared of what you'd think, scared of… everything. But today… today changes things. Everything."

He paused, his thumb stroking the rim of his glass. "I've spent months feeling broken. Feeling like half a man. And then you came along. You didn't just fix my body. You… you reminded me who I was. You pushed me, you challenged me, you believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. You made me want to fight. You made me want to be whole again."

He set his glass down on the table beside him, his hands now free, his movements deliberate. "But it's more than that. So much more. It's not just about what you've done for me. It's about who you are. It's about the way you laugh, the way your eyes light up when you're proud of me, the way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. It's about the way you see me. Not as a patient, not as a project, but as a man."

Your breath hitched in your throat. Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your ears. You knew what was coming. You knew, and you were terrified, and you had never wanted anything more.

He leaned forward, his elbows on the arms of his chair, his entire being focused on you. "I'm in love with you, y/n."

The words hung in the air, suspended in the golden light of the room. They were so simple, so direct, and yet they carried the weight of the world. It was the first time he had said it. The first time either of you had dared to give this fragile, terrifying thing a name. The sound of it, spoken aloud in front of his parents, was so shocking, so overwhelming, that for a moment, you couldn't breathe. You just stared at him, your eyes wide, your mind struggling to process the sheer, unadulterated beauty of it.

A single tear escaped, tracing a slow path down your cheek. You didn't even realize you were crying. All you could see was his face, his eyes shining with a love so fierce and so true it was almost blinding.

You opened your mouth to say it back, to tell him that you loved him too, that you had loved him for what felt like an eternity, but you were cut off by a soft, knowing chuckle.

It was Adam.

You and Lando both turned to look at him, confused. He was leaning back on the sofa, his arm around Cisca, a wide, amused grin on his face. Cisca was smiling too, a soft, maternal, deeply happy smile that held no surprise whatsoever.

"We know," Adam said, his voice gentle but firm.

Lando frowned, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What? You know… what?"

"That you're in love with her," Cisca supplied, her voice soft. She looked at you, her eyes full of warmth and affection. "We've known for weeks, darling."

Your cheeks flushed with a heat so intense it was almost painful. You felt a wave of mortification wash over you, so strong it made you dizzy. They knew? How could they know? You had been so careful, so professional. You had hidden it, or so you thought.

Lando looked utterly bewildered. "How? I mean… how did you…"

Adam's grin widened. He exchanged a look with his wife, a look of silent, shared amusement. "Well, son," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Let's just say you two aren't exactly quiet."

It took you a moment to process his words. And then, like a lightning strike, the memory of last night came flooding back. The sound of his groan, the guttural sound of his pleasure, the sounds you had made in response. The memory, which had been a source of such intense, private joy, suddenly became a source of public, excruciating humiliation.

"Oh my God," you breathed, the words barely audible. Your face was on fire. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't think. You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

Lando's cheeks were flushed a deep, crimson red. He looked from his father's grinning face to his mother's sympathetic one, his expression a mixture of horror and disbelief. "You… you heard…?" he stammered, unable to even finish the sentence.

"We didn't mean to," Cisca said quickly, her voice gentle and reassuring. "The walls are thin. And it was only for a moment. We heard enough to know our son was happy." She looked at you then, her eyes soft and kind. "And that you were the reason why. That's all that matters to us."

That was it. That was the final straw. You couldn't take it anymore. With a small, choked whimper of pure, unadulterated embarrassment, you buried your face in Lando's chest. You hid your burning cheeks against the soft fabric of his shirt, your arms wrapping around his neck, wishing you could disappear.

Lando's arms came around you instantly, holding you tight against him. He rested his chin on the top of your head, his body a warm, solid shield. You could feel the frantic, embarrassed beat of his heart against your cheek. He was just as mortified as you were, but he was holding you, protecting you, and in that moment, it was all that mattered.

"We're so sorry," he mumbled, his voice muffled by your hair. "We didn't… we didn't think…"

"It's alright, son," Adam said, his voice losing its teasing edge and becoming genuinely gentle. "It's more than alright. We're happy. Truly."

You stayed like that for a long time, hidden in his arms, your face pressed against his chest, trying to will away the blush that felt like it would be permanent. Lando held you, his hand stroking your back in slow, soothing circles. Slowly, the mortification began to fade, replaced by a slow, dawning sense of reality. They knew. They knew, and they were okay. They were happy. The secret was out. And somehow, impossibly, it felt like a relief.

Later that night, after a dinner that was both excruciatingly awkward and surprisingly comfortable, you all found yourselves in the living room. Adam had put on a movie, some action blockbuster that was mostly noise and explosions, but no one was really watching. The atmosphere was still charged with the events of the day, with the unspoken truths that now hung in the air, acknowledged and accepted.

You and Lando were on the couch, a careful, respectable distance between you. But it was a pretense, a flimsy facade. You could feel the heat of his body next to yours, a magnetic pull that you had to actively fight to resist. He was watching the screen, but you could feel his attention on you, a constant, warm presence.

After a few minutes, he shifted closer, his arm brushing against yours. He leaned in, his lips close to your ear, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "Come closer."

Your heart leaped. You looked at him, and his eyes were soft and pleading in the flickering light of the television. You glanced over at his parents, who were engrossed in the movie. Adam was leaning forward, his eyes fixed on the screen, and Cisca was curled up beside him, a blanket over her lap.

You took a deep breath and gave in. You shifted, sliding across the couch until you were pressed against his side. He immediately wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer. It felt like coming home. You rested your head on his shoulder, your body relaxing into his, the scent of him a familiar, comforting presence.

But that wasn't enough for him. He tugged gently, maneuvering you with a surprising strength until you were lying on top of him, your body draped over his, your head nestled in the crook of his neck. It was a bold, possessive move, a public declaration of his feelings, and it sent a thrill through you. You were half-lying on him, your legs tangled with his, his arms wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close. You could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your chest.

You lay like that for a while, just listening to the sound of his breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. The movie was just a distant noise, a meaningless backdrop to the world that existed just for the two of you. You felt safe, cherished, and completely, utterly content.

After a few minutes, you shifted, turning in his arms until you were facing him. You were still lying on top of him, your bodies pressed together from chest to knee. You propped yourself up on an elbow, your hand resting on his chest, right over his heart. In the dim, flickering light of the television, his face was a landscape of shadows and soft highlights. His eyes, dark and intense, were fixed on yours, and in them, you could see everything. The vulnerability, the love, the sheer, unadulterated adoration that still made your breath catch.

The sounds from the television—the roar of an engine, the crash of an explosion—seemed a world away. Here, in this small, intimate space you had created, there was only the sound of your two hearts beating, a slow, steady rhythm that was the only music you needed.

You looked at him, at the man who had broken your heart and then pieced it back together, stronger than before. You thought of his confession in the living room, the raw, beautiful words that had changed everything. And you knew you couldn't let another moment pass without giving him the same gift he had given you. You had to say it.

You leaned in closer, your lips just barely brushing against his ear, your voice a soft, hesitant whisper, meant only for him. "Did you mean it?"

He tensed slightly beneath you, his arms tightening around your waist. He knew exactly what you were asking. He turned his head, his nose nudging against your temple, his breath warm against your skin. He didn't speak, not at first. He just hummed, a low, deep rumble in his chest that vibrated through you. It was a sound of absolute certainty, a wordless affirmation that was more powerful than any spoken declaration. It was a yes. A resounding, unequivocal, soul-deep yes.

A wave of relief so profound it was dizzying washed over you. You had known, of course, but hearing it, feeling it in that simple, intimate sound, made it real. It solidified it, cementing it into the foundation of your new reality.

You pulled back just enough to look at him again, a soft, shy smile playing on your lips. You wanted to kiss him, to pour all of your love, all of your gratitude, all of your hope into a single, perfect kiss. But his parents were there. You could feel their presence, a silent, watchful audience just a few feet away. So you compromised. You leaned in and pressed a soft, gentle kiss to his cheek. It was a sweet, tender gesture, a public display of affection that was still discreet, still respectful of the company.

But Lando, it seemed, was done with discretion.

The moment your lips touched his skin, you felt a shift in him. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated want. Before you could pull away, before you could even process what was happening, his hand was tangling in your hair, his fingers wrapping around the back of your neck. He used his grip to guide you, to turn your head, and then his mouth was on yours.

It wasn't a sweet, gentle kiss. It wasn't a shy, tentative peck. It was a claiming. A deep, passionate, breathtakingly possessive kiss that stole the air from your lungs and sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated desire straight to your core. His lips were firm and demanding, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to tangle with yours in a dance that was both familiar and thrillingly new. It was a kiss that said, She's mine. I'm not hiding anymore. This is real.

You were lost. You melted against him, your hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt, your body responding with an immediate, traitorous ache. You forgot about his parents, about the movie, about the world outside of his arms. All that mattered was the taste of him, the feel of him, the overwhelming, all-consuming love that poured from him into you.

You were so lost in the kiss that you didn't hear it at first. It was a soft sound, a quiet little sigh of pure, unadulterated delight. But it was enough to pull you back to reality. You broke the kiss, panting, your cheeks burning, and turned your head towards the sound.

Cisca was watching you. She had a hand pressed to her heart, her eyes shining with tears of joy, a wide, beaming smile on her face. She wasn't shocked or scandalized. She was… she was charmed. Utterly and completely charmed.

"Aww," she sighed, the sound soft and full of maternal warmth.

Your face, which you thought couldn't possibly get any hotter, immediately went into nuclear meltdown. You felt a wave of mortification so intense it was almost painful. You had been caught. Again. You buried your face in Lando's chest, a groan of pure embarrassment escaping your lips. You couldn't look at her. You couldn't look at anyone.

Lando, on the other hand, just laughed. It was a low, rumbling, deeply amused sound that vibrated through your body. He tightened his arms around you, holding you close, his chin resting on the top of your head. He wasn't embarrassed. He was proud. He was reveling in it.

"Alright, alright," Adam's voice cut through the moment, a mock-stern tone that was laced with amusement. "Let's keep it PG-13, you two. There are impressionable parents present."

You felt a fresh wave of heat wash over you, but this time, it was mixed with a strange, giddy sense of relief. The teasing, the gentle ribbing, it was all so normal, so… family. It was the reaction of parents who loved their son and were happy he had found someone who made him happy. It wasn't judgment. It was acceptance.

You stayed hidden in his arms for a few more moments, gathering your courage. Then, slowly, you lifted your head. You risked a glance at Cisca, and she just smiled at you, a warm, encouraging, beautiful smile that made your heart swell. She gave you a small, conspiratorial wink, and you felt the last of your embarrassment melt away, replaced by a warmth that had nothing to do with shame.

You turned back to Lando, your eyes meeting his in the dim light. He was still smiling, but his expression had softened, the amusement replaced by a deep, tender love. He looked at you like you were his entire world, and in that moment, you knew you were. You leaned in, not to kiss him, but to rest your forehead against his, your noses touching.

You closed your eyes, blocking out the world, and whispered the words you had been waiting all night to say. The words you had been waiting your whole life to say to someone, to him.

"I love you too, Lando."

His arms tightened around you, a soft, contented sigh escaping his lips. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. You could feel it in the way he held you, in the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your own. You could feel it in the air around you, in the soft, happy silence that had fallen over the room. You were home. You were finally, exactly where you were meant to be.

Taglist:

@xoxos4h @f1fantasys @lovingfurypanda @vampiirose @ln4-4ever @qxeenjen

@anaylen01 @coldheartedmar @loverofallthingsdrama @itsartesworld @mydestinycupcake

VALENTINE’S DAY at a place like this is either very romantic or a very bad idea. There is no in-between.

The restaurant you find yourself at is polished within an inch of its life: floors gleaming, glasses so thin you’re already nervous to hold them wrong, and candles flickering in little gold halos in front of couples that make them look more in love than they probably are.

You wonder distantly if that’s the point.

You’re acutely aware of your husband’s hand resting on the small of your back as the hostess leads you through a maze of white tablecloths. He’s dressed up for once in a rented two piece suit. The tie you picked out for him rests in the passenger seat of his Honda CR-V, hastily torn off before you exited the car because “I’m not a fucking priss, babe. This makes me look stupid.”

Not a priss, he said, right before leading you into a restaurant that neither of you can afford to dine in with a couple that neither of you should be seeing.

“Breathe,” Patrick murmurs into your ear.

You don’t realise you haven’t been until you try. Your chest feels tight, like you’ve just spent twenty minutes running laps instead of sitting in your car to hype yourself up. It was your idea to say yes, so you refuse to let him know you’re panicking to avoid some petty jab about being a pussy over dinner.

You could have declined. You could have laughed and told Tashi you had plans. You could have pretended that spending Valentine’s Day with your husband’s ex-girlfriend—who is also your ex-girlfriend—and your own ex-boyfriend—who is now her husband—wasn’t some kind of elaborate emotional suicide mission.

Instead, you’re here, ready to face the guillotine. And isn’t this about to be a shitshow?

You see them immediately. They’re settled in a corner booth that somehow manages to feel both intimate and exposed to all the eyes in the room. Art Donaldson is not what you remember from college. He looks like he belongs here now, in a navy suit with a crisp collar and posture so straight you have to force yourself to stand taller to match it.

It hurts to look at him, akin to the way it’d feel to press on an old bruise to check if it still hurts.

It does, your brain adds helpfully.

Tashi sits next to him. You almost laugh, because of course she looks like that. You’ve seen her on magazines, TV screens, every social media platform you own, but the severe cut of her hair now makes your footsteps falter. She looks older. More mature than the young prodigy you used to giggle with in her dorm bed. Her dress is dark with an elegant cut, and you catch a glimpse of those long legs beneath the table, the strap of her heel glinting under the cloth. 

For a second, you’re seventeen again, standing across the net from her and trying not to flinch when she smiles like she already knows exactly how the match is going to play out. You hate that your stomach still flips. 

The most notable thing about them all—even if you have to squint to see it from this distance—is the matching wedding bands on their hands. You twist your own subconsciously. It’s a beautiful ring. Patrick managed to convince his father into giving it to him somehow. It still doesn’t feel like it’s enough to scream married couple when your husband is glancing around the room to eye the cleavage of the women you pass.

You force a smile on your face. It’s fine. He’s fine. You’re fine.

Art looks up at first, his smile faltering when his eyes find the pair of you. The crack in the polish lasts a microsecond before he rises to his feet to offer you a greeting. “Hey.”

Patrick’s hand tightens against your back as you stop in front of the table. 

“Hey,” you echo, forcing something light into your voice. “Happy Valentine’s.”

Tashi’s mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile. “Bold choice,” she says. “A double date.”

You laugh, because what the hell else are you supposed to do? “Your idea.”

“Yes,” she says smoothly. “It was.”

You sit. Patrick pulls your chair out for you, and you can’t remember the last time he’s done that without being prompted. You know he’s auditioning for Husband of the Year purely because of your company, but it makes your heart stutter nonetheless. Art waits until you’re both settled before taking his seat again.

Two married couples. Four people who have, at various points in their lives, slept in each other’s beds; whispered promises; thrown rackets and said things that can’t be unsaid. 

The waiter appears and Tashi orders two bottles of wine. Something red—you don’t recognise the name, only that it sounds fancy enough that it has to be excessive (and way too expensive for your bank account.) But you have a feeling you’re going to need it. 

The first ten minutes are polite. Too polite.

“How’s the tour?” Art asks Patrick.

“Fine,” he shrugs dismissively. “Nothing glamorous. Mostly challengers. You know.”

The word lingers between you all. Challengers. While Tashi has managed to make a household name out of Donaldson, your husband is still playing challengers. You almost snort.

Tashi’s gaze flicks to you, sharp but curious. “And you?”

“Coaching some juniors,” you say. “Playing some smaller events when I feel like it.”

You don’t mention it’s because you can’t afford it consistently. For the most part, rent falls on you when Patrick is halfway across the country. Coaching keeps you both afloat. 

There’s the faintest twitch in her jaw. She doesn’t say it aloud, but you know why: you’re coaching of your own volition while it’s the path that the universe thrust unfairly upon her. Your stomach twists guiltily. 

She tilts her head slightly. “Not playing seriously?” The words are mild, but the implication isn’t.

You force yourself to hold her gaze. “Depends what you mean by serious.”

“I heard you had a good run last spring,” Art says, stepping in the way he used to when things got too heated. You manage a grateful smile in his direction. “Charleston?”

He’s been paying attention. You don’t know how to feel about that. 

“Semis,” you confirm. “I lost, though.”

Tashi’s fingers tighten around her glass and your stomach sinks. God, you hate that you still want her approval.

“To who?” Patrick asks, though you know he knows the answer—he’d been there, after all. He just wants to hear you say it. You don’t give him the satisfaction.

“Tough draw,” you say instead. Tashi’s mouth curves slightly and you know she can see right through you. “Everyone played well.”

Art offers you a reassuring smile. It almost makes up for the scoff Tashi is biting back. The waiter arrives with the wine, sparing you from elaborating any further. You practically gulp down your first glass.

By the time you’ve all started on the second, the edges of restraint begin to blur, polished facades falling away. Art has loosened his tie, posture softened. Tashi’s shoulders have grown less rigid, one arm draped along the back of the booth behind her. Patrick’s hand rests loosely over your knee, thumb ghosting along the bone absently as he recounts some disastrous afterparty in Cincinnati. His version of events is so dramatic you wonder if he even remembers you were there to know otherwise.

You aren’t really listening, anyways. You’re focused on the way Art is looking at you. His expression is hard to read—not quite longing, nor regret. It’s something softer you can’t quite put your finger on.

Whatever it is makes you feel uncomfortable enough to remember the last time he was in your dorm all those years ago. You can picture it perfectly.

APRIL 8TH, 2007

Your room feels too crowded to have an argument in.

It barely feels big enough for the two of you when things are good. When Art would sit cross-legged on your bed with his back against the wall, trainers kicked off, explaining some minute adjustment to your backhand while you pretended to listen. When you’d steal his hoodie and argue it fit you better. When you’d both pretend you weren’t exhausted from practice just to stretch the night out a little longer. 

“How is she?” You ask. You didn’t mean to open with that, but there it is.

He sighs, standing in front of your desk. The distance between you feels cavernous. “Rehab started yesterday.”

“I know.”

Of course you know. Everyone does. It was all around campus, and all over the tennis network. Commentators were using words like devastating and tragic and career-altering. You can still hear the sound it made before she tumbled to the floor when you close your eyes, that piercing scream ringing out over the court.

“She’s in pain,” he continues. “They’re saying at least nine months minimum before she can even think about competing.”

Nine months. That’s a lifetime in sports.

“And?” You prompt.

“And she’s not taking it well.”

You almost laugh at that. No shit. Tashi had been built on momentum. She was always moving, always doing something, and now she can’t even walk without crutches.

“I’ve been over there most nights.”

“I know,” you repeat.

“You know?”

“I’m not stupid, Art.”

He shifts his weight, defensive already. You hate that you can already see it coming. “You haven’t been answering my texts,” he deflects.

You lift your gaze to him. “You’ve been busy.”

“That’s not fair.”

You let out a slow breath through your nose. “What part?”

He frowns. “I can’t just disappear on her because you’re feeling insecure.”

There it was. “Insecure?” You repeat incredulously.

“Yes. Insecure!”

You stand up quickly. “That’s what you think this is?”

“I think you’re making this about you.” Your chest tightens at the accusation. “Her career just imploded,” he continues, voice raising slightly. “She might never come back the same. And you’re upset that I’m helping her?”

“I’m not upset that you’re helping her.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m upset that it’s like I’m not even there anymore!”

“What?”

“You act like it, Art.”

“That’s not true—“

“Yes it is!”

“You’re imagining things.”

You hate that phrase. You have to fight the urge to just storm out of your own dorm at those words alone. “I watched you at the hospital,” you continue quietly. His mouth presses into a thin line. “You didn’t even realise I’d left.”

He looks away. “I thought you went to call your coach.”

“Yeah, I did. After I left.”

Art exhales sharply. “She was coming out of anesthesia.”

“I know.”

“She was scared.”

“I know.”

“She asked for me.”

“And you went,” you finish.

“What did you want me to do?” He asks, frustrated. “Ignore her?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know! Just… just remember that I’m there, maybe?” It sounds childish even to your own ears, words smaller than they felt. You want to tell him he’s been a bad boyfriend for months. That he’s not as committed to this as you are, and his priorities lie elsewhere. But in your anguish, all you can do is sound like a toddler throwing a tantrum about not getting enough attention.

Art runs a hand through his hair, agitation creeping into his voice. “You’re acting like this is some sort of love triangle.”

“Isn’t it?” You stare at him.

“No!” He denies instantly, eyes flashing.

“It always has been, I think—“

“That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” You challenge. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been waiting for an excuse.”

“An excuse for what?”

“To go back. Patrick’s out of the picture. Why the fuck not?”

His expression hardens. “I was never with her. And he has nothing to do with this.”

Never with her. Not officially, sure, but you’ve seen the way they move around each other since starting at Stanford. There has always been something simmering beneath the surface, but Tashi was with Patrick, and Art struck up a relationship with you shortly after. But you’d be blind not to recognise there’s unfinished business there following the Junior Open.

“I’m not in love with her,” he adds.

You hold his gaze. “Say it again.”

“I’m not in love with her.”

“You’re lying,” you laugh, an ugly and bitter sound, shaking your head. “No. No, I’m losing you both. Oh my god.” You drag your hands over your face in frustration. You refuse to let him see you cry, but you can feel it building up. 

“What?”

“You think this is about jealousy? I’m not that shallow, Art,” you say. “She hasn’t spoken to me since the surgery. She looks at me like I broke her knee myself.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

You’d gone to see her once, bringing flowers after her surgery. You remember trying to sit at the edge of her hospital bed like you used to sit on the floor of her dorm, legs tangled, talking about rankings and dreams and futures together. She’d barely uttered a word to you the entire time. The resentment had been suffocating.

“I can’t compete with an ACL tear, Art,” you say bitterly.

“You’re not competing.”

“I am! I’m always competing with her.”

“You’re twisting this because you want me to choose!”

“Yes.” It’s embarrassing to admit, but you are. Denying it would be futile. You love Tashi, maybe even more than he does, but you can’t put yourself through this any longer.

“I’m not doing that,” Art says, shaking his head. Your heart sinks, even though you expected that answer. “I’m not abandoning her.”

“I’m not asking you to abandon her.”

“You are.”

“No. No, I’m just asking you to tell me I matter more!”

“You do.”

“Then prove it for once!”

He falls silent. You can practically see the walls forming behind his eyes. The compartmentalizing and logic, trying to figure out a way to escape this conversation with both of you.

“You don’t trust me,” he says finally, and you hesitate, because you don’t know anymore. You want to trust him, but wanting can only go so far when he’s proven time and time again that she comes first. “That’s it.”

“That’s not it,” you say, trying desperately to salvage the results of an ultimatum you gave him.

“I can’t do this.”

“So- so, what? You’re breaking up with me, then?”

“I’m saying if you think so little of me—“

“This isn’t about thinking little of you,” you cut in. “But I know you, Art. And I know that if she was the one asking you to choose her right now, you would.” He doesn’t answer and you feel something inside you give way. “I can’t be second.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

“Then I will be. As soon as she asks.”

Silence swallows the room. Distantly, you hear someone laughing down the hallway, a door slamming, and life going on outside your room while you’re stuck going in circles with this conversation.

“I love you,” he says suddenly, like that could still fix it.

“I know.” That’s the worst part. You know he loves you. You also know he loves her, and the difference between those two loves is about to ruin everything.

“Maybe this is just bad timing,” he offers.

You stare at him in disbelief. As if timing is why Tashi got injured on the court. As if timing hadn’t just exposed every crack that had been forming in your relationship for months.

“Yeah,” you force out. “Maybe.”

Art turns towards the door. You see him pause, and for a second you think he might come back. Might close the distance and kiss you and promise something concrete, and finally just choose you for once in his life. But he doesn’t.

His hand rests on the doorway. “I never meant to hurt you,” he says meekly.

“I know.”

Art leaves anyway, the door clicking shut behind him. In the quiet of your too-small dorm room, you’re left to realise that Tashi’s injury hadn’t just torn her ACL. It had torn straight through the middle of you and Art, too.

FEBRUARY 14TH, 2019

The memory dissolves like the sugar at the bottom of your wine glass. You down the rest of it. Art is still looking at you the same way he used to when he was trying to read your mind. You wonder what he sees now. 

Regret? Guilt? Longing?

“God.” Patrick leans forward suddenly. “Remember when we were Fire and Ice?”

Art groans immediately, his gaze falling away from you. His cheeks flush in embarrassment.  “Don’t.”

Tashi’s mouth curves upwards. “I liked it.”

“Of course you did,” Patrick says, ego stroked.

“It was juvenile,” Art says.

“Uh, no. It was cool,” Patrick corrects. 

You watch them fall back into that old rhythm like muscle memory. For a moment, they don’t look like two grown men with mortgages and press obligations and complicated wives. They’re just like two boys in locker rooms, convincing themselves the world isn’t ready to see how they play.

“You guys were insufferable. The entire junior circuit hated you,” you chip in.

“The girls loved us!” Patrick protests.

“You loved the attention,” Tashi says.

“You ate it up, too,” you say, shaking your head at her. “The two of them orbiting you like idiots.”

Patrick grins. “We weren’t orbiting—“

“Yes, you were,” you and Tashi say at the same time. It earns a shared look between you, instinctive, the kind that used to happen across nets or over dorm beds. You swallow thickly. Art notices. His smile fades slightly.

“US juniors,” your husband continues obliviously. “That final was brutal.”

Tashi’s gaze shifts to you. “You almost had me.” 

Almost. Like almost means shit in tennis. You remember the heat of it: screaming crowds, your legs trembling in the third set, the look of determination on her face opposite you.

“You broke me in the second. That was light work for you,” you say, injecting lightness into your voice.

“You let up,” she counters.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. You always got in your head playing me. You could beat anyone else, but every time I was across that net, you doubled under the pressure.”

Your chest tightens, and you force out a quiet laugh. “You’ve always thought that.”

“Because it’s true.”

Art clears his throat gently, sparing you. “I liked the afterparty.”

Patrick laughs loudly. “God, what a night.”

You remember it too vividly. Tashi’s blue dress on the dance floor, fingers brushing against yours, two sets of eyes following your every move. 

“You two were practically chest-bumping over her,” you say, and you hate how bitter it comes out. You clear your throat, continuing lightly, “It was embarrassing to watch.”

“Competition,” Patrick smirks over the rim of his glass.

“It wasn’t like that,” Art says, rubbing the back of his neck.

His wife arches an amused brow. “No?”

He hesitates, and Patrick laughs again. “It was exactly like that.” There’s a beat of silence between you all, the memory hanging between you, before he braces his elbows on the table. “Remember what happened when we went back to the hotel?”

“Yeah. You knocked over an ice machine,” Art rolls his eyes.

Patrick waves a dismissive hand. “Irrelevant. I mean after.”

Your pulse ticks faster. “Wha happened after?”

Art closes his eyes briefly, because he knows where this is going. You’d made an excuse on the walk back from the beach. “I don’t want to be a part of your ego boost of a two-man, Tashi,” you’d laughed, shoving her up the path. “I’m too tired for that.”

“We kissed,” Patrick grins, lazy and unbothered. Art’s cheeks flush faintly red and Tashi catches your eye over the table.

“You what?” You say, feigning mild surprise.

Patric rolls his eyes. “Don’t act shocked. I bet she told you the morning after.”

“I’m not shocked,” you reply. “I just don’t think I’ve ever heard you admit it.”

Art exhales. “It wasn’t planned.”

Tashi’s lip twitches. “Nothing about that night was planned.”

“You didn’t seem mad about it,” Patrick says, looking at her.

“It was stupid,” Art adds. 

“And then you all went to sleep?” You ask. Tashi stifles a snort into her wine glass.

“Yeah,” Patrick affirms.

You lean back into the booth. “That’s not what happened.”

Both men look at you, puzzled. Patrick’s hand squeezes your knee questioningly. “What do you mean?”

“I went to her room,” Tashi clarifies. She doesn’t look at either of them, gaze fixed on you.

Art blinks. “Her room?”

“What, to brag?” Patrick laughs uncertainly.

You shake your head. “She said she couldn’t sleep. Said the adrenaline wouldn’t come down.”

“What does that mean?” Art’s throat bobs. Patrick’s expression shifts from confusion to dawning comprehension.

“Art,” Tashi presses, sending him an amused look.

“What?”

SEPTEMBER 10TH, 2006

By the time the knock finally came, you’d half-convinced yourself she wasn’t going to show. Too busy with her new entertainment for the night while you were left to huff and puff over your loss alone, your second-place trophy glinting mockingly where it sat on the hotel dresser.

You recognise the two deliberate taps to your door immediately, shooting up out of bed like you haven’t been agonising over it for the last hour. 

“Hi,” you say, trying not to sound breathless.

“Hi.” She leans against the doorway instead of walking in immediately. “Can I come in?” That part is new. Usually, she doesn’t ask. You step aside anyway.

She walks in slowly, eyes flicking curiously over the space. It feels like she’s already been here before. She has, sort of—different hotels, different rooms, the same agonisingly familiar pattern. By the end of the tournament, she’d always ended up in your bed at least once. 

“You played well,” she says, like she hadn’t told you the same thing hours ago. She runs a lazy finger over your finalist trophy and you groan, slumping onto your bed petulantly. You’ve tried not to look at it since you got back.

“You played better,” you shoot back.

“I know.” 

The lack of smugness almost makes it worse. She slips off her shoes and picks up your trophy to inspect, probably with the intention of getting a rise out of you, before perching on the edge of the dresser.

“How was your fan club?” You cross your arms.

Her mouth twitches. “Exhausting.”

“Poor you,” you say, lip jutting out in faux-pity. “It must be so hard having every boy in a ten mile radius in love with you.”

Tashi laughs. “They were arguing by the end of it.”

“Over you?” You huff a laugh despite yourself. Her amusement is infectious, regardless of how petty you’re feeling.

“Obviously.”

“And?” You study her face carefully.

“And what?”

“Did you have a good time?”

She doesn’t answer right away. She pushes off the dresser to sit on the edge of the bed instead, trophy abandoned, her palms smoothing over her thighs absentmindedly. Your eyes are drawn to the movement before you can stop them, fingers itching to reach out and touch that smooth skin yourself.

“We went back to their room,” she says. There it is—the thing she’d really come here to rile you up with.

“I assumed.” A beat of silence passes before you finally give in, pressing for more. “And?”

“You want details?” She tilts her head playfully.

“No.”

A small smile graces her lips. “They kissed me.” You nod once. “Both of them,” she adds. Your jaw tightens in a way that might be imperceptible to anyone else, but she knows you too well not to notice. “That bothers you,” she observes.

“No, it doesn’t,” you deny instantly. It does. A little. But not in the way it might have months ago.

“Oh, it so does.”

“Does not,” you insist. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she agrees. “I am.”

That’s always been the unspoken rule between you. Whatever happens in public—the flirting, the rivalries on court, the boys trying to get into either of your pants—it doesn’t follow you through the door unless she wants it to. 

“Did you have fun?” 

“A little.”

“Only a little?”

“You know how much fun I have with you.” Her fingers find your jaw, thumb smoothing out the slight jut of your lip. “Don’t pout.”

“I’m not—“ You start to argue, then give a reluctant huff. “You made me wait.”

“I was busy.”

“Yeah, I know.”

She laughs at the petulance in your tone. “Don’t roll your eyes at me. It was worth the wait, wasn’t it?”

“It will be if you kiss me already.”

She catches that hopeful lilt in your voice like a hook, and her smirk softens into something more tender. A second later, she crawls to straddle you, one leg on either side of your thighs. You suck in a sharp breath, fingers finally curling into the soft flesh of her thighs. And finally, finally, her mouth slots against yours.

You melt instantly. You always do. The whimper into her unbearably soft lips is undignified, her tongue sliding over your bottom lip before your brain can even catch up. It’s still maddeningly slow, and you make a quiet sound of protest when she pulls back to murmur:

“You really are jealous. I can feel it.”

The tease in her voice makes heat pool low in your belly. “Tashi,” you groan into the space between kisses, half-exasperated and half-desperate. You try to draw her back in for more, and she relents enough to bite playfully at your lip.

“That wasn’t a denial.”

Any witty protest is undermined by the gasp that her palming at your tits over your pyjama top draws out. Your hands slide up from her thighs to grip the back of the jacket she still hasn’t taken off.

“Why do you taste like tobacco?”

“Patrick smokes. They both do, actually.”

“Ugh. Gross.”

“Jealous,” she taunts again.

“M’not jealous,” you manage as she kisses her way along your jaw. 

“You’re kissing me like you want to eat me.”

“I do.”

She pauses, breath hot by your ear as she debates whether to take that literally or not. Then she leans back, unzipping her jacket to reveal no shirt underneath, just a skimpy little bralette that does nothing to conceal the way her nipples are hard with arousal. Your brows knit together.

“Why are you— no shirt?” You say eloquently, too starstruck by the sight of her breasts in your face to speak properly for a moment. “Was that—“

“For them?” She interjects, smirking down at you. You nod. “God, no. For you.”

Your stomach twists in a way that shouldn’t feel so appealing. She shrugs the jacket off, guiding your hands up to cup her breasts.

“You want to eat me, huh?” She teases. Another shaky nod is all you can muster. “Words. You were so good with them earlier.”

You don’t have it in you to glare at her right now. “Yeah. I do. Can I?” The way her breath hitches when you pinch her nipple over the thin fabric is more satisfying than it has any right to be. 

“How bad do you want it?”

You bite back a groan of frustration. Your brain is already fogged over, but you manage to make an attempt to sound less wanton than you actually feel. “Please, Tashi.”

She tsks softly, right on the playful side of condescending. “You can do better than that.”

A huff of impatience, and you fight the urge to pinch her nipple harder just to be a brat. Disobedience never gets you anywhere when she’s in a mood like this. The deal is whoever wins is in charge, and Tashi wins more often than not.

Not that you mind.

“Please, I need it,” you say, eyes shining pitifully up at her. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. You looked so hot on court. And at the afterparty, in that dress… fuck.” 

“Were you thinking about it when I was with them?” She presses.

“Yes. God, yes.” Your head thumps against her chest, mouthing at the stiff peak of her nipple over her bralette. “The last two hours have been torture. I thought you’d stay with them all night.”

She arches into you with a sharp inhale, fingers finding the back of your neck as you suck harder. By the time you pull back, the fabric is stained dark with saliva.

“Thought about it,” she says, just to see the look of offence on your pretty face. “I’m joking. Take it off for me.”

You obey without hesitation, fingers slipping beneath the underband of her bra to drag it up and over her head. It’s barely hit the floor by the time your face is pressed against her again, a sigh of longing slipping past your lips as they drag up over her breasts.

“You’re so beautiful.”

She seems pleased by the compliment—not in a smug way, either. A girlish sort of bashfulness that’s quickly quashed as her hand guides your head down to kiss her abdomen. “How about you show me how beautiful you think I am?”

You smile against her, nose nuzzling against her soft skin. “Yeah? Can I?”

She slides off your lap to stand, and you have to stop yourself from reaching for her. Instead, your fingers curl back into the sheets, waiting as her fingers hook into her shorts. She eases them down slowly, enough to make your mouth water and your thighs clench together in anticipation. When she steps out of them, her panties follow, an even more agonisingly slow drag down her legs until they hit the floor.

You lick your lips.

“Lay back.”

“Huh?” You reply, dazed.

“Lay back,” she repeats, amusement lacing her voice.

You scramble back to do as asked, hastily adjusting a pillow for your head as you settle against the mattress. You feel it dip before you see her above you, swinging a leg over your torso as she comes to straddle your chest. You’re granted with the sight of her sweet cunt, already shining with arousal. You feel like a dog inhaling the scent so eagerly, lashes fluttering, but she only grins down at you.

“This is supposed to be my reward for winning, but something tells me you enjoy it just as much.”

“Uh huh,” you hum in affirmation. 

And she’s absolutely right—you have no issue with losing every match if this is what you get. She shifts up higher, her knees braced on either side of your head, sinking down onto your face. Your eyes flutter shut, a muffled moan pressed against her when your mouth latches onto her. She’s always tasted divine. Good hygiene and diet, you imagine, or maybe you’re just so tragically in love with her that every part of her is like nectar.

“Fuck. There we go,” she sighs softly as you lap up into her. 

It should be a little humiliating just laying there, nose nudging at her swollen clit as she rolls her hips against your tongue. Once upon a time she was concerned about her supple thighs suffocating you when she took her perch above you, but Tashi quickly learned you were right where you wanted to be.

Your hands come up instinctively to hold onto her, but she smacks them away like one would discipline a dog. “No. You gave up today.”

“I didn’t—” You try to argue, though it’s hard with your face smothered in arousal and the folds of her cunt pressing against your lips every time you open your mouth.

“Yes, you did. Any time you lose your footing against me, you give up.”

Her hips shift again and you latch onto her clit, alternating between flicking your tongue and sucking as if that might make her disappointment in you fade away. It lasts about all of two minutes before another thought occurs to her.

“It’s your forehand holding you back. You roll it in when you should be driving through it. You’re not losing because you’re worse,” she says. You’re actually a little offended that she’s coherent enough to speak through her pleasure when you’re currently worshipping her pussy to the best of your ability. “You’re losing because you’re passive.”

Somehow, that jab digs its heels into your chest, and you have a feeling she’s talking about more than just the final today. Your head falls back against the pillow to breathe again, panting up at her. 

“... Are we still talking about tennis?” You ask, breathless.

She blinks down at you, caught off guard by the question. “We’re always talking about tennis,” she dismisses, right before her cunt hits your face again.

FEBRUARY 14TH, 2019

“—She used to call it sitting on her throne after she won,” you recall, laughing as you lean back into the booth. The memory warms your chest in a way the wine hasn’t quite managed to yet.

For a second, it’s just you and Tashi again. Not this table, not the wedding rings, not the years in between and the unanswered texts. Just her rolling her eyes at you while you both know she’s pleased to be talking about your time together again.

Next to you, Patrick is looking between you both with his brows drawn together, confusion sitting awkwardly on his face. Art’s expression is almost identical as he shifts uncomfortably.

“Wait, what are you talking about?” He says.

Patrick gives a short laugh beside you, though it sounds a little forced. “Is this an inside joke? You’ve lost me. Her throne?”

You glance between them, then back at Tashi. There’s a split second where you debate downplaying it to keep things neat and digestible… but the wine is doing its job. And so is the way she’s looking at you—dark eyes amused, a little daring, and it’s enough to push you over the edge.

“What? You guys didn’t know?”

Patrick’s confusion deepens. “Know what?”

Tashi leans back, completely at ease as her arm drapes back behind her husband again. “That I went to her room,” she says mildly.

Art frowns. “Yeah, you said that part.”

“And stayed,” she adds.

There’s a stretch of confused silence before you see the moment it clicks for them both. “Stayed,” Patrick repeats.

Art blinks. “You mean—“

“Use your words, Art,” Tashi says, lifting a brow.

“You… didn’t just talk,” he says stupidly, his throat bobbing.

You snort into your glass. “God, no. She might have left you both high and dry, but I got laid.”

Patrick barks out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. The thought of you, his wife, having a sexual history with his ex-girlfriend is both as baffling as it is thrilling. “No fucking way.”

“What? Is that surprising?” You glance over at him.

“Yes,” he answers immediately. “Yes, absolutely it is.”

Art is still processing, trying to figure out the timeline of it all. If you were sleeping with Tashi, and then Tashi dated Patrick, and you dated Art… the entire thing is confusing. “You guys—“ he gestures vaguely between you both, “—that was… a thing?”

“On and off,” Tashi shrugs, lips curving up.

“More on than off,” you add, unable to help yourself.

She shoots you a look. “Don’t exaggerate.”

“I’m not!”

Patrick leans back in his seat, dragging a hand over his mouth in a poor attempt to hide his grin. “That’s crazy.”

“You never said anything,” Art says.

You shrug lightly. “You never asked.”

“That’s not—“ He stops himself, shaking his head. “I feel like that’s something you mention.”

“Why?” You counter. “You guys were busy with your own thing.”

There’s a flicker of something between him and Patrick, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it, but you are. You share a look with Tashi over the table.

“We didn’t have a thing,” Patrick denies, though his mouth is twitching.

“Sure,” Tashi hums.

“We didn’t,” Art says, shooting her a look.

“Okay,” she says, clearly not believing him in the slightest.

“You shared hotel rooms for years,” you laugh.

“Because we were touring together,” Patrick says. “It was cheaper.”

“And?” You press, brow raised.

“And nothing.”

Tashi lets out a soft, knowing laugh. “Right.”

“Nothing happened,” Art denies again, jaw tightening just slightly. You almost feel bad, but the way he can’t meet anybody’s gaze—Patrick’s least of all—is just too endearing for your tipsy mind.

“Didn’t say it did,” Tashi replies smoothly.

Neither of you push it further. You don’t need to. The implication hangs there the same way the rest of your history together does: unresolved. Instead, you take another sip of wine, letting the tension settle into something playful again.

“Anyway,” you say lightly, “the point is—“

“That you ditched us,” Patrick cuts in, pointing a finger at Tashi good-naturedly.

Tashi just smirks. “I upgraded,” she replies haughtily, lifting her chin.

You choke on a laugh while Art shakes his head like he doesn’t know whether to chuckle or be annoyed. “That’s unbelievable,” he says.

“You survived.”

“Barely,” Patrick mutters. This time, you catch the faint edge of something beneath the humour. You don’t think it’s anger. More like curiosity. He’s always been more open-minded towards that sort of thing, and you have no doubt he would have gotten off to that knowledge if he’d been told sooner. Then he just laughs, shaking his head. “Jesus. My wife and my ex—“

“Your wife and your ex that’s also your friend’s wife,” you correct sweetly.

“Ex-friend,” Tashi chips in.

“You’re making this worse,” he bemoans.

Finally, Art joins in on the laughter. “This is a lot.”

“Welcome to the table,” you jest.

The laughter doesn’t die down right away. Patrick’s raucous as always, and a nearby couple glances over in mild irritation, but none of you care enough to quiet down. For all your anxieties about tonight, you’re glad it got to this point where the past isn’t a sharp, fragile thing to be danced around. Now you can joke about it without feeling hollow inside.

Some time later, another round of drinks appears—this time something stronger, in four little glasses. You don’t remember anyone explicitly ordering it, but Tashi thanks the waiter like she did.

“Shots?” Patrick says, already reaching.

“Absolutely not,” Art replies immediately.

“Yes,” Tashi counters at the same time, and he looks surprised. You have a feeling it’s unlike her new polished self, the Tashi on all the billboards and sports magazines, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“Oh, come on. Just one,” you say.

“You too?” He says, sending you a betrayed look.

“Don’t be a bore.” You nudge the glass towards him, and he relents with a sigh.

“Patrick’s a bad influence on you.”

Tashi watches the exchange in amusement, then lifts her own glass. “To terrible decisions.”

“To terrible decisions,” you echo.

Patrick’s glass clinks against yours before he downs it. The burn hits fast, and you wince, sputtering out a laugh as you set the glass down. Patrick coughs dramatically at your side.

“Jesus—what the hell is that?”

“Expensive,” Tashi says lightly.

“Of course.”

She leans back, stretching slightly, then glances around like she’s just remembered where she is. “This place is boring.”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” you laugh.

“Exactly.”

Patrick nods immediately in drunken agreement. “Too polite in here. Everybody looks like they have sticks up their asses.”

“It’s a restaurant,” Art points out.

“And we’re done with it,” Tashi decides, rising to her feet before anyone can argue.

“We are?” You blink up at her.

“With the restaurant? Yes. With the night? No.”

“What does that mean?” Patrick says.

She picks up her wine glass, tipping her head back to gulp down the rest of it. “Let’s go somewhere more interesting.”

“Like where?” Art replies warily.

Mischief sparks in her brown eyes. “Where do you think?”

The journey to her hotel room doesn’t take long. Across the street, up the elevator, all of you cramped together and giggling. You cling to Art’s arm as you stumble down the hall on their floor, and you don’t even realise it’s not your husband until Tashi laughs at you. She doesn’t seem to mind, though. Just loops her arm through yours and tells Patrick to hurry up as he lags behind.

When you get into the room, you make a beeline for the arm chair, slumping down with a sigh. “Take my shoes off for me.”

“Take them off yourself,” Patrick groans, collapsing onto the bed. 

Art and Tashi are a little more dignified, not that you’re surprised. Art shrugs off his jacket to hang up while she takes off her heels next to him.

“There’s wine in the fridge if you want any,” she offers.

“I think I’d die,” you lament, leaning forward to clumsily unbuckle your heels. It takes a moment to get them off before you stretch out your legs, wiggling your toes. Patrick’s face down in a pillow now, a silence falling over the room. Then you sit up suddenly. “Do it for me.”

“Do what?” Art says, peeling his tie off.

“Recreate it.”

“Be a bit more specific, babe,” Tashi indulges with a laugh. The pet name makes your heart stutter.

“The… the hotel thing. The three of you.”

Patrick lifts his head, intrigued. “What do you mean?”

“Like, when I wasn’t there. Pretend I’m not here and it’s the night of the Junior Open.”

“Well, we just drank shitty beer and sat around the floor,” Art says, a little uncertain, though he’s smiling over at you with flushed cheeks.

“No. No, not that part,” you say, waving a hand. “The kissing part. You said you all made out.”

“What? No,” he laughs.

“You don’t have to,” you shrug, though your tone suggests otherwise. “Just thought it’d be funny.”

Tashi watches you. She knows you well enough to hear what you’re not saying—that it’s not just curiosity, not just a joke. “Funny,” she echoes, amused.

Patrick swings his legs off the bed, sitting up fully now. “C’mon, man. For old time’s sake.” Nobody seems surprised that he’s up for it without question.

“This is a terrible idea,” Tashi snorts.

“Everything tonight has been a terrible idea,” you point out, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back. “Are you going to give me a show or not?”

She seems amused by your drunken confidence. Art looks to her questioningly—a lap dog, even now—before she nods. “You heard the woman. Give her a show.”

She moves to sit on the bed, patting either side of her. Art hesitates, but just like in 2006, as soon as Patrick moves he’s right there with him. Both of them bracket her sides, hands in their laps, the smell of alcohol heavy on their breaths. Tashi glances between them both, before her gaze settles back on you.

Suddenly, it feels a lot more real when they’re all in front of you. You exhale heavily, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact. “It was like this?”

“Mmm. They were both so desperate.”

“Who’d you kiss first?” You can’t help but ask.

Tashi smiles, turning her head. Patrick leans in slightly, breath ghosting over hers, but she turns before their lips can meet. Her mouth finds Art’s instead. He kisses the same way you remember—a little tentative at first, before his confidence builds and his hand finds her thigh, his kisses growing more fervent.

When she finally breaks apart and turns to Patrick, you find yourself unsettingly okay with it. A part of you thought you would have been jealous. You’ve been married to Patrick for four years, dating for even longer, and yet now your stomach is twisting with arousal at the thought of him kissing her.

He doesn’t ask for permission. As soon as her head turns, his mouth is on hers. He’s hungrier than Art, not just because they haven’t kissed in years. It’s how he always kisses. Sex with Patrick always feels like some all-consuming kind of lust, and your brain feels foggy watching Tashi shudder when his tongue shamelessly slides against hers.

You find your gaze flicking curiously towards Art for his reaction. He doesn’t seem as off balance as you would have thought, though that might be the alcohol talking. He’s just as enraptured by the sight of the pair of them devouring each other, his hand still squeezing Tashi’s thigh. 

A string of saliva connects them when they break apart, and you wet your own lips. “So this is it? You just made both of them take turns kissing you?”

Art turns pink before she can reply. “Do you really think I’m that boring?” She laughs. She leans back, head tilted ever so slightly to expose her neck. And while she makes eye contact with you, Art and Patrick lean in, kissing along opposite sides of her neck. 

It’s not shocking—nothing about tonight has been shocking, really—but it makes the wetness building up between your legs worse. The part that really undoes you is Tashi’s eyes staying on you. It feels like this isn’t just a reenactment for your benefit. It’s like you’re part of it, even from across the room. Always part of it, even back then.

A quiet exhale escapes her when Art’s grip tightens on her thigh, thumb pressing in unconsciously under the slit of her dress, while Patrick’s hand slides higher along her arm, fingers curling at her shoulder. They don’t look at each other, but they’re aware of each other. You can see it in the way they move: careful not to collide, but not exactly avoiding it either.

“Shit,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.

Tashi’s mouth curves faintly at the sound. “You’re looking between them like it’s a match,” she says.

“Feels like one,” you swallow thickly.

She huffs a quiet laugh, breath hitching slightly as Patrick’s mouth presses just under her jaw, teeth grazing boldly. “And who’s winning?”

Your gaze flicks between the three of them, slower now to take it all in properly. “You.”

“Always,” she replies. 

Her hands lift to find their jaws, guiding them back upwards. Your breath catches, fingers curling into the plush arm of your chair when their mouths meet together. All three of them. It’s a strange sight, all of them alternating between lips and tongues, but it makes your heart beat rapidly in your chest nonetheless.

You aren’t sure how long it goes on for before she leans back again.

“You know what to do,” she prompts both men.

Art blushes furiously, ready to protest. “Tashi—“

“Art.”

His complaint dies on his tongue. Patrick is smirking, though you aren’t sure why until it becomes clear what you know what to do means. He leans across her, where Art hesitates for a moment before he does the same. Your jaw almost drops when they kiss, and Tashi grins at the delight in your eyes. 

You’ve never been blind about Patrick’s attraction towards men. He’s ogled them shamelessly for years, and you’ve always had your suspicions about how close he was with Art. Tashi made more than enough jokes at Stanford about teenage boys sharing beds during their formative years turning out a certain way.

It’s a different thing entirely to see him making out with a man. Especially when that man is Art, who’s still a furious shade of red but melting into the kiss. It’s drunk and sloppy, but it might be the single greatest thing you’ve ever seen. 

You don’t realise Tashi’s talking to you until she says your name. Dazed, you manage a, “Huh?”

“I said don’t you feel left out?” She repeats.

“Well—” You swallow, shifting a little so your thighs press together. “I’m having fun watching.”

“You’d have a lot more fun kissing me.”

It takes you aback, but you’re nodding your head eagerly before you can really process it. You almost trip on your discarded heels in your haste to get up. Tashi slides back from between the two men, ignoring their questioning look. 

“You look nice tonight,” you offer clumsily when you sit next to her, tongue feeling thick in your mouth.

“Nice?” She laughs, hand settling on your knee to give it a comforting squeeze. “You used to call me beautiful.”

“Well, you were. I mean— you are,” you correct yourself.

“Don’t get shy on me now. You were so confident ordering us around,” she teases.

“She’s always like that,” Patrick chips in. Art’s panting against his jaw, pressing kisses every now and then while trying to keep his gaze on the pair of you. “So bossy but as soon as she gets a little attention, she doesn’t know what to do with herself.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that,” Tashi snorts. He rolls his eyes, tilting his head back to catch Art’s mouth again.

“You’re beautiful,” you repeat, softer now, as she cups your jaw with her other hand. Her expression shifts slightly into that bashfulness you’ve missed so much. It boosts your confidence enough for you to lean in first, closing the distance like you’ve done a hundred times before.

It’s soft at first, slipping back into something that feels like it never really went away. You hear Patrick make a low, amused down somewhere behind you, but it’s distant. Everything is, except the way Tashi’s hand slides to the back of your neck, steadying you.

“You see? Wasn’t that hard,” she murmurs against your lips.

You huff out a quiet laugh, breath catching. “Shut up.”

She smiles into the next kiss, a little sharper this time, more like the version of her that thrived on pushing you. It pulls a soft, involuntary sound from your throat before you can stop it. The hand on your jaw tips it gently to the side so she can kiss her way along your cheek and to your ear. When your eyes open, you’re met with the sight of Art in the same position, your husband’s mouth sliding down his neck while one hand works at the top few buttons of his shirt.

“Do you miss him?” She breathes, low in your ear.

“Mmm?”

“Art. Do you miss him? Miss kissing him?” she continues, biting the lobe of your ear playfully. “Miss fucking him?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, shivering when she licks a stripe down your neck.

“Invite him over, then. I’m sure he misses kissing you, too. I know I did.”

You call his name, but it comes out more of a moan than anything when Tashi sucks against your neck. She stifles a laugh. “Art,” you repeat, a little louder. He looks towards you, pupils blown wide. Whether it’s from arousal or the alcohol, you can’t tell. “Come here. I want to kiss you.”

Art obeys, despite Patrick’s groan of protest, though your husband follows him across the bed. Tashi continues to lavish your neck with attention while Art leans in with that same hesitance before melting into you. Your drunken mind deduces that he tastes better than Patrick. Not that Patrick tastes bad, but you’re used to kissing someone who tastes of tobacco, not just wine and traces of mint. 

“Man, this is like a wet dream,” Patrick sighs.

“We should probably stop while we’re ahead,” Art adds half-heartedly, though he doesn’t stop kissing you.

“Yeah? You want to stop?” Tashi reaches across, fingers sliding between his legs to palm his bulge. His breath hitches against your mouth.

“No. No, I’m just saying…”

“Stop talking. Don’t ruin this for me,” Patrick says.

So Art doesn’t. Clothes start to come off in pieces, entirely uncoordinated. You’re half-laughing and half-serious in a way that only happens when there’s too much history and too much alcohol in the room. Patrick tugs at the hem of your dress like he’s done a hundred times before, a bit distracted, his attention splitting between the three of you. 

Tashi doesn’t hesitate, though. She moves between all of you the way she always has, slipping her hands under fabric, pushing shirts off shoulders and guiding more than asking. 

You catch yourself laughing at something—nothing, really—as Patrick loses his balance trying to step out of his shoes, collapsing half on top of you and mouthing at your shoulder instead of getting up again. 

“God, we’re a mess,” you say, breathless. “I really want to fuck you, though.”

“You fuck him all the time,” Tashi says with an eye roll, her fingers currently making quick work of Art’s belt.

“No. No, I mean all of you.”

And she’s about to take you up on that offer when her phone buzzes where it was discarded near the head of the bed. Tashi freezes, brows furrowing slightly. “Hold on—“ She says, already reaching for it.

“Don’t tell me you’re taking a call right now,” Patrick groans against your shoulder.

“It’s probably important,” Art adds, though you can tell by his frown and the bulge in his pants he’s just as disappointed as Patrick.

Tashi looks at the screen, her expression shifting. “Oh my god.”

“What?” You ask, sitting up a little straighter and shoving Patrick off. He collapses into Art instead.

She turns the phone around without a word. It’s a photo, bright and blurry, taken by someone with too much enthusiasm. A card smeared in glitter and doodled hearts, with a grinning little brunette holding it up to the camera. Scribbled across the front, it reads:

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY MOM!

For a second, everyone is quiet. Then you laugh, not because it’s funny—though you suppose it is, in a way—but because the contrast is so absurd it knocks the air right out of you. Patrick follows a second later, loud and incredulous.

“Are you serious? Right now? This is why we haven’t had kids,” he laments. You smack his arm, but you’re still laughing.

“That’s—shit. That’s timing,” Art exhales his own laugh.

“I told her I’d call her before bed,” Tashi huffs, but she’s smiling down at the screen when she turns it back to her.

“Well, that’s one way to kill the mood,” Art says, glancing around at the half-undressed state of all of you. 

“Speak for yourself,” Patrick mutters, adjusting himself shamelessly.

“No, I think that’s pretty definitive,” you laugh, tugging the straps of your dress back up. Your heart is still hammering in your chest.

“Probably for the best.” Tashi meets your eyes, something warm flickering there again. There’s a quiet agreement in the room, unspoken but shared. The tension doesn’t disappear entirely, but at least none of you are groping each other anymore.

“I need water,” Patrick declares.

“Same,” Art says, and the pair of them shove at each other on their way to the fridge, sporting matching tents in their slacks.

You watch them, lips curving up faintly while Tashi texts her mom back. Some things change, some things don’t.

“Hey,” you say lightly, looking back at her. “Tell her I said happy Valentine’s.”

Tashi glances up at you, a smile tugging at her mouth. “I’m not sure how to explain who you are, but I will.”

The night ends less explosively than it might have had things continued. But when Tashi settles back next to you, phone extended to show you the picture again while Art and Patrick bicker behind you, you don’t think you’d change a thing.

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The silence that followed was a physical weight, pressing down on you, stealing the very air from your lungs. You stood frozen in the doorway of his bedroom, the finality of his words echoing in the cavernous space of your own shattered heart. "Get out." "My session is over. Right?" The professional jargon, twisted into a weapon of dismissal, was the cruellest part. He had taken your shield, your ethical code, and used it to build a wall between you, a wall you had handed him the bricks for yourself.

You wanted to say something. Anything. To beg for his understanding, to explain the crushing fear that was paralysing you, to take back the words that had extinguished the light in his eyes. But what could you say? You had made your choice. You had chosen his future, his recovery, over the fragile, terrifying, beautiful possibility of 'us'. You had done the right thing. It felt like dying.

You turned, your movements stiff and mechanical, and walked out of the room. You didn't look back. You couldn't. You closed the door softly, the click of the latch sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet hallway, a final, definitive period at the end of a sentence that had barely begun. You leaned your forehead against the cool wood, your body trembling with the force of your suppressed sobs. You could feel him on the other side, a presence of pure, wounded silence. You had done this. You had broken him to save him.

You walked down the grand staircase, each step a monumental effort. The house was different now. It was no longer a sanctuary of shared secrets and stolen moments. It was just a house. A beautiful, expensive house that belonged to your patient's parents, where you were an employee. A guest who had overstayed her welcome in every possible way.

You didn't sleep. You lay in your own bed, in your own small apartment, staring at the ceiling, the events of the day playing on a torturous loop in your mind. The feel of his lips on yours, the sound of his contented sigh, the warmth of his skin. The terror in his mother's cheerful voice, the shame that burned through you as you lied. The hope in his eyes when he said, "I really like you." The devastation in them when you replied, "It's wrong."

You cried until you were hollow, until your eyes were raw and your head ached. You replayed his words, his accusation that you were hiding behind your job, his assertion that you made him feel like a man again. He was right. He was so right. And that was precisely why you couldn't be with him. Because a man like that deserved a future without complications, without the shadow of an ethical breach hanging over his head. He deserved a clean slate, a full recovery, and you were a risk you couldn't let him take.

The next morning, you drove to the Norris house with a sense of dread so profound it felt like a lead weight in your stomach. Every part of you screamed to turn around, to call in sick, to do anything to avoid facing him. But you couldn't. You were his physical therapist. You had a job to do. And you had just told him, in no uncertain terms, that that job was more important than he was. You had to live with that. You had to prove it.

You let yourself in with the key they had given you, the sound of the lock turning feeling like an accusation. The house was quiet, his parents probably still asleep. You climbed the stairs, your footsteps heavy, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. You paused outside his bedroom door, your hand hovering over the handle. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself, adopting the professional mask you would now have to wear every single day for the foreseeable future. You were y/n, the physical therapist. Nothing more.

You pushed open the door.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn against the bright morning sun. He was in bed, a lump under the duvet, his back to you. You could tell by the tense set of his shoulders that he was awake.

"Lando," you said, your voice carefully neutral, devoid of any warmth. "It's 8 a.m. Time to get up for your session."

He didn't move. He didn't speak. The silence was a response in itself, thick with hostility and hurt.

You walked further into the room, your footsteps soft on the carpet. "Lando. Come on. We have a long day ahead of us. Upper body focus today, remember?"

He shifted slightly, a minimal, resentful movement. "I'm awake," he muttered, his voice muffled by the pillow. It was rough, sleep-deepened, and laced with a coldness that made you flinch internally.

"Good," you said, keeping your voice brisk. You moved to his wardrobe, pulling out his training clothes - a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants and a McLaren-branded t-shirt. You laid them out on the end of the bed, your movements efficient and impersonal. "Let's get you dressed. I'll give you a minute to sit up, and then I'll help you with your pants."

You turned to give him that minute, to fetch his chair from the corner of the room, when his voice, sharp and angry, cut through the tense air.

"No."

You stopped, turning back to look at him. He had pushed himself up into a sitting position, his hair a wild mess, his eyes red-rimmed and shadowed. He was glaring at you, a look of pure, unadulterated defiance.

"No?" you repeated, confused. "Lando, we need to get you ready for training."

"I'll do it myself," he said, his jaw set, his gaze unwavering.

You stared at him, a flicker of disbelief warring with your professional assessment. "Lando, I don't think that's a good idea. Getting your pants on is… it's a very specific movement. You need to be able to lift your hips, to shift your weight. It's a lot of core and hip flexor engagement. You're not there yet. It's too difficult."

You were trying to be gentle, to be clinical. But he heard only condescension. He heard you telling him what he couldn't do.

"Shh!" he hissed, the sound sharp and violent. He held up a hand, a gesture of dismissal that was more cutting than any shout. "Just… stop. Don't tell me what I can and can't do. I said I'll do it myself."

He turned his attention to the clothes on the bed, his movements jerky and stiff as he reached for the sweatpants. He was shutting you out. He was building a wall with his own two hands, and you were the reason why.

"Lando, please…" you started, your voice softening.

"Go and wait outside," he interrupted, his voice low and dangerously quiet. He didn't look at you. His entire focus was on the task he had set himself, a mountain he was determined to climb alone. "I'll call you when I'm ready."

You knew that tone. It was the same frustrated, angry tone he had used in the early days, when his body wouldn't do what his mind wanted it to. But this was different. This wasn't frustration with his injury. This was anger at you. And you knew, with a certainty that settled like a stone in your gut, that pushing him would only make it worse. He needed to prove something. To himself, and to you.

"Okay," you whispered, the word barely audible. You backed out of the room, pulling the door almost closed, leaving just a sliver of space. You didn't want to leave him completely alone, not when he was attempting something so potentially frustrating and demoralizing. But you would respect his wish. You would give him his space.

You stood in the hallway, your back against the wall, and waited. The house was still silent. You could hear the faint, distant sound of a bird singing outside. Inside, there was only the sound of your own breathing, and the muffled sounds of struggle coming from the bedroom.

It was agony. Every soft grunt, every frustrated sigh, every rustle of fabric was a twist of the knife. You could picture him perfectly. He would be sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to maneuver the pants over his feet, his face a mask of concentration. He would try to lift one leg, to guide the fabric up, but without the ability to stand, to shift his weight, it would be like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. He would try to lift his hips, to pull the pants up, but his core, while stronger, wasn't strong enough for that sustained, unilateral movement. He would be failing. Over and over again. And with every failure, his anger would grow, his certainty that you were right would curdle into more resentment.

You checked your watch. Five minutes. Seven. Ten minutes. You knew you should go in. You knew that letting him struggle for this long was counterproductive, that it could lead to a setback, to a spiral of frustration. But you also knew that if you went in now, you would be confirming his belief that you saw him as helpless, as a patient who couldn't do anything without you. He was trying to reclaim a piece of his independence, a piece you had inadvertently taken from him last night. You had to let him try.

You were just about to give in, to open the door and offer your help, when you heard it. It wasn't a shout. It wasn't an angry curse. It was your name.

"Y/n."

His voice His voice was quiet, stripped of all its earlier anger. It was small, thin, and threaded with a defeat so profound it made your heart ache. It was the sound of a white flag.

You pushed the door open without a sound. The scene that met your eyes was exactly as you had pictured it, but a thousand times worse. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, half-dressed. One sweatpants leg was bunched around his ankle, the other was tangled uselessly in his lap. His t-shirt lay on the floor, forgotten. He was slumped forward, his head in his hands, his entire body radiating a silent, trembling exhaustion.

But it was his face that broke you. When he finally looked up, his eyes were red and swimming with unshed tears. The wetness was already pooling, making the brown of his irises look darker, more vulnerable. He wasn't crying, not yet, but he was on the very edge. The sight of that unshed grief, that raw, helpless frustration, was more painful than any angry outburst could have been.

You didn't say a word. You didn't offer platitudes or ask if he was okay. You simply walked across the room, your movements slow and deliberate, and knelt on the floor in front of him. You gently took the tangled sweatpants from his lap, your fingers brushing against his. He flinched but didn't pull away. With a quiet efficiency that spoke of years of practice, you untangled the fabric, guided it over his feet, and began the slow, careful process of dressing him. You lifted his legs one at a time, pulling the pants up to his knees. Then, you placed your hands on his hips. "Lift," you murmured, your voice soft.

He did, a small, weary movement, and you pulled the pants the rest of the way up, settling them around his waist. You didn't look at him. You just focused on the task, on the simple, tangible act of helping him.

When you were done, you remained kneeling on the floor, your hands resting lightly on his knees. You could feel the fine tremor running through his entire body. You looked up, finally meeting his gaze. A single tear had escaped and was tracing a slow, salty path down his cheek.

You didn't hesitate. You leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him, pulling his head down to your shoulder. It wasn't a romantic embrace. It was a gesture of pure, unadulterated comfort. He was stiff for a moment, his body rigid with resistance, but then, he crumpled. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his arms coming around you, and the dam broke. Silent, racking sobs shook his frame, his tears soaking the collar of your shirt. You held him tighter, one hand stroking his hair, the other rubbing soothing circles on his back.

"It's okay," you whispered, your voice thick with your own unshed tears. "It's okay, Lando. It's not expected that you can do this yet. This is hard. This is one of the hardest things. Don't ever think you have to do this alone."

He just shook his head, his grip on you tightening, as if you were the only solid thing in a world that had tilted on its axis. You held him until the sobs subsided, until his breathing evened out, until the only sound was the quiet rhythm of your two hearts beating in tandem.

When he finally pulled back, he wouldn't meet your eyes. He just wiped his face with the back of his hand, a gesture of boyish vulnerability that was at odds with the man he was. "Sorry," he mumbled, his voice hoarse.

"Don't you dare apologize," you said, your voice firm but gentle. You stood up, grabbing the t-shirt from the floor. "Come on. Let's get this on. I'm starving."

Breakfast was a quiet, tense affair. You made him his usual oatmeal with berries, and coffee for both of you. You sat at the kitchen table, a careful distance between you. His parents came down as you were finishing, their cheerful morning greetings a stark contrast to the heavy silence hanging between you and their son. They seemed to sense the atmosphere, shooting you and Lando curious glances, but were wise enough not to comment. Lando was monosyllabic, answering their questions with one-word replies, his gaze fixed on his bowl. You filled the silence, updating them on the plan for the day's training, your tone bright and professional, the perfect therapist. It was a performance, and you both knew it.

Training was a welcome escape. In the gym, you could fall back into your roles. You were the coach, he was the athlete. The physical exertion left no room for the emotional turmoil. And he was magnificent. Fueled by a mixture of anger, frustration, and a desperate need to prove something, he pushed himself harder than ever before. His arms, already showing remarkable improvement, were on fire today.

"Again," you'd say, spotting him as he struggled through the last of a set of shoulder presses. "Come on, Norris. You've got one more in you."

And he would. He would grit his teeth, a vein throbbing in his temple, and power through it, a guttural roar escaping his lips as he completed the rep. You did pull-ups, bicep curls, tricep extensions, chest presses. You worked every muscle in his upper body with a ferocity that left him dripping with sweat and trembling with exhaustion. His mobility was returning with a speed that sometimes startled you. You had him rotate his arms in full circles, extend them fully above his head, bring them together behind his back. He did it all, his movements becoming smoother, more confident with each repetition.

By the end of the session, he was a wreck, but his eyes were shining with a familiar, competitive light. The despair from the morning had been burned away, replaced by the raw, endorphin-fueled satisfaction of a hard-won victory.

You took him to the living room afterward, where his parents were waiting. They were eager for a report, their faces hopeful.

"So?" Cisca asked, leaning forward on the sofa. "How did he do today?"

You glanced at Lando, who was sitting in his chair, wiping his face with a towel. He wouldn't look at you, but he was listening.

"He did exceptionally well," you said, and you meant it. "His arms are back to full mobility. The range of motion is exactly as it was before. The only thing that's changed is that they've obviously lost some muscle mass from the period of inactivity." You chose your words carefully, wanting to be honest but also manage their expectations. "So he might still have a little trouble with some movements, or feel a lot of soreness, because we're training every part of his arms and the connecting nerves in ways he hasn't used them in a while. But the underlying strength and mobility is there. It's remarkable."

You took a deep breath before delivering the next piece of news. "In fact, he's progressing so well with his upper body and core stability that I think we're ready to start some walking therapy tomorrow. We'll take it very slowly, of course. He'll need a lot of support, but I think, if everything goes to plan, he should be able to take a few steps with help."

The effect was instantaneous. Cisca gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, her eyes flooding with tears of joy. Adam, who was always more reserved, shot to his feet, a wide, incredulous grin spreading across his face.

"Walking?" Cisca whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "He's going to walk?"

"Tomorrow?" Adam added, looking from you to his son as if he couldn't quite believe it.

"We're going to try," you corrected gently. "It's a huge step, and it won't be easy. But yes. Tomorrow, we try."

Cisca was up and across the room in a flash, pulling you into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the air out of your lungs. "Oh, y/n! Thank you! Thank you! This is… this is the best news we've ever had! You're amazing! Absolutely amazing!"

Adam was right behind her, wrapping his arms around both of you in a group hug. "She's right," he said, his voice thick with a father's overwhelming gratitude. "We don't know what we'd do without you. You're working miracles with our son."

You were trapped, engulfed in their joy and gratitude. You felt a familiar wave of shame, the now-constant companion to their praise. You had done your job, yes. You had pushed him, you had trained him, you had guided him. But you had also broken his heart this morning. You were a fraud, accepting their thanks for the very thing that was tearing you apart.

Over his mother's shoulder, you risked a glance at Lando. He was watching you from the other side of the room. His face was an inscrutable mask. He was still angry, you could see it in the tension around his mouth, in the coldness of his eyes. He was still heartbroken. But as he watched his parents embrace you, as he listened to their words of praise and gratitude, something shifted. The hard line of his jaw softened ever so slightly. A flicker of warmth, of something that looked almost like pride, entered his eyes. He was angry at you, yes. But he couldn't deny the truth of his parents' words. You were helping him. You were giving him his future.

The afternoon session was different. The raw, anger-fueled energy from the morning had dissipated, replaced by a quiet, intense focus. The news of the impending walking therapy had hung in the air between you, a tangible promise of a future that was suddenly, breathtakingly close. It was a shared goal, a common enemy you were tackling together, and in that, a fragile truce had formed. The hostility was gone, but the intimacy from yesterday was still a distant memory. You were colleagues again. Efficient, professional, and miles apart.

"Alright," you said, setting up for the final set of exercises. "Hip thrusts. Let's focus on form. I want you to really feel that glute activation."

You positioned him on the mat, his back against the bench, a resistance band looped around his thighs. You explained the movement, demonstrating with your own body. "Drive through your heels. Squeeze at the top. Control on the way down."

He nodded, his expression serious. He placed his hands on the floor for stability and began the exercise. He pushed up, his hips lifting off the mat. It was a good, solid movement. But then, something changed.

His breath hitched. His eyes widened, flicking to yours. "Wait," he breathed, pausing at the top of the thrust. "I can… I can feel it."

You frowned, moving closer to adjust his form. "Feel what? The glute contraction?"

"No," he said, his voice a mixture of awe and confusion. "More than that. I can feel… my quads. And my hamstrings. It's… it's not just a ghost. It's… there."

You knelt beside him, your professional curiosity overriding everything else. "Where, exactly? Pinpoint it."

He did the thrust again, slower this time, his eyes closed in concentration. "Here," he murmured, his hand moving to the front of his thigh. "And here," his other hand tapping the back. "It's faint, like a low hum. But it's there. It's responding."

It was a breakthrough. A significant one. The nerve signals were starting to reconnect, to find their way through the damaged pathways of his spinal cord. It was the physical manifestation of hope. You should have been ecstatic. You should have been taking notes, planning the next phase of his recovery.

But you weren't.

Because as he lay there, his hips raised in a controlled, powerful thrust, his face a mask of intense concentration, all you could think about was yesterday. In this very room. On these very mats. The memory was so vivid, so visceral, that it stole your breath. The way his body had moved beneath yours, the raw power in his arms as he held you, the guttural sounds he had made as he found his release.

You felt a flush creep up your neck, a warmth that had nothing to do with the exertion of the session. You watched him, watched the rhythmic lift and fall of his hips, the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest, the bead of sweat trickling down his temple. And you knew, with a certainty that made your stomach clench, that he was thinking the exact same thing.

His eyes, when they opened and met yours, were dark. The professional focus had been replaced by something else. Something raw and primal and hungry. The air between you, already charged with the tension of the day, suddenly felt thick, electric, and suffocating. He continued the exercise, his movements slower, more deliberate, and it was no longer just a physical therapy movement. It was an imitation, a memory, a promise. Each thrust was a question, and the look in his eyes was an answer. You were both lost in it, drowning in the unspoken, in the memory of what it felt like to be joined like that. Your body responded with a treacherous, immediate ache, a deep, pulsing need that you fought to ignore. You were his therapist. He was your patient. This was wrong. This was dangerous. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was the look in his eyes and the memory of his body moving against yours.

You ended the session abruptly, citing his fatigue as an excuse. 

The rest of the day passed in a blur of forced normalcy. You helped him with his stretches, ran through his core exercises, and reviewed the plan for tomorrow's walking session, your voice a careful monotone of professionalism. But the air in the gym was still thick with the ghost of that moment, the memory of his dark eyes and the rhythmic movement of his hips. You both felt it, a silent, pulsing current between you that refused to be ignored.

By the time evening came, the tension had coiled into a tight knot in your stomach. You went through the motions of his evening routine, helping him transfer from his chair to the shower chair, your hands careful and impersonal, even as your skin tingled where it touched his. You washed his back, your movements brisk, your eyes fixed on the tiled wall. You could feel his gaze on you, heavy and intense.

After his shower, you helped him into his bed. It was the most fraught moment of the day. The memory of last night's kiss, of his whispered confession, hung between you like a shroud. You were supposed to be leaving, to be walking out that door and reinforcing the boundary you had so cruelly established this morning. But your feet felt like they were cemented to the floor.

You were tucking the duvet around his waist, your eyes deliberately avoiding his, when he spoke. "Don't go."

His voice was quiet, but it cut through the silence with the force of a shout. You froze, your hands still on the blanket.

"Lando…" you started, your voice barely a whisper.

"Please," he said, and the single word was laced with a vulnerability that shattered your resolve. "Just… stay. For a minute."

You looked at him then. Really looked at him. He was propped up against the pillows, his hair still damp from the shower, his eyes wide and pleading. There was no anger in them now, only a raw, desperate longing that mirrored your own. You had spent the day telling yourself that you were doing the right thing, that you were protecting him. But looking at him now, you knew you were only protecting yourself. You were a coward.

Slowly, you sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight. The silence stretched, taut and fragile.

"I'm sorry about this morning," he said softly, breaking it. "I was an idiot."

"No," you shook your head, your voice thick with emotion. "I was. I was cruel."

"You were scared," he corrected gently. "I get it. But you were wrong. You don't get to decide what's a risk for me. That's my choice."

You didn't have an answer for that. Because he was right. He was so, so right.

He reached out then, his hand finding yours where it rested on the blanket. His fingers curled around yours, warm and strong. "I really like you, y/n," he whispered, echoing the words he had said yesterday. "And I think you really like me too."

You couldn't deny it. You didn't want to. You leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed. "I do," you breathed. "God, Lando, I do."

That was all it took. He surged forward, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you down to him. The kiss was desperate, hungry, a week's worth of pent-up longing and frustration exploding in a single, breathless moment. It was nothing like the sweet, tentative kiss from yesterday. This was a claiming. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, and you responded with an equal fervor, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

You shifted, swinging your leg over his body to straddle him, the duvet a barrier between you that you immediately wanted gone. You broke the kiss, panting, your hands moving to the hem of your t-shirt. You pulled it over your head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. His eyes darkened as they roamed over your bare skin, his hands coming up to trace the line of your ribs, to cup the weight of your breasts in his palms.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

You leaned down, capturing his lips again as you reached between you to unbutton your jeans, shimmying out of them and your underwear until you were naked, straddling him. You could feel him, hard and ready, beneath the thin fabric of his boxers. You rocked against him, a slow, deliberate movement that had him groaning into your mouth.

"y/n," he gasped, his hands gripping your hips. "Please."

You needed no further encouragement. You slid off him long enough to pull his boxers down, freeing him. He was magnificent, long and thick and already weeping with need. You positioned yourself over him, your hand guiding him to your entrance. You sank down slowly, taking him inch by inch, a shared moan of pure, unadulterated pleasure escaping your lips as he filled you completely.

You started to move, a slow, sensual rhythm, but then he surprised you. His hands, which had been resting on your hips, suddenly tightened their grip. He planted his feet flat on the mattress and, with a grunt of effort, he thrust up into you.

You cried out, your head falling back as a wave of intense pleasure washed over you. He did it again, harder this time, his hips pistoning up to meet yours. He was using his arms, his hands, his core, all the strength he had been so painstakingly rebuilding, to fuck you. He wasn't just a passive participant anymore. He was an equal. He was a man.

"Oh, God, Lando," you gasped, meeting his thrusts, your body moving in perfect sync with his. "Yes… just like that."

His hands roamed your body, tracing the curve of your spine, cupping your breasts, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, insistent circles. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"Come for me, y/n," he growled, his voice a low, sexy rumble. "I want to feel you come around my cock."

His words were your undoing. With a cry of his name, you shattered, your body convulsing as wave after wave of exquisite pleasure crashed over you. He followed you over the edge a moment later, his own release a hot, pulsing flood inside you as he buried his face in your neck, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm.

You collapsed against him, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat. You lay like that for a long time, your hearts beating a frantic, synchronized rhythm against your ribs. You felt sated, boneless, and more content than you had ever felt in your life.

You lifted your head, looking down at him. He was smiling, a lazy, satisfied smile that made your heart melt. "Hi," he whispered.

"Hi," you smiled back, leaning down to kiss him softly. "That was…"

"Amazing," he finished for you. "But I'm not done with you yet."

You felt a renewed stirring of desire as he rolled you, his movements surprisingly strong and sure. He flipped you onto your side, facing away from him, and then he was spooning you, his chest pressed against your back. He lifted your top leg, draping it over his hip, opening you to him.

"I want to try something," he murmured in your ear, his voice thick with renewed desire.

He entered you from behind, a slow, deep penetration that had you gasping. He began to move, a slow, steady rhythm that was completely different from before. It was deeper, more intimate, and somehow even more intense. He wrapped one arm around your waist, holding you close, while his other hand roamed your body.

You felt his hand hesitate, hovering over your breast. You could sense a flicker of his old frustration, a moment of uncertainty. Without a word, you reached up, your hand covering his, and gently guided it to your breast, pressing his palm against your skin.

He let out a soft sigh, his body immediately relaxing against yours. He began to palm your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple in a rhythm that matched his thrusts. It was a gesture of such simple, unspoken trust and gratitude that it brought tears to your eyes.

He increased his pace, his thrusts becoming harder, more demanding. You met him, pushing back against him, your bodies moving together in a primal, ancient dance. The pressure built again, a slow, insistent heat that spread through your veins.

"Lando," you moaned, your hand reaching back to tangle in his hair. "Don't stop."

"I won't," he promised, his voice a strained whisper against your ear. "I won't ever stop."

His words sent you over the edge again, your body clenching around him as you came with a soft cry. He followed you moments later, his own release a deep, shuddering groan as he held you tight.

You lay there afterwards, tangled in each other's arms, the room silent except for your soft, even breaths. You were exhausted, completely and utterly spent, but you had never felt more alive. You drifted off to sleep in his arms, a feeling of profound peace settling over you, a sense that you were finally, exactly where you were meant to be.

Down the hall, in their own bedroom, Cisca and Adam were getting ready for bed. They had been quiet, trying not to disturb

Down the hall, Adam was already in bed, reading a book on his tablet, when Cisca emerged from the ensuite bathroom.

"Is he settled?" Adam asked, not looking up from his screen.

"I think so," Cisca said, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips as she sat on the edge of their bed. "Though, I did notice y/n followed him into his bedroom."

Adam glanced up then, a thoughtful expression on his face. "He can manage the last few feet to his bed on his own now, you know. He's been doing it for a week."

"I know," Cisca said softly, pulling the duvet back. "But maybe he wanted the company."

They shared a look, a silent conversation passing between them. They had both seen it for weeks – the lingering glances, the subtle shifts in mood, the way the air seemed to crackle when they were in the same room. They had suspected something was blossoming between their son and his dedicated therapist.

Just as Cisca was about to switch off her lamp, a faint sound drifted down the corridor. It was muffled by the distance, but it was clearly Lando's voice. It wasn't a sound of pain or frustration, but a low, guttural groan of what could only be pleasure.

Adam's eyes met Cisca's. A slow grin spread across his face, a mixture of surprise and pure, unadulterated delight. Cisca's hand flew to her mouth, but her eyes were dancing with amusement, not shock. Another, softer sound followed, confirming their suspicions.

Adam let out a quiet, breathy laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "Well, I'll be damned," he murmured, his voice thick with a father's pride.

Cisca's cheeks flushed, but she was beaming. "Oh, Adam," she whispered, her heart swelling. "I'm so happy for him."

They didn't linger on the sounds or listen for more. They didn't need to. The brief, accidental confirmation was enough. It wasn't weird or uncomfortable for them; it was a moment of pure joy. Their son, who had been through hell, who had focused so single-mindedly on his career that he'd never once brought a girl home or even spoken of one, had finally found someone.

He was healing, not just his body, but his heart.

"Come here," Adam said, wrapping an arm around his wife and pulling her close.

Cisca snuggled against him, a feeling of deep contentment washing over her. "He was just waiting," she whispered into the darkness. "He was waiting for someone special."

Adam kissed the top of her head, a wide smile still on his face. They fell asleep that night with the quiet, happy knowledge that their son was not just walking again, but truly living.

Taglist:

@xoxos4h @f1fantasys @lovingfurypanda @vampiirose @ln4-4ever @qxeenjen

note: belated happy 2nd anniversary challengers ily all <3

Following Art Donaldson’s career like it’s your second job is easy, yet he doesn’t know a single thing about you. It’s actually fun to think about how these three think they’re so private when the history is right there if you look hard enough. You remember the ‘Fire and Ice’ when Art and Patrick were basically inseparable before everything went south. Everyone knows Tashi Duncan was the IT girl of WTS Juniors and was supposed to have a big name when she entered professional tennis, but only people like you remember she dated Patrick until that one college tennis match that made her quit tennis.

After that, you never saw them together as if they disappeared from each other’s lives until Art suddenly popped up again as a rising star with Tashi as his wife and coach, while Patrick is nowhere to be found. Hearing about this made you follow his career again, and you’re genuinely looking forward to seeing how far he goes, but watching him climb the rankings actually managed to drain your wallet since you’d fly out to catch a match at least once or twice a year. The Atlanta Open was one of those trips, and the guy was already engaged to Tashi by then, but luck ended up on your side when you booked the exact same hotel as them.

Not that you’re being a stalker or something, because you’re not, and you only realize that after all the things that happened in that tournament. You aren’t also stupid enough to travel alone, but you have a friend who likes to wander off, which made you drink alone and have your friend meet you at the hotel bar a day before the opening matches. You’re not even blaming your friend that you ended up with those drinks alone when you saw Tashi Duncan herself walk in to grab a drink alone. You might be alone, but the sight was gold, and it was tempting to ask for an autograph, yet keeping your distance turned out to be the best decision of your life.

If you’d bothered her, she probably would’ve left right away, but instead, you sat back and didn’t expect Patrick Zweig to appear at her table suddenly. Seeing Art Donaldson’s fiancée kiss his old friend and leave together was way better than any autograph could ever be. Selling that story to a tabloid probably would’ve put a massive chunk of cash in your bank account if you were a journalist, but you kept your mouth shut about the whole thing. A part of you actually hoped the wedding would get canceled because Tashi confessed, or if she got caught red-handed, but the big day went on anyway.

Now they’ve got a beautiful daughter and a perfect public image of having a good marriage. Sometimes you just lie back and think about how easy it’d be to tell the world the truth. What could possibly happen if you finally decided to stop being so nice and just leaked everything you saw that night? It eventually led you to create a burner email and hide behind a VPN to make sure nobody could track you back to it. Finding the right addresses for Art and Tashi was easy enough, but tracking down Patrick Zweig took some stalking since he isn’t exactly living in the spotlight lately.

‘I know what you did at the Atlanta Open.’ was the simple email you sent to Tashi and Patrick, but Art got a slightly different message because he’s the one actually in the dark, so you sent him a cryptic note saying, ‘I know something about your wife that you really should’ve known years ago.’ Art was actually the first to take the bait, which totally caught you off guard, because that email was cryptic and didn’t imply what his wife did. “Who is this and what exactly are you talking about?” popped up in your inbox instead of a panicked reply from Tashi or Patrick because that’s what you were expecting.

Although you know that Tashi seems like the type to keep her mouth shut and not mention suspicious emails to her husband because that’d make him start asking questions she can’t answer. It took you many drafts of emails you could send, but you ended up with “Someone who knows the truth about Atlanta,” and you waited for him to become more curious. “If you’re trying to spread lies or harass my family, I can easily have my legal team find you,” was the only thing he replied, and it felt like a pathetic attempt to scare you off.

A laugh escaped you as you typed, “I’ve got no plans to go public as long as you’re willing to cooperate,” but then, as expected, Art demanded actual proof. It made you realize you didn’t actually record that hotel bar encounter, but you’re determined to get through the craziness you started. It’s easy to sway him away from the lack of proof you have because suggesting a face-to-face meeting is something to make him more eager to know it. It was definitely a risky move, since he could’ve been baiting you into a trap with the cops there to meet you, but you sent the message anyway.

“I’ll tell you every detail, but we have to do this in person,” was the ultimatum you left in his inbox. Art didn’t offer any more threats or excuses, but simply sent back a date and a location, which was in the New Rochelle tournament. It honestly confused you when you read that, because why would a top player like him even be at a challenger’s event, but you decided to go along with it anyway. “Fine, I’ll see you there,” you replied, and you’re already planning your trip to meet him. If he’s willing to meet in a place like that, then he must be a lot more desperate to hear what you know than he’s letting on.

That desperation is exactly why you’re now sitting in a bar in new after his match with Patrick ended in a tie. It’s a bad decision to be in a bar, but it’s a bit of a metaphor, considering you also caught Tashi in the same environment. Having drinks close to the two of you after you reveal that information might be good because hearing your wife cheated on you is something that makes you want to get wasted. The late-night meeting at a local bar felt even more rushed, too, but you were already there and waiting at a corner table.

A brief email earlier was just you describing your clothes and the specific color you were wearing, so he could spot you easily. Being the first one to arrive gave you a chance to see him walk in, and it was almost funny that you were still checking your phone for email notifications while he was standing right there. “I didn’t think you’d actually show up,” you said when he stopped in front of your table with a look that was way less confident than his TV interviews. He didn’t sit down immediately, but his eyes were darting around the room to make sure nobody else was watching the two of you.

Art took a seat while looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, but he leaned in anyway. “I’m here so you can start talking now,” he muttered quietly, like he didn’t want people to hear it. “I’m not here because I want to destroy your life or mess with your reputation,” you said before taking a sip of your drink to gain more confidence while you’re looking at him straight in the eyes. Art didn’t seem convinced at all, and he just stared back with a tight jaw. “Just tell me what you want and stop wasting my time,” he demanded, his voice impatient. The glass clinked against the wood when you put it down, but you still didn’t give him the full story right away.

“This happened back at the Atlanta Open, and I wasn’t even trying to follow Tashi around, but I accidentally saw something I shouldn’t have,” you explained while watching his expression turn even more sour. He looked like he was about to lose his mind because he couldn’t stand the way you hold back the information. “Stop talking in circles and just tell me,” he said while keeping his volume low to avoid drawing any attention from the other people in the bar. “Your wife cheated on you,” you finally said while watching his reaction for any sign of a breakdown. Art didn’t even flinch, but instead, he stared at a spot on the wall behind you.

“She was with Patrick Zweig, and I saw them kiss before they left together,” you added to make sure he understood what you just said. He doesn’t look surprised because he already has his own memory of what he saw that night. He was there too, but he only saw them sitting together before a fan distracted him for an autograph, and they were gone by the time he looked back. “Is that all?” he asked as he suddenly reached the table to grab your glass. Art tilted his head back and finished the rest of your drink in one long gulp without looking away.

He slammed the empty glass back onto the table before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I already knew they were together that night,” he admitted, and he sounds completely exhausted. Your eyebrows knit together because you didn’t expect him to be so calm about his wife’s betrayal, and you didn‘t expect him to admit it... Is he really this vulnerable tonight that he just said that information to a stranger? He just exhaled through his nose before his eyes finally met yours with a look that was hard to read. A look of pity crossed your face because Art immediately let out a scoff before rolling his eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine,” he muttered as he pushed himself up from his seat. “How about I buy you a round of drinks since you’ve been so honest with me?” he suggested and headed over to the bar counter before you could even answer. A simple nod was all you gave as you watched him walk away, since you genuinely felt bad for the guy. He returned to the table carrying a full bottle of tequila and a tray of lemons instead of ordering a couple of individual shots. A little chuckle escaped your throat when you noticed he only grabbed a single shot glass. “You’re planning on finishing that entire thing by yourself tonight?” you asked while watching him peel a sticker off the cap.

Art didn’t bother responding, but he just poured the first glass up to the brim while looking ready to black out. “You’re drinking with me, and we’re sharing the glass,” Art insisted before he took the shot he’d just poured. He didn’t even reach for the plate of lemons on the tray while he shoved the empty glass toward you. “Those are for you because you look like you’ll need them,” he added while watching you with a challenging look. Being called weak made you feel competitive, so you refilled the glass and swallowed the tequila in one go.

You didn’t touch a single lemon but just let the heat hit your throat while setting the glass down hard. “So you’ve actually known about them this entire time?” you asked while watching Art grab the glass back from your hand. He didn’t look surprised that you were keeping up with him, but he just tipped the bottle to fill it again. “I’m not as blind as everyone thinks I am,” he muttered before he brought the rim to his lips for another shot. “I’m probably saying things I shouldn’t tell a total stranger,” Art muttered before he swallowed the liquid in his glass.

He stared at the bottle as if it had the answers to his problems. “I think Tashi is with him again right now because she sneaked out of the hotel while I was in bed,” he confessed with a voice that sounded completely defeated. The thought of them together made him look like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. “Fuck, I really didn’t need to hear that much detail,” you said as you shook your head at the mental image he just gave you. Art looked up from the table while his face showed a bit of regret for oversharing. “Sorry, I’m just out of it, but what’s your name anyway?” he asked while waiting for a response.

You gave it to him without thinking much about it, but he just gave a short nod as he processed the information. He filled the shot glass again while sliding it back over to your side of the table for your next turn. “Well, it’s nice to meet you even if the situation is shitty,” he added while watching you pick up the glass. “Did you ever actually try to do anything about what happened?” you asked before you finished the shot in your hand. Art sighed as he took the glass back to refill it. “I didn’t exactly walk in on them back in Atlanta, but I’ve had these suspicions for a long time, and you just confirmed they’re real,” he explained while looking down at the liquor.

You gave a nod because his situation felt messier than you’d imagined. “So did you ever decide to get back at Tashi by cheating too?” you blurted out since the question was already stuck in your head. Art looked up quickly, and he seemed almost offended by the suggestion. “God, no. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been tempted before,” he admitted while his fingers tapped against the table. He leaned back slightly, but his eyes never left you. “I just never actually went through with it because that’s not the kind of guy I am,” he added while he took another drink.

“That kind of guy doesn’t usually end up sitting in a bar with a stranger,” you joked, but he only exhaled a humorless laugh because he knew you were right. Both of you sat at the table for a while longer, and he drank more until he became much more talkative than when you first met. It’s all fun, but you decided he’d had enough for one night when the tequila was half gone. “I’m walking you back to your hotel before you decide to finish the rest of this right here,” you told him, and grabbed your bag. Art didn’t put up a fight, but he stood up and gripped the bottle to take it with him.

“It’s a bit of a walk from here, but I could use the air anyway,” he admitted as you both headed toward the door. You felt the cold air against your face when you stepped out onto the sidewalk, and the streetlights flickered above. He walked right beside you without stumbling, but he watched you more closely than before. “I appreciate you not leaving me alone at that bar,” he muttered and looked over at you. You just kept walking with him while the hotel appeared in the distance, and the walk took some time. “I didn’t think you’d actually bring that bottle out with you,” you muttered when you saw Art tilt his head back and almost look like he’s chugging on it.

You hadn’t noticed him grab it before you left the bar, but now he walked down the street with it in plain sight. “What the hell are you doing, Art?” you asked and looked around the sidewalk to check if anyone was watching. You worried someone might take a photo and affect his reputation in a second. Art just looked at the bottle, then shrugged because he didn’t care about the risk anymore. “I’m just trying to get through the night without losing my mind,” he replied and held the glass out toward you. You took it from his hand to stop him from drinking more, but you ended up taking a long sip yourself.

The alcohol burned your throat while you both kept walking toward the hotel, and you could finally see the bright lights from the front of it. “You’re a bad influence,” he joked and walked close to you until a car pulled up right in front of the hotel entrance, and you could clearly recognize who had just left inside since the two of you were just two steps away from the hotel. Tashi stepped out of the passenger side and was about to slam the door when Art jogged towards her. He grabbed the handle and yanked the door wider, and you hurried after him to try to grab his arm.

“Art, just stop for a second,” you pleaded because you didn’t want a scene in public. Tashi glared at you like you were some intruder trying to play house with her husband, but she didn’t say a word. Art ignored everyone while he leaned into the car to look at Patrick sitting in the driver’s seat. “Get the fuck out of the car, Patrick,” he ordered without even raising his voice. Patrick just stared back at him and didn’t move from behind the wheel, which made the whole thing look even worse. You felt like you should leave, but you kept your hand on Art’s shoulder while Tashi watched both of you with narrowed eyes.

“Get in the car right now, Art,” Tashi snapped and looked around the street to check for anyone with a phone out. She looked completely fed up with him, but he just stared at her before pointing toward you. “She’s coming with us, or I’m staying right here,” Art said and climbed into the passenger seat without waiting for her to agree. You felt awkward under Tashi’s gaze, but you hurried into the back seat anyway while Patrick pulled away from the curb. “Gas isn’t cheap, and now I’m stuck playing chauffeur while you two act like idiots,” Patrick grumbled as he steered the car through the empty streets.

Art gripped the armrest and didn’t even look at him. “I’ll pay for the fucking gas, so just keep driving,” Art barked back, and his voice sounded mean. Tashi sat in the back next to you with her arms crossed while the two men started to bicker even louder. You watched the back of Art’s head and wondered how this night ended up so messy. “You don’t get to tell me where to go,” Patrick muttered as he took a fast turn onto a side street. “I’ll tell you whatever I want when you’re the one who keeps showing up uninvited,” Art shouted, and you just sat there while they kept arguing at each other.

“Why’re you so pissed off?” Patrick asked while he gripped the steering wheel and looked at the road. Art let out a dry laugh and then turned to glare at him. “Why do you think, Patrick? You just fucked my wife,” Art spat, and his voice sounded like he wanted to hit something. Tashi sat up straight in the back seat, and her eyes went wide before she looked at you with a look that said you shouldn’t be listening. “I didn’t cheat on you, Art,” she lied, but she sounded defensive while she gripped her knee. Art shook his head and looked out the window.

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot you didn’t just do it today, but you also did it back in Atlanta,” Art said, and then he turned his head to look at you. “Tell them what you saw,” he ordered while he waited for you to speak up. You just shook your head because you didn’t want any more trouble, and you’re quiet in the corner of the seat. Tashi kept her eyes on you like she was waiting for you to mess up, while Patrick just kept driving the car away from the hotel. “Just tell them what you saw so they can’t lie about it anymore,” Art said while he turned around to look at you again.

You swallowed because you didn’t want to be the one to say it, but you looked at Tashi and Patrick anyway. “I saw you two together in Atlanta, and you were all over each other before you left the hotel together,” you whispered while your hands never left your lap. Tashi takes a deep breath as if she’s stopping herself from doing anything stupid while she grips the back of Art’s seat. “You’re the one who sent that email, aren’t you?” she says and stares at you like you were nothing. “How much money do you want to keep your mouth shut?” she asked while her voice rose. Art let out a loud laugh, and he shook his head at his wife.

“She’s not looking for a payout, Tashi,” he snapped before he turned his attention back to both of them. “If you were so desperate to fuck him, you should’ve had the balls to ask for an open marriage,” Art shouted at Tashi while Patrick kept driving. “We could’ve just done this as the three of us instead of you sneaking around behind my back,” he added while he glared at Patrick and Tashi. “You can do whatever you want, Tashi,” Art said while he looked out the window as if he didn’t want to see what happened next.

Tashi turned toward you and put her hand on your shoulder while she leaned in close. Her face stopped just an inch from yours while she looked you in the eyes. “Tell me if I can’t,” she whispered as she waited for you to say something. You looked at her lips, then back at her eyes, before you nodded. She moved forward and pressed her mouth against yours while you heard Patrick start to laugh in the front seat. You tried to keep the kiss gentle, but she bit your lips, as if she was taking her anger out on you. “Look at that, the girls are kissing,” Patrick taunted while he glanced back at Art.

“Maybe you should come over here and kiss me too,” he added, but Art just rolled his eyes and didn’t look at him. Tashi gripped your shoulder harder as she kept her mouth on yours while the car drove along the empty road. “Where’re you staying?” Tashi whispered while she pulled away from your mouth. You gave her the address of your hotel as you tried to catch your breath. “Drive there, Patrick,” she ordered while she looked at the two men in the front. Tashi leaned back against the seat and looked at Art with a smug expression.

“She’s already a better kisser than both of you put together,” she said while she kept her hand on your leg. Art didn’t say a word as he stared out the window, but Patrick just chuckled. “Well, I can’t wait to find out how her mouth feels on mine,” Patrick said while he checked the GPS on his phone. Heat spread across your face because you weren’t used to being talked about like that by people you barely knew. Tashi didn’t let go of you while the car turned onto the street leading to your hotel. You thought they’d just drop you off and keep fighting elsewhere, but the car ride ended with all four of you heading up to your room together.

Now you’re sitting in the middle of the mattress in just your bra and panties with the three of them surrounding you. Art is on your left, and his hand wraps around your ankle before he pulls your leg toward him. “I told you we should’ve just done this,” Art muttered while he crawled closer to you. Patrick stands by the edge of the bed and kicks his pants off, then he climbs onto the mattress right behind you. “You liking that view, Tashi?” Patrick said as his fingers gripped your waist from behind. Tashi is on your right, and she leans over you until the skin of her bare chest touches your side.

“I’m not stopping for anyone,” she said while she reached for the edge of your panties. You feel the heat from their bodies because they crowd you from every side on the bed right now. Art uses his free hand to grab Tashi’s neck, and he yanks her into a hard kiss right in front of you. They’re still at your sides, but they lean in across your lap while they make out. Tashi’s fingers slip past the elastic of your panties as she starts rubbing your clit. Patrick is behind you, and his hands move from your waist up to your tits so he can knead them.

He starts kissing your nape while he lets out a grunt. “I’ve been wanting to do this since the car,” Patrick muttered as he bit the skin of your shoulder. You let out a shaky breath because the feeling of all three of them touching you at once is a lot to take. Art pulled away from Tashi for a second so he could look at you. “Don’t get too quiet now,” Art said while he watched your reaction to Tashi’s hand. Tashi kept her hand moving as she tilted her head to see your face. “She’s already getting wet,” Tashi whispered while she pulled your panties down lower and left them there against your legs.

Art grabs the waistband of your panties to continue what Tashi left and pulls them down your legs before he tosses them onto the floor. Patrick reaches around to unhook your bra as he pulls the straps off your shoulders, letting it fall away. One of your tits is free, so Art leans in and latches his mouth onto your nipple while he sucks hard. Tashi watches him while she slides two fingers deep inside your cunt. “You really thought that email was gonna work on us?” Tashi asked while she pumped her fingers. She leans closer to your face as her hand keeps moving.

“It felt like you were trying to blackmail us,” Tashi muttered while her eyes stayed on yours. You try to shake your head and open your mouth to tell her that wasn’t it at all. Patrick doesn’t let you speak because he shoves two of his fingers into your mouth to keep you from answering. “Mmfph-!” you muffled while your back arched against his chest, and Patrick pushed your tongue down. Patrick kisses the top of your head, then he leans down to your ear. “Keep your mouth shut about that email unless you want us to stop,” Patrick whispered while he let you suck on his fingers.

You can’t even explain yourself as Tashi stretches you out from the inside with her hand. Art doesn’t let go of your tit while he uses his tongue to swirl around the tip. You’re stuck between them while they work together to make you leak all over the bed. “Hngh... hah,” you whimpered through Patrick’s fingers while you gripped Art’s hair to keep him pressed against you. Tashi moves between your legs and pushes your knees wide so she can bury her face against your cunt. She sucks your clit and slides her fingers back inside you while she stops to taste the skin.

“Mmn... did you just shave for us?” Tashi asked as she looked up with a smirk. “You’re so smooth down here,” she added while her tongue flicked over you again. Her words make your face feel hot, but Art pulls away from your nipple to watch her work. He looks at your wet folds and thinks back to when you met up with him hours before this moment. “Seriously?” Art muttered while he looked from Tashi back to your face. “Did you really get ready like this before you came to see me?” he asked as he gripped your hip.

Patrick lets out a low laugh behind you and starts teasing you about the threat you made. “She was gonna tell everyone we were cheating, but she still made sure she was perfectly prepped for the meeting,” Patrick said while he hooked his fingers in the corner of your mouth. You bite down on his knuckles because you’re embarrassed, and Tashi lets out a muffled hum against your inner thigh when she hears him. You reach out for Art, and your hand caresses his stomach while you look at him with wide eyes. “Mmf- n-no,” you manage to say through Patrick’s fingers as you try to act like he was lying.

It’s a pathetic sight because you’re begging Art for help while Patrick’s fingers stay stuffed in your mouth, and Tashi keeps eating you out. “You’re such a liar,” Patrick whispered while he leaned forward to kiss the back of your neck before he finally pulled his fingers from your mouth as he stood to kick his boxers away. His cock is out, and he starts rubbing it against your ass while he leans over your shoulder. You reach for the waistband of Art’s briefs and tug at the fabric to get him out. “Let me help,” Art muttered while he stripped the rest of his clothes off.

You turn to Tashi because you want to see her, too. “Tashi... sit up,” you whispered while she pulled her face away from your cunt. She sits back and unhooks her bra before she slides her panties down her legs. You look at them and admire how different they all are. Art’s skin is clean and completely shaved, while Patrick has a trail of hair leading down from his stomach to his cock. Tashi’s hair is trimmed and neat between her legs. Patrick moves from behind you to your side as they push you down to lie on the mattress.

“Good thing you got the big bed,” Art said while he looked down at you. Tashi crawls between your open legs and ignores the guys for a second. “I’m going first... I want her cunt,” Tashi said as she looked at Art and Patrick. It’s embarrassing to watch them claim you like this, but Tashi doesn’t stop. She leans over you and looks right into your eyes. “You want me to do this... don’t you, baby?” Tashi asked while she convinced you with a smirk. “I can get you so wet before they take turns,” she whispered as she remembered how much the guys loved sharing the same hole.

You nod your head, and she slides one of her legs between yours while she presses her wet heat against your own. You feel how sticky and wet Tashi is against your thighs, then you remember she already fucked Patrick earlier tonight. “You’re still messy from him,” you whispered while the thought slipped out of your mouth. Art’s jaw tightened because he’s still pissed off about them going behind his back, but he turns his focus to you anyway. He moves closer to your head and brushes his cock against your cheek.

“You’ve got a lot to say... do you want to use that mouth for something else?” Art asked as he hovered over you. “Y-yes, please,” you whimpered while you looked up at him. Tashi doesn’t move yet, and she keeps her heat pressed against your cunt. Patrick shifts on the mattress because he feels left out. “What about me?” Patrick asked while he watched Art get ready. You reach out and wrap your fingers around Patrick’s cock to show him you aren’t ignoring him. You give him a smile because you want both of them to feel included while you’re pinned to the bed.

Patrick lets out a grunt as you start to stroke him. Art doesn’t wait any longer while he guides the tip of his cock to your lips. “Open up,” Art muttered as he looked down at you. You part your lips and take him inside while Tashi’s body presses against your legs. Art thrusts his cock slowly into your mouth, but he doesn’t pull away while he watches Tashi. She thrusts her hips against you, and her clit rubs against your pussy with every move. “Mmmph-!” you muffled because Art’s cock is deep in your throat. Patrick wraps his hand over yours, and he uses your grip to stroke his cock faster.

Tashi looks up at the two men while she keeps grinding her wet heat against your cunt. “You guys need to kiss and make up,” Tashi said as she watched the tension between them. Art narrows his eyes at Patrick while he continues to fuck your mouth. “No,” Art grunted through his teeth. Tashi lets out a laugh because she knows how to get what she wants. “I know you want to,” Tashi said while she ground her hips harder against yours. Patrick reaches out with his free hand and grabs Art’s jaw before he guides his face closer.

Art angrily kisses Patrick back while his cock is still stuffed inside your mouth. You watch them make out above you, and your eyes roll back in your head from the sensation of Tashi’s cunt against yours. “Hngh-!” you groaned as you got wetter with each thrust. Tashi hums as she watches the men finally give in to what they want. Patrick keeps his hand on Art’s side to caress him once they stop kissing. Tashi reaches out to pull Patrick into a kiss of her own as she continues to grind her cunt against yours. Patrick continues to use his other hand to help you stroke his cock while he’s distracted with Tashi’s mouth.

Art doesn’t speed up his pace yet because he’s watching them, but he makes sure to shove his cock deep into your throat. “Mmfph-! Gngh-!” You gagged while your eyes watered from how deep he is. Tashi uses her free hand to grip your thigh and hold your legs wide so she can feel more of you. Art looks down to watch you swallow him while his cock is still stuffed in your mouth. Patrick pulls away from Tashi to look at Art. “You like seeing her take it like that?” Patrick asked as he let out a low grunt. Art doesn’t answer as he thrusts deep again to make you choke on his length.

“It’s pretty clear he enjoys this since he won’t stop making you gag,” Tashi said as she watched Art shove his cock deep into your mouth again. Your cunt is squirming and pulsing against her with every grind of her hips. You reach down to rub your clit, and Tashi lets out a laugh at how desperate you look. “Are you getting close, baby?” Tashi asked while she watched your hand move faster. You let out a muffled hum around Art’s cock as you try to nod your head. Art keeps his cock stuffed in your throat while he watches you struggle to breathe.

Patrick pulls your hand away from his cock so he can stroke himself right in front of your tits. He moves his hand fast while he looks at Art and Tashi using you. “Sh-shit- fuck,” Patrick groaned as he finally came. He shoots his cum across your chest and stomach while you feel it land on your skin. Tashi keeps grinding against you as she pins your legs down. “Mmfph-!” you muffled against Art’s length while Patrick’s cum drips down your belly. Art lets out a low grunt and starts to thrust his cock more aggressively into your mouth.

You cum against Tashi’s cunt, and the extra mess makes a loud squelching sound as she grinds her hips to reach her own climax. Your folds and clit rub together while she focuses on the way your cunt slides against each other. Art feels the vibrations of your muffled moans as his cock twitches in your mouth. He reaches back to grab a handful of your hair while he keeps thrusting deep. “Tashi- I’m close,” Art grunted as he looked at her for the okay. Tashi doesn’t stop her pace as she looks up at him. “Do it, fill her up,” she panted while she rubbed herself harder against you.

Art shoots his cum down your throat and keeps shoving himself deep until he’s empty. He pulls his cock out and lets the extra drops leak over your bottom lip. “Swallow every bit of it,” Patrick ordered as he watched from the side. Art sits back while Tashi leans down to suck on your nipple without caring about the cum on your skin. You stick your tongue out to show your mouth is empty as you swallow, while Tashi finally cums hard against your cunt. Tashi gets off you with Patrick’s help because her legs feel a little sensitive from that orgasm.

She leans back against the headboard to catch her breath and reaches out to caress your shoulder. Art crawls between your legs as he looks up at you. “You think you can handle another round for us, baby?” Art asked while he ran his hands up your thighs. You look over at Tashi to see what they have in mind. “We’re not even close to done with you yet,” Tashi said as she played with your hair. You look back at Art and let out a breath. “How do you want me?” you asked while you watched him. Patrick looks down at your wet cunt and grips his cock.

“Well, we want to take you at the same-” Patrick started, but Tashi cut him off before he could finish. She leans forward to move your hair out of your face. “We want to see how you take both of them at once,” Tashi said as she smiled at you. “Do you have any lube nearby?” Art asked while he looked at your messy thighs. You shake your head as you realize you weren’t prepared for them to take things this far. “It’s fine, we’ll make it work,” Patrick said as he shared a look with Art. They both silently agree that Patrick should be the one to go first since he’s the thickest and needs to stretch your cunt out.

“On your side, baby,” Tashi said while she helped you roll over. Patrick holds his hand out toward you. “Spit for me,” Patrick ordered as he waited for you to wet his palm. He collects spit from Tashi and Art, too, before he rubs the moisture all over his cock and lies down behind you. “Have you guys actually done this before?” you asked as your voice wavered. Tashi let out a little laugh while she watched the men get into place. “Not with me, they haven’t,” Tashi said as she leaned over you. Patrick and Art both nod as they admit they’ve shared girls before, but never in the same hole at once.

Art leans down toward Tashi’s ankle and starts kissing his way up her inner thigh while Patrick grips your hip. “Ngh- oh,” you gasped as Patrick pushed the head of his cock against your entrance and started to slide into your cunt from behind. Art opens Tashi’s legs wider as he leans down to start licking her pussy. Tashi lets out a breath and threads her fingers through Art’s hair while she reaches her other hand out to touch Patrick’s arm. Patrick lets out a low hum as he leans into her touch, but he doesn’t move his cock inside you just yet.

Patrick moves his hand from your hip to your leg and raises it to create more room for himself. “Mmn, that feels so good,” you whispered as you felt him stretching your entrance. Patrick looks down at your cunt while he keeps your leg hooked over him. “You like being filled like this?” Patrick asked as he watched your reaction. Art looks up from between Tashi’s thighs to watch you while he keeps his tongue busy on her clit. Patrick starts to push deeper into you as he feels your walls clench around his thick length. “Mnghh, yes- please,” you panted while you watched Art and Tashi together

“Are you going to let me come right in your mouth, Art?” Tashi teased while she looked down at him. Art pulls away from her pussy and glances at you as he wonders if Patrick is almost done stretching you out. “I’ll try to keep up,” Art said while he looked between the two of you. Tashi nods, as if she understands his hesitation, and turns her gaze toward you. “You’re going to help me get there while they work on you, right?” Tashi asked as she watched you nod eagerly. Art reaches over to squeeze your breast while he rubs his thumb over your nipple.

“S-shi- Patrick,” you moaned as he started thrusting into your cunt. Patrick grips your thigh while he pushes his thick cock deep inside you to open you up for both of them. “Just take it, baby,” Patrick grunted while he kept moving. You feel your walls stretch with every thrust of his length as he works to make enough room for Art to join him. Patrick squeezes the leg he’s holding as he pushes deep and makes you even wetter around his length. “F-fuck, she’s opening up so well for us,” Patrick groaned while he watched your cunt stretch around him.

Art lets out a muffled hum against Tashi’s clit and keeps his tongue moving. Tashi tightens her grip on Art’s hair while you reach for her free hand and hold it tight. “Haaah- mmf,” you whimpered as you leaned forward to bite her arm. Tashi looks down at you but keeps her attention on the way you’re taking Patrick. “Don’t get too rough with her yet,” Tashi panted while she watched Patrick’s thick cock slide in and out of you. Patrick nods and keeps his movements controlled so he can focus on how your walls clench against him. Art pauses and looks up from Tashi’s thighs with his chin glistening and wet from her.

He stares right at your cunt and watches the way Patrick’s cock disappears inside you. “Nn- Pat- P-patrick,” you breathed while you held onto Tashi. Art looks back toward Tashi and gives her a look like he’s asking for permission. “Please?” Art asked as he waited for her to nod. Tashi gives him a small smile and nods to signal that he can go ahead. Art stands on his knees and moves closer to you while Patrick slows down his movements until he stops. Art straddles your leg that’s resting on the bed and reaches out to take your other leg from Patrick so he can hook it over his shoulder.

Tashi moves closer to you as she lets you lay your head on her thigh and starts to play with your hair. “I’m putting in now, baby,” Art whispered while he guided the head of his cock to your cunt. He slowly pushes the tip in beside Patrick’s length and makes you let out a choked sound. “Ahhn-! No, wait-” you gasped while your eyes rolled back. Tashi leans down to kiss your forehead as she tries to keep you calm. “Shh, just breathe through it,” Tashi said as she watched Art slowly force more of himself into you, but he stopped moving once he got past the tip because he felt you clench around both of them.

He moves your leg slightly further back on his shoulder before he spits directly onto your cunt to add more wetness between their cocks. “We’ve got to take our time with this since we’re short on lube,” Art grunted while he looked down at the way your cunt takes them. You pout at him and let out a shaky breath. “Just take it out- You guys can just- fuck- take turns,” you whined, and you felt too full. Patrick lets out a chuckle and reaches forward to rub your clit. “Giving up already when he’s barely even halfway in?” Patrick teased while he watched you squirm against his hand.

“I think Art likes how his cock feels right next to mine,” Patrick teases him while he keeps rubbing your clit to keep you wet. Art gives a small smirk and slowly starts to push more of himself into your cunt. “You’re doing so good for us, baby,” Tashi whispered as she kept playing with your hair. “Hngh- haaaah,” you choked out while your cunt stretched to its limit around both thick cocks. Art pushes past the last bit of resistance and bottoms out as you bury your face against Tashi’s thigh and bite down on her skin. Tashi looks over at Art and Patrick while she keeps her hand moving through your hair.

“Give her a second to get used to having both of you inside,” Tashi said as she reached down to pinch your nipple. Patrick nuzzles his face into the back of your neck and lets his stubble scratch against you. “You’re taking us so well, baby,” Patrick whispered while he kept rubbing your clit to help you relax. Art rubs his hand up and down your leg on his shoulder before he leans in to kiss your calf. “God, you look so good stuffed like this,” Art panted as he watched his cock sliding right against Patrick’s. You can’t even close your legs with them taking up all the space, but Tashi keeps you grounded with her touch.

“Mmn, f-fuck,” you whimpered while you felt your walls starting to pulse around them. “Can they start moving yet?” Tashi asked while she looked down at you. You let out a shaky nod as you tried to adjust to the pressure. “Just grind against her without pulling out so she can get used to the size,” Tashi ordered while she kept her fingers in your hair. Art nods and starts to rotate his hips, but Patrick lets out a scoff. “Don’t be difficult, Patrick,” Tashi said as she caught his eye. Patrick follows Art’s lead and starts grinding his length against yours while his cock rubs right against Art’s inside you.

“Fucking hell, it’s so tight in here,” Patrick grunted while he felt your walls twitching around them. Art watches all of you tangled together and spits on your opening once more to keep things slick. “Look at how much she’s taking,” Art panted as he watched the spit slide down between their cocks. “Mmff, oh please-” you whimpered while you felt them rubbing together deep inside your cunt. Patrick tries to hold back, but he fails and starts thrusting hard into your cunt. Art stops his own grinding and looks over at him with a glare.

“What the fuck, Patrick? We said we’d wait,” Art snapped while he held your leg steady. Patrick doesn’t slow down but keeps shoving deep as his cock slides against Art’s length. “Just keep up with me,” Patrick grunted while he watched your face. Tashi looks visibly pissed and lifts your face from her leg to see you tearing up while you bite your lip to hide your moans. “Mmf- hah,” you whimpered as she slides two fingers into your mouth for you to suck on. Tashi glares at Patrick as she tries to comfort you.

“I’m going to kill you if you don’t listen,” Tashi threatened as she watched him stretch you out. Patrick looks at both of them like he doesn’t give a shit. “It’s too much, and I need to move,” Patrick muttered while he kept his pace. “Ngh- a-ahh,” you panted around Tashi’s fingers as the feeling of both of them moving at once became too much to handle. Art and Patrick find a matching pace as they start thrusting together. “F-fuck, that’s it,” Art panted while he watched their cocks slide deep inside you at the same time.

You reach down between Tashi’s legs and start rubbing her cunt to distract yourself from the intense stretch while you keep sucking on her fingers. Art reaches down to push Patrick’s hand away from your clit so he can take over rubbing you himself. Patrick moves his hand to your hip to keep you in place while he keeps pushing into you. “Sh-shit, sorry baby,” Patrick whispered before he leaned down to kiss your shoulder. Tashi lets out a breathy moan as she feels your fingers working on her. “Oh god, keep doing that,” Tashi panted while she watched the men work together to fill you up.

Art keeps his thumb moving over your clit while he matches every one of Patrick’s thrusts. “Mmmph-” you gasped around Tashi’s hand while the synchronized movement forced your walls to open even wider for them. You keep rubbing Tashi’s clit while your eyes watch Art as he closes his eyes and thrusts into you. “So wet- you’re so fucking wet around us,” Art panted while he kept his thumb working over your clit. Patrick raises himself up slightly behind you but keeps his side pressed against your back as his cock remains deep in your cunt.

He pulls Tashi’s fingers out of your mouth before he leans over to take your lips in a deep kiss. Patrick plants his free hand on the mattress to balance himself, and he sucks your tongue the moment you slide it in his mouth. You respond to the kiss and use your free hand to hold his face as your fingers play with his facial hair. “Mmmph-!” you moaned into his mouth while both cocks slide together inside your walls. Art watches the way your body reacts to Patrick’s kiss and keeps his pace against his. “Keep going- just like that,” Tashi breathed while she watched the four of you entangled together on the bed.

You suddenly cum without even realizing it’s happening, and your walls clench so hard around them. Patrick pulls away from the kiss to look at your face, but you look back at him, heat spreading across your skin. “I-I didn’t think I would be that fast,” you whispered, and you felt embarrassed about how sensitive you’d become. You look away from them before burying your face against Tashi’s leg and stop rubbing her clit. Your body keeps squirming from the orgasm while Tashi lets out a soft coo. “It’s okay, sweetheart, you’ve been taking so much from them,” Tashi said after she looked at Art and Patrick.

The guys share a look, and then they both start thrusting fast into your soaking cunt. “Sh-shit, you’re so tight now,” Art panted while he matched Patrick’s speed. Patrick grips your hip harder and shoves himself deep into you. “Haaah- mmf, too much!” you cried out when you felt them both fucking you deep over and over. They don’t slow down at all but keep pushing deeper after their movements fall out of sync to overstimulate you. “God, you’re so loud… The whole floor’s going to hear you screaming for us,” Art panted, and he leaned forward to bend your leg on his shoulder in half.

This change in angle forces his cock deeper into your cunt as it slides hard against Patrick’s length. You hear the wet sound of their skin slapping against your thighs with every thrust, while their balls also make contact with your skin whenever they’re deep enough. Patrick shoves himself into your back, and you feel the tickle of his pubic hair against your skin when he bottoms out. Your body thrashes against the mattress, but they easily pin you down, considering it’s three of them and it’s just one of you. Tashi grips your hair to force your face toward the guys before she watches you struggle.

“Look at you- just a pathetic mess for them to use,” Tashi scoffed as she kept your head tilted back. Art keeps his thumb working your clit while he matches Patrick’s aggressive pace. “Nnngh- haah, please!” you wailed when the sensation of both cocks grinding together inside you became too much to bear. Patrick grips your hips to pull you against him and tilts your pelvis back while he lies behind you. This move makes his cock rub even harder against Art’s length inside your cunt, but it clearly annoys Art.

“God, you feel so good like this,” Patrick grunted when he felt the cocks grinding against each other. Art looks frustrated that Patrick moved you because it made it hard for him to move, so he responds by bending you in half while he hovers over your side. He grips Patrick’s shoulder for support and holds the sheets tight with his other hand before he sinks his teeth into the side of your neck. The new angle makes them both reach your spot, and you gasp from the overstimulation of them being so deep.

You try to push Art off your side, but he doesn’t budge even an inch under your touch. Tashi angles your head toward Art after she watches your eyes roll back from the pleasure. “Kiss him, show him how much you want this,” Tashi ordered while she kept gripping your hair. Art leans down to take your mouth in a rough kiss after he hears you whimper. “Mmmph-! nnngh,” you moaned into his lips when they both shoved deeper into your cunt. Art pulls back from the kiss and rises onto his knees again while you lie there with your breath coming out in ragged hitches.

Your cunt pulses around them both, but your legs are shaking, and they feel useless against the sheets. Your brain isn’t functioning anymore, and you can’t keep your eyes open either. “You can’t even think anymore,” Patrick grunted when he felt your walls pulse and squeezed his shaft. You can tell Art is getting close to coming with the way his cock twitches inside you. You and Patrick both feel the way Art’s cock reacts inside you while his thrusts become desperate and sloppy. Tashi watches from the headboard and sees how overstimulated you are.

“You’re taking them so well, baby. Such a good little slut for being so wet and open for them,” Tashi whispered before she reached down to rub your clit since Art stopped a while ago. You didn’t notice his hand move, but the feeling from her fingers makes your back arch. “Haaah- mmf, t-too much,” you whined after the overwhelming pleasure made your stomach twist. “Just take it- you’re doing so good for us,” Art panted while he thrust as deep as he could go. It took a few more movements before he cum inside you and gripped your leg against his body while his fingers dug into your calves.

“Fuck- take it all,” Art grunted, and the way you’re being fucked makes it hard for you to breathe. You feel a sudden pressure in your bladder from how they’re filling your cunt, but you don’t have the strength to kick them off, even if you want to, because your legs shake too much. They know that being stretched by both of them at once is too much, and Art notices your eyes rolling back when he cums inside you. “Looks like you’re going to cum again… Just let it out,” Art panted after he buried himself deep. The feeling of Art filling you up and his cock twitching inside makes your toes curl.

Your head thrashes on Tashi’s lap before your hands grab the sheets because you don’t know where to put them. “Tell me what you’re feeling, baby,” Tashi whispered as she looked down at you. You struggle to get the words out when the pressure builds in your lower belly. “I’m so full- like I’m gonna p-piss,” you whined, and your back arched. Tashi smiled because she realized how close you were. “You’re right there for us,” Tashi murmured while she kept rubbing you. Patrick grinned while watching your body react to both.

“Are you gonna squirt for us?” Patrick asked, and you shake your head at them when they look at you differently after Patrick put that idea in their heads. “Oh, you’re gonna wet the bed for us, baby,” Tashi whispered and pressed her fingers harder against your clit. Art’s cum acts as extra lubrication for Patrick, which makes it easy for his cock to slide deeper, and the squelching sounds of their movement get louder. You’re stuck between Art’s body because he doesn’t pull out yet, but still thrusting slowly, and Patrick’s needy movement from behind.

“Stop- h-hah, I-I can’t,” you whined, and your head thrashes against Tashi. It doesn’t take long before Patrick finishes the feeling of Art’s cum inside you, which makes him lose his control. His knuckles go white when his hands tighten on your hips, and he starts thrusting into you without stopping. Patrick groans, and he buries his face in your nape while he continues finishing inside your cunt. The fullness from both of them makes your stomach feel bloated in the best way. “Look at you- mmn, taking both of us so well,” Patrick panted against your skin, and his hands reach around to play with your tits.

You try to hide your face when heat spreads across your skin from their words. “I’m- ngh, ahh- It’s too much,” you gasped while Tashi kept teasing you with her fingers. Art leaned down to kiss your shoulder after his cock twitched inside you. “Just let it happen, baby,” Art murmured when he pulled back to watch your reaction. “It’s okay if you make a mess,” Tashi whispered and pressed harder against your clit while the boys continued to thrust deeply. The combination of cum and your own wetness makes it easy for them to slide inside you, and the pace makes you feel every movement.

Art and Patrick reach around to play with your breasts after Tashi’s fingers work against you until overstimulation builds in your belly. “Ngh- hah, it’s- hngh!” you gasped, and your eyes rolled back as you couldn’t hold it anymore. Your cunt pulses and clenches hard around both cocks before it suddenly rushes out of you. It spills uncontrollably forward onto Art’s stomach, and it made you soak their cocks that are still buried in your cunt. “P-please- make it stop- hngh, oh god!” you cried as your back arched against Patrick’s chest while your release spread between them and pools onto the bedsheets.

Tashi’s hand gets completely soaked as she keeps rubbing you, and the fluid coming out of you continues to go on for several seconds. “I’m sorry- mmf, I can’t- hah, s-stop it!” you sobbed and tried to hide your face because you didn’t want them to see you like this. Patrick and Art don’t pull out, but they keep thrusting through your orgasm until you finally stop. You let out a garbled and broken moan before you sink into the mattress and try to catch your breath. They watch the mess they made while they catch their own breath and admire how much you took.

“Look at what you did- mmn, you’re so soaked,” Patrick panted after he leaned forward to kiss your shoulder. You turn your head away because the praise makes your skin feel warm. “I couldn’t- hngh, I couldn’t help it,” you whispered when the feeling finally began to fade. Tashi smiled and wiped sweat from your forehead as Art’s hand squeezed your waist. “You did so good for us,” Tashi murmured as she looked down at your spent expression. Patrick finally slides out of your cunt and rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling while he catches his breath.

Art doesn’t pull his cock out yet, but he moves your leg off his shoulder and rolls you from your side onto your back before he leans down to nuzzle your neck. His hips grind against you once more, and you feel every inch of him buried inside you. “Tashi- hah, tell him to get off me,” you whispered and nudged Art’s chest because you’re too tired to deal with him. Tashi looks down at Art and runs her hand through your hair while you rest your head on her lap. “Art, let her breathe. Move your ass,” Tashi said after she saw how exhausted you looked. Art just groans into your collarbone and keeps his cock inside you for a few more seconds.

“Just give me five minutes- mmn, I’m not ready to move,” Art muttered before he pressed his face against you, but Patrick just laughed from the other side of the bed. Art scowls at the sound of Patrick’s laughter and buries his face into your neck while he ignores the others. He peppers kisses across your collarbone before he moves down toward your chest, but you let out a huff and try to push his shoulders away. “Stop- mmn, Art, too tired,” you muttered and turned your head to the side despite your cunt clenching around his cock when he nudged your sweet spot.

He feels you grip him and lets out a grunt after he leans up to whisper against your ear. “Your body says something else, you’re still squeezing me so hard,” Art rasped when he nipped your earlobe and ground his hips down once more. Tashi watches him with a smirk and keeps her hand on your shoulder, but Patrick just watches from his side of the bed. Art looks up at Tashi and opens his mouth like he’s about to ask something, but he stops himself before he can finish. “Are we-? Actually, I don’t care,” Art muttered and then looked at Tashi with a scowl.

“I’m keeping her,” he added after he buried his face into the valley of your breasts while his cock twitched inside your cunt. You roll your eyes and push at his hair because his possessiveness is annoying. “I can decide for myself where I’m going, Art,” you snapped when he started to nuzzle your skin. Tashi tilts her head and watches him with a dry look before she leans back against the pillows. “You want to keep her just because of what I did with Patrick?” Tashi asked when he finally looked at her. Art lets out a mmn and glances up without moving his head from your chest while he keeps his hand on your waist.

“She’s staying with us,” Patrick said from across the bed, and he reached over to touch your ankle. You look between the three of them and let out a tired huff before you finally speak. “If I’m staying, then all of you belong to me now,” you whispered and watched the way their expressions changed. Patrick leans toward you and kisses your lips before he breathes out. “The Donaldsons are very needy people,” Patrick said after he pulled back to look at Art and Tashi. Tashi hums and runs her thumb over your jaw while she considers his words.

“I just like to keep what belongs to me,” Tashi said when she glanced at the two men. “I’m taking such good care of my boys,” she added after she brushed your hair from your face. You look at her and wait for her to continue, but she just smiles because she likes the way you’re watching her. “I’m going to take good care of you, too,” Tashi whispered before she leaned down to kiss your forehead. Art finally pulls out of your cunt and rolls to your other side, then his hand tightens on your thigh when all three of them surround you on the messy sheets. You exhale and close your eyes while you lean into Tashi’s touch because you could definitely get used to this.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ twenty-twenty-six © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

You lay there in a comfortable silence, the only sounds being his ragged breathing and the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your ear. You could feel the warm, sticky evidence of his release on your lips, a tangible reminder of the incredible intimacy you had just shared. The air in the room was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, a raw, primal perfume that was both intoxicating and grounding. It was the scent of him, of you, of us.

He tilted his head down, his lips finding your forehead in a soft, tender kiss. "Wow," he whispered, his voice a husky, contented rumble that vibrated through his chest and into yours. "Just… wow."

You smiled, your heart feeling so full it might burst. "Wow," you agreed, snuggling closer into his embrace, your leg draping over his, your hand resting on the warm, solid plane of his stomach. You could feel the faint, residual tremors running through his body, the aftershocks of his powerful orgasm. It was a heady feeling, knowing you had brought him to that point, that you were the cause of his utter and complete surrender.

You had crossed a line. You had obliterated it, danced on its ashes, and then built a new world in its place. And as you lay there, wrapped in his arms on the floor of his home gym, you knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and exhilarating, that there was no going back. You didn't want to go back.

"Come here," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He shifted, maneuvering his body with a newfound grace, rolling you both until you were lying side-by-side, facing each other. He propped himself up on his elbow, his gaze roaming over your face, his expression soft and adoring. He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw, the swell of your bottom lip. He was touching you like you were something precious, something he was afraid he might break.

"You're incredible," he whispered, his eyes dark with a sincerity that made your breath catch. "Do you know that? Absolutely incredible."

You felt a blush creep up your neck, a warmth that had nothing to do with the exertion. "You're not so bad yourself, Norris," you teased, your voice soft.

He laughed, a low, husky sound that was full of affection. He leaned in, capturing your lips in a slow, deep kiss. It wasn't a kiss of frantic desire, but of tender discovery. It was a kiss that tasted of contentment, of shared secrets, of a future that was suddenly, breathtakingly possible. His tongue explored your mouth with a lazy, sensual rhythm, and you met him stroke for stroke, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

You were lost in the kiss, in the feel of him, in the heady scent of him. The world outside this room, with all its complications and consequences, had ceased to exist. There was only this. Only him. Only the perfect, aching bliss of being in his arms.

He pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing ragged. "I could do this all day," he murmured, his eyes closed. "Just lie here with you."

"Me too," you whispered back, and it was the truest thing you had ever said.

You lay there for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in each other's arms, your bodies tangled together on the soft mats. You talked in quiet whispers, sharing secrets and dreams, your heads close together. He told you about his childhood, about his first go-kart, about the thrill of his first win. You told him about your family, about why you became a physical therapist, about your own small, quiet dreams. It was an intimacy that went far beyond the physical, a meeting of minds and hearts that was as profound as it was unexpected.

You were so lost in your own little world, so wrapped up in the warmth of his embrace and the soft cadence of his voice, that you didn't hear it at first.

It was a faint click, a sound from downstairs. A key in a lock.

Your head snapped up, your eyes wide with alarm. Lando froze, his body tensing beneath yours. You both held your breath, listening.

The front door opened, the sound echoing through the quiet house. Then, a familiar, cheerful voice, laced with the exhaustion of travel. "Lando? We're home! The flight was an absolute nightmare, you wouldn't believe the turbulence…"

It was his mother.

Another voice, deeper, more measured. "Cisca, give the boy a minute. He's probably asleep. It's barely past noon."

His father.

Panic, cold and sharp, shot through you. You scrambled off him, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Your clothes were in a heap on the other side of the room. Your hair was a mess. Your lips were swollen. You were covered in a sheen of sweat and, if you were being honest with yourself, the scent of him.

"Fuck," Lando muttered, his voice a low, desperate curse. He was struggling to sit up, his face pale with shock. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. I forgot. They were supposed to be back tomorrow."

The reality of your situation crashed down on you with the force of a physical blow. This wasn't just a line you had crossed; it was a chasm. And his parents, the people who had trusted you with their son's care, had just arrived at the edge of it.

"What do we do?" you whispered, your voice a frantic, panicked squeak. You were frantically looking around for your clothes, your movements clumsy and uncoordinated.

"My room," he said, his voice tight with urgency. "Get your clothes. Go to my room. I'll… I'll get dressed. I'll be right there."

You didn't need to be told twice. You grabbed your scrubs from the floor, your hands shaking so badly you could barely get them on. You were a mess. You looked like you had just been thoroughly and thoroughly debauched. Which, you supposed, you had.

You gave him one last, wild-eyed look before you bolted from the gym, your bare feet silent on the cool wooden floor of the hallway. You could hear his parents moving around downstairs, the sound of luggage being dropped, the rustle of coats being removed. They were coming upstairs.

You sprinted into his bedroom, closing the door softly behind you. You took a deep, steadying breath, trying to calm the frantic pounding of your heart. You had to think. You had to come up with a plausible reason for why you were in his bedroom, looking like you'd just rolled out of bed after a very, very good night.

Your eyes landed on your therapy bag, sitting neatly by the door. Your notes. Of course.

You rummaged through your bag, your fingers fumbling for the small, leather-bound notebook where you kept your patient records. You flipped it open to a random page, your eyes scanning the dense, professional script. You perched on the edge of his bed, trying to look casual, trying to look like you had been there for the past ten minutes, diligently reviewing his progress, not… not what you had actually been doing.

You could hear them on the stairs now, their footsteps getting closer. Your heart was in your throat. You smoothed down your hair, took another deep breath, and tried to compose your features into an expression of calm, professional neutrality.

The door to his bedroom swung open.

Lando's mother, Cisca, stood there, her face lighting up when she saw you. She was a beautiful woman, with the same warm, kind eyes as her son. "Oh, y/n! What a lovely surprise! We didn't know you'd be here."

His father, Adam, was right behind her. He was a taller, more reserved version of his son, but his smile was just as warm. "Y/n. Good to see you."

You stood up, forcing a smile that you hoped didn't look as terrified as you felt. "Mr. and Mrs. Norris! Welcome home. I was just finishing up some notes from this morning's session. Lando's been making some incredible progress, I wanted to get it all down while it was fresh."

It was a plausible lie. A professional lie. But as you said the words, you felt a wave of shame wash over you. You were using his progress, his incredible, hard-won victory, as an alibi for your own transgression.

Just then, Lando appeared in the doorway behind them. He had managed to pull on a pair of sweatpants and a fresh t-shirt, but his hair was still a mess, and his face was flushed. He looked exactly like what he was: a man who had just been interrupted.

"Hey, Mum. Hey, Dad," he said, his voice a little too high, a little too bright. "You're back early."

Cisca's attention immediately shifted to her son, her eyes softening with a maternal love that was so palpable it made your heart ache. She crossed the room in a few quick strides, wrapping her arms around him in a tight, fierce hug. "Oh, my darling boy," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "We missed you so much."

Lando buried his face in her hair, his arms wrapping around her waist. You could see the tension in his shoulders ease, the lines of worry on his face smooth out. In his mother's arms, he wasn't a patient, or a racing driver, or a man struggling with a devastating injury. He was just her son. The sight was so raw, so pure, that it sent a fresh pang of guilt through you. You were an intruder here, a witness to a sacred family moment you had no right to see.

Adam followed, clapping a hand on Lando's shoulder before pulling him into his own embrace. It was a more restrained hug, but no less full of love. "Good to see you, son," he said, his voice gruff with emotion. "You look well."

"I feel well," Lando said, his voice muffled by his father's shoulder. "Really well."

Cisca finally pulled back, her hands cupping Lando's face, her eyes scanning him as if to reassure herself that he was truly okay. Then, she turned to you, her expression softening. She stepped forward and wrapped you in a hug. It wasn't a brief, polite hug. It was a long, warm, genuine embrace that smelled of expensive perfume and travel-weary affection. "Thank you," she whispered in your ear, her voice thick with a gratitude that felt like a physical weight. "Thank you for everything you're doing for him."

You froze for a second, your arms awkwardly at your sides, before you forced yourself to hug her back. "I'm just doing my job," you mumbled, the words feeling hollow and false.

She pulled back, her hands on your shoulders, her eyes looking directly into yours. "No," she said, her voice firm but kind. "It's more than that. We can see it. He's… he's himself again. And that's because of you."

The praise was a brand on your skin, a mark of your deception. You could feel Lando's gaze on you, and you knew he was feeling it too. This tangled web of gratitude and guilt was becoming impossible to navigate.

"Why don't we all go downstairs?" Adam suggested, ever the practical one. "I could use a coffee. And I'm sure y/n has plenty to tell us about this 'incredible progress'."

The next hour was a strange, surreal blur. You sat with them in their sun-drenched kitchen, the same kitchen where you had made pancakes for Lando just this morning, a lifetime ago. You sipped a cup of coffee, your hands trembling slightly, and gave them a detailed, professional report on Lando's progress. You talked about his increased core strength, his improved transfer techniques, the new confidence he had in the parallel bars.

Lando sat beside you at the table, his wheelchair pushed in close, and chimed in with his own excited commentary. "And today! Today I held a plank for a full minute. Y/n timed me. And I did fifteen reps on the bars, Dad. Fifteen!"

His parents were beaming, their faces alight with a pride and relief so profound it was almost painful to witness. They asked questions, they listened intently, they celebrated every small victory as if it were a championship win. And through it all, you and Lando played your parts. You were the dedicated therapist, he was the motivated patient. But underneath the professional facade, the air was thick with a tension that was almost audible.

Every time your hand brushed against his on the table, a jolt of electricity shot through you. Every time he looked at you, his eyes held a secret, a shared memory of the floor in the gym. You were acutely aware of the space between you, a space that was charged with unspoken words and forbidden touches. You had no idea what this was. You didn't know if he was just attracted to you, if this was a physical thing born from intense proximity, or if he felt the same terrifying, heart-stopping pull that you did. The uncertainty was a constant, low-grade hum of anxiety beneath your skin.

The awkwardness reached its peak during dinner. Cisca had prepared a simple pasta, and the four of you sat around the large wooden table in their dining room. The conversation was stilted, punctuated by long, uncomfortable silences. His parents tried to keep things light, asking about your own family, your plans for the holidays. But every time they directed a question at you and Lando together, you both would get flustered.

"So, are you two getting along well?" Cisca asked, her tone innocent. "I imagine you spend a lot of time together."

You nearly choked on your water. Lando coughed beside you.

"Um, yes," you managed to say, your voice a little too high. "Very well. He's a… he's a great patient."

"He's a hard worker," Lando added quickly, not looking at you. "Y/n's a good teacher."

The exchange was so stilted, so painfully formal, that Adam raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something—curiosity? suspicion?—in his eyes. Cisca just smiled, seemingly oblivious.

After dinner, you insisted on helping clear the table, needing something to do with your hands, needing an escape from the suffocating tension at the dinner table. You were scraping the leftover pasta into the bin when you heard them. Lando's parents had cornered him in the living room. You couldn't see them, but you could hear their voices, a low, intimate murmur that carried into the kitchen.

"So," Cisca's voice, soft and knowing. "What do you really think of her, our y/n?"

You froze, your hand hovering over the garbage bin. Your heart started pounding in your ears. This was it. The moment of truth.

There was a pause. You could picture him, shrugging, trying to look casual, failing miserably.

"She's great," he said, and you could hear the forced nonchalance in his voice. "She's… you know. Good at her job. Professional."

"Professional?" Adam's voice, a low rumble. "Is that all?"

Another pause. Longer this time. "No," Lando finally admitted, his voice quieter, more vulnerable. "She's… she's amazing. She's smart, and she's funny, and she's… she's just… yeah. She's great."

You could hear the smile in Cisca's voice. "She is, isn't she? We like her very much."

"We just want you to be happy, son," Adam added, his voice full of a paternal warmth that made your throat ache.

You quickly finished cleaning up, your mind a chaotic mess. They knew. Or at least they suspected. And Lando… what did his answer mean? She's amazing. She's great. Was that just a description of a good employee, or was it something more? The ambiguity was torture.

When you re-entered the living room, the moment was broken. Cisca and Adam were saying their goodnights to Lando, their hugs and kisses just as long and loving as they had been when they arrived. You stood by awkwardly, feeling like an outsider, a ghost in their family tableau.

"Alright, you two, don't stay up too late," Cisca said, giving you a warm smile. "It was wonderful to see you, y/n. Get home safe."

"You too," you murmured, your voice barely a whisper.

And then they were gone, upstairs to their own wing of the house, leaving you and Lando alone in the quiet, charged silence of the living room.

You pushed his wheelchair toward his bedroom, the journey silent and heavy. The easy, playful intimacy from this morning was gone, replaced by a thick, suffocating awkwardness. You were acutely aware of his presence, of the warmth of his body, of the scent of his skin. But you were miles apart, separated by a chasm of unspoken fears and unasked questions.

You got him settled in his bed, your movements brisk and efficient, a return to the clinical routine that felt like a flimsy shield against the storm of your emotions. You pulled the blankets over his legs, your hands avoiding his, your eyes fixed on the fabric.

"Okay," you said, your voice a little too bright, a little too brittle. "All set. I'll just… I'll see you in the morning."

You turned to leave, desperate to escape, to put this day, this impossible, wonderful, terrible day, behind you.

"Wait."

His voice was soft, but it stopped you in your tracks. You turned around slowly, your heart in your throat.

He was looking at you, his eyes dark and serious in the soft lamplight. The guarded look was back, but it was different this time. It wasn't a wall of hurt. It was a shield of vulnerability.

"We need to talk," he said.

Your stomach dropped. "Lando, I don't think that's a good idea."

"No, we do," he insisted, his voice gaining a thread of desperation. "I can't… I can't go to sleep like this. With all this… stuff… hanging between us. Y/n, I…"

He took a deep breath, his gaze locking with yours, his eyes raw and unshielded. "I really like you."

The words, so simple, so direct, hung in the air between you. They were everything you wanted to hear, and everything you were terrified of. They were a confirmation and a condemnation all at once.

And you panicked.

"Shh!" you hissed, your eyes darting toward the closed door, as if his parents could hear you through the thick walls. "Don't. Don't say that."

His face fell, the hope in his eyes extinguished, replaced by a raw, wounded confusion. "Why?" he whispered. "Why not?"

"Because it's wrong!" The words burst out of you, a torrent of self-loathing and fear The words hung in the air, sharp and cruel. "Wrong." You saw the immediate impact on his face, the way his entire body seemed to recoil as if you'd struck him. The hope that had been so fragile, so bravely offered, was shattered. It was replaced by a raw, gaping wound of confusion and hurt that was infinitely worse than the guarded anger from yesterday.

"Wrong?" he repeated, his voice barely a whisper, laced with disbelief. "What… what do you mean, wrong?"

You were pacing now, a frantic, caged animal in the quiet room. You couldn't look at him. If you looked at him, you would break. "I mean it's inappropriate! It's unprofessional! It's a violation of every ethical code I've ever sworn to uphold. I'm your therapist, Lando. You're my patient. It's a line that cannot be crossed."

The words were a mantra, a shield of jargon and rules you were desperately trying to hide behind. They were true, every single one of them. But they weren't the whole truth. They weren't the real reason.

"So that's all this is to you?" he asked, his voice gaining a thread of anger, a desperate, wounded anger. "A code? A rule? A line in a contract? What about what happened in the gym? What about… what about this?"

He gestured between the two of you, a small, helpless movement of his hand. "Was I imagining that? Was I imagining that you feel it too? That there's something here that's bigger than your job description?"

You stopped pacing, your back to him, your shoulders slumped in defeat. "No," you whispered, the confession torn from you. "You're not imagining it."

"Then why?" he pressed, his voice cracking. "Y/n, look at me. Please."

You couldn't. You couldn't turn around and face the devastation you had caused. "Because it's not fair to you!" you burst out, your voice choked with tears. "Don't you get it? I'm in a position of power here. You're vulnerable. You're recovering. Your feelings… they might not even be real. They might be a byproduct of the situation, of transference, of… of gratitude. And I'm taking advantage of that by even letting this happen. I'm taking advantage of you."

It was the most honest you had ever been, the ugliest part of your fear laid bare. You were terrified that you were no better than a predator, exploiting his vulnerability for your own selfish, lonely desires.

The silence that followed was heavy and absolute. You braced yourself for more anger, for more accusations.

Instead, you heard a soft, humorless chuckle.

Slowly, reluctantly, you turned around.

He was looking at you, but the hurt in his eyes had been replaced by something else. A profound, bone-deep sadness. A look of pity, almost.

"Transference?" he said, his voice quiet but steady. "You think that's what this is? That I'm just… what? Confusing my therapist with my savior?"

You didn't answer, your throat too tight to form words.

He shook his head slowly, a sad smile touching his lips. "Y/n, I've had dozens of therapists, specialists, and doctors since the crash. Dozens of people in positions of power. I've never once felt this for any of them. Not even close. Gratitude? Yes. Respect? Absolutely. But this… this feeling that I might actually be falling for you? That's new. That's all you."

He took a deep breath, his gaze unwavering. "And you think you're taking advantage of me? You, the person who has pushed me harder than anyone, who has believed in me when I didn't believe in myself, who has seen me at my absolute worst and hasn't run away? You think you have the power in this dynamic? You're wrong. You're so, so wrong."

He shifted in the bed, trying to sit up straighter, a flicker of his old frustration at his own limitations crossing his face before he pushed it down. "The power isn't that you're my therapist. The power is that you're the first person in months who makes me feel like a man again. Not a patient, not a victim, not a charity case. A man. And that's terrifying. For both of us."

His words were a mirror, reflecting your own deepest fears and desires back at you. He saw it. He understood it. And in that moment, the professional barrier, the ethical code, the job description—it all crumbled into dust. It was just you and him, two people caught in a situation neither of you had asked for, feeling something neither of you could deny. His words were a lifeline, a rope thrown across a chasm you had been certain was uncrossable. You wanted to take it. You wanted to cross. You wanted to believe him with every fiber of your being. For a single, breathtaking moment, you let yourself. You took a step towards the bed, your hand reaching out, your heart soaring with a reckless, terrifying hope.

But then, the cold, hard reality of your world crashed back in. The image of his mother's grateful face, the weight of her "thank you" in your ear, the sacred trust they had placed in you—it was an anchor, and it was dragging you back down.

You stopped. Your hand fell to your side. The hope in your chest curdled into something sour and painful.

"No," you whispered, shaking your head, the tears you'd been fighting finally breaking free and tracking hot paths down your cheeks. "You don't understand. It doesn't matter what we feel. It doesn't matter if it's real. It can't happen."

"Why?" The desperation was back in his voice, raw and pleading. "Because of my parents? Because of your job? Y/n, none of that matters if we…"

"It matters!" you cut him off, your voice cracking with the force of it. "It matters because I would lose everything! My career, my reputation, everything I've worked for. And you… you would lose the best chance you have at a full recovery. What happens when this goes wrong, Lando? Because it would. It always does. What happens then? I get fired, and you're left with a stranger who doesn't know you, who doesn't care about you the way I do. You'd be starting over. I couldn't do that to you. I won't."

You were crying in earnest now, ugly, ragged sobs that you couldn't control. You were destroying him to save him. It was the most cruel, most loving thing you had ever done.

"So you're choosing your job over me," he said. His voice was flat now. The anger, the desperation, the hope—it was all gone. All that was left was a hollow, devastating emptiness.

"I'm choosing your future over my feelings," you choked out. "I'm choosing your recovery over this… this moment."

He stared at you, his face a mask of stone. The light in his eyes, the one that had been slowly returning, brighter every day, flickered and died. He looked at you not with anger, but with a profound, weary disappointment. As if he had truly believed you were different, and you had just proven him wrong.

"Get out," he said. It wasn't a shout. It was quiet. It was worse.

"Lando, please…"

"Get out," he repeated, his gaze fixed on the wall behind you. "I'm tired. And my session is over. Right?"

The last two words were a poison dart, hitting their mark with perfect, agonizing accuracy. You had built the wall. He was just showing you the door.

So, despite the red flags and klaxon alarms, you took the keys and ignored the pitying way the people across the street watched you. You’d researched the neighborhood, it didn’t have any higher crime rates than your old one. You hadn’t read any headlines in the news that would make you regret your choice. 

It wasn’t until your second night there that you realized why, exactly, everyone had treated you like a kicked stray. 

You have your pillow wrapped as tightly as possible around your head without actually suffocating yourself. The house right beside you has its music blaring on obnoxious speakers, girls screaming the lyrics, and guys cheering as they jump off the roof into your neighbor’s pool. 

Despite the fact that everyone over there looks, at the very least, thirty, they’re partying like it’s Y2K and the world’s about to end. 

So, this is why the house was so fucking cheap. Figures. 

You let out a low groan and bury your face into the mattress. You have your TV on, white noise playing, even music blaring from your phone. It doesn't even put a goddamn dent in the howling happening in the next house over. 

The universe really just did not feel like giving you a break. Dating Colin wasn’t enough punishment for the sins of your past life. Now you had to live next to the goddamn Playboy Manor. 

The number of women who had streamed in there in thongs and barely-there bikinis had been concerning, to say the least. And the fact that half of them received payment on entry was even more disturbing. 

Admittedly, you probably shouldn’t have been posted at your window, glaring down at the neighbor’s house. But, really, you didn’t have a choice. At least that’s what you tell your nosy ass. 

Tomorrow, you swear to yourself. You will march over there, demand an explanation, and then politely ask them to shut the fuck up. Tonight, though, you were too damn exhausted to do anything but bask in your own misery. 

Fix the bitch face, you remind yourself, forcing a half-pleasant smile on your face as your neighbor opens her door. The smile slips into a slightly awed expression as you take in the older woman. Her hair perfectly tousled, boobs right in your face with that bikini, and a silk robe wrapped around her like a second skin. Holy shit. You’d been expecting some finance ass in his thirties, not a hot mom in her fifties. 

“Hi,” you draw out uncertainly. Her eyes narrow, flitting up and down your form as she appraises you. Your shoulders straighten, chin jutting out under her judgment. 

“Can I help you, baby?” The rasp of her voice should have been expected, but it still takes you off guard. 

You hold out your plate of (poorly-baked) cookies and adjust your smile. “Yes, hi,” you give her your name. “I just moved in next door,” you tell her, nodding toward your house. “I thought I would introduce myself to my new neighbors.”

And politely ask you all to shut. The. Fuck. Up. On weeknights. You’re a reasonable woman.

The stern look on her face makes way for something you wouldn’t describe as soft, but at least it didn’t look like she was about to pull a gun on you. “Well, isn’t that sweet?” She opens the door and motions you inside. You almost protest but the sharp look on her face has you stepping forward with your tail tucked. 

“You know,” her hand hovers over your lower back as she leads you deeper inside. “Not enough girls are like you, anymore. No manners,” she scoffs, voice airy like she’s already a world away from your conversation. 

“Why don’t you change, we’re having a little party by the pool.” Of course you are, the only reason you don’t roll your eyes is because you’re 90% sure she would spank you like a child. 

“Oh,” you flounder. “I just wanted to introduce myself, that’s all. Besides, I don’t have a suit.”

She laughs, the noise unkind, and turns you toward a bedroom. “You know the great thing about string bikinis,” she rasps into your ear. “They look good on anyone. Bottom drawer,” with a slight shove, you’re stumbling into the room and the door is closing behind you. 

That woman is a witch, you’re so sure of it. Not only did you obey, picking through different sizes of bikinis until you found your own, you found yourself waiting for her next instructions. Standing outside the bedroom in your heels and half naked, you feel ridiculous but that doesn’t stop you from smiling when she lets out a low whistle at the sight of you. 

“Smurf,” she offers, holding out her hand. You repeat your name again and follow her through the glass doors of her patio. 

“Let me introduce you to the boys.”

Your eyes widen as you trip slightly. “Boys?” You croak. Meeting Smurf was bad enough, especially now that she’s got you half-naked prancing around her pool. You had no interest in meeting any of the rowdy assholes screwing around in her backyard. 

She hums and sends you a smug smirk, “My boys.” Great, more of her. You’d hit your quota of mama-boys in your life after your ex. You had no interest in meeting any more, but there wasn’t much of a choice as she shouted, “Boys, get over here!”

Four messy heads of hair whip toward her and suddenly, four grown men are racing toward you. Your nails bite into the palm of your hand as you swallow down the urge to turn tail and run back home. 

“Craig,” she motions toward the tallest and the one eyeing up your body like you’re a slab of meat at the butcher’s. You’ve never wanted to crawl out of your skin more. “Baz,” he offers his hand. You take it tentatively. His gaze isn’t any better. Only Deran and J, the other two, seem to be looking at you like you’re a human being.

“She brought us some cookies,” Smurf holds out the plate and you frown at the condescending tone of her voice. 

“Who are you?” Craig mutters around a mouthful of chocolate chips.

“New neighbor,” Smurf answers for you. Baz’s gaze darts to her and you don’t like the narrow-eyed look they share. 

“Really?” Baz asks. The interest in his stare is entirely different now. So unsettling you almost wish he would go back to objectifying you. It feels like he’s trying to crawl under your skin, pick you apart until he’s got your inner workings memorized.  

Smurf hums and places the plate down on a nearby table. “I thought we should keep her around, maybe have her for dinner. Get to know her,” the men’s eyes widen slightly and you know that they’re hearing something you’re not. Your stomach rolls unpleasantly. 

“Well,” your voice cracks as you take a shaky step back. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Baz steps toward you, herding around you until you’re being pushed toward a lounge chair. “No intrusion,” he insists as you pretend not to notice the woman doing a line off her hand beside you. You sit stiff and straight, praying as desperately as you can that you’re not about to be trafficked. 

“Stick around,” he instructs. “I want to get to know our new neighbor.” You offer nothing more than a squeaky hum. He walks back toward his family and suddenly you’re a deer caught in a fox's den as they stare at you, whispering amongst themselves. 

God, you really stepped in it this time. 

You’ve had three drinks shoved in your hand in under an hour. Each of them has gone untouched, passed off to whatever partygoer walked by you. Smurf doesn’t speak to you, just sits in her chair and watches everyone. J and Deran asked you brief questions about yourself, but it’s been Baz who’s truly been hounding you. 

Every ten minutes, he’ll stop beside you, ask you some “innocent” questions about yourself. You keep your answers brief, each response feeling like a test that you have no luck in passing. Your limit for strangers and loud music is about ten minutes and by this point, you feel ready to pass out or throw up. 

Not only is Smurf’s family disturbing and intimidating. The people all around you have been snorting, sniffing, and smoking illicit substances that you want no part in. You actually don’t care how loud they are at night, now, you just want to get out of this party alive. 

So, when Baz gets held up breaking up a fight between Craig and Deran, you take your chance. Your heels click against the stone path as you make your way toward one of the doors. Smurf’s blocking the one she led you through, so you end up finding your way into someone’s bedroom. 

Just as you’re sliding the glass door shut, the one behind you clicks open. “Fuck,” you hiss. 

“Who are you?” The voice is gruff, sharp in a way that has chills breaking out along your body. With a tight smile, you whip around, back pressed to the cold glass. 

Hazel eyes are narrowed in your direction, cold and emotionless. “Hi-”

“Who’s that?” A little girl pops up behind him, head tilted curiously.

“Don’t know,” he replies. The man turns, pushing her out of the room. “Find your dad,” he tells her. He waits until she runs off to close the door and you realize how well and truly fucked you are. Because not only are you in a stranger’s house, you’re now being cornered against a bed by a man who looks like he hasn’t felt remorse in years. 

“Who are you?” He asks again. He doesn’t raise his voice, but you still feel a shock of fear regardless. 

“Neighbor,” you stutter out. His eyes dip down your body, not admiring, assessing. Still, you find your arms wrapping tightly around your stomach, wishing you were in more than, essentially, a bra and thong. 

“We don’t have neighbors,” he takes a step closer, rolling up his sleeves in a way that has your breakfast coming up your throat. 

“Now you do,” you offer weakly, hands splayed like you’re some sort of surprise. “I, um, brought cookies and Smurf told me to stay. Gave me a bathing suit and…” you trail off as he comes to a stop. His shoulders roll back and for a moment, you feel a little bit of your anxiety ease. 

“I was trying to figure out how to sneak out of here. I didn’t realize this was your room, I’m sorry.” He nods once, eyes still roaming across your body. Finally, he steps back, opening up the door and nodding you forward. 

You hesitate just a moment before he lets out a slight huff. “Get out.” He doesn’t say it unkindly, just bluntly. It’s enough to get you hightailing your way through the rest of the house. You feel him following behind you, rather than hear him. His presence is looming despite his size, broad and an imitation of your own shadow. 

When you pause at the entrance of the bedroom you’d first walked into, he comes up beside you, arms crossed. “What?”

You startle at his sudden appearance and wrap your arms around yourself once more. His eyes narrow on the movement but he says nothing. “My clothes are gone.”

“Clearly,” you’re so caught off guard by what could, almost, be a joke that you forget to take offense. 

“No,” you stutter over his audacity and glare. “Smurf put me in this. I left my dress in here. It’s gone.”

The patio door opens behind you both and he shoots you a sharp look. “Go home.”

You glance down at your half-naked body and then back at him. “Like this?”

His hand, rough and calloused, is already wrapped around your arm and dragging you to the front door. “Either that or stay for dinner.” Even if you did want to stay, he gave you no choice. With a light nudge, you’re stumbling down their front steps and the door is slamming behind you. 

Before any other neighbors see you, you book it toward your home and throw yourself inside. Tomorrow, you’ll mourn the loss of that dress. Right now, you’re just thankful for the shark-eyed stranger who hustled you out of there. 

“Again, Mr. Murray, I’m not allowed to date our clients.” You offer the eighty-year-old man in front of you a forced smile. He laughs you off and leans against the counter. There’s a distinct pop that you’re sure is his hip slipping out of place. 

“Nonsense, sweetheart, it’s just a little lunch.” Normally, the older clients are sweet, a little touchy. But they just want someone to talk to, to have someone listen to them, since their kids gave up on them years ago. Mr. Murray, however, is nothing more than a pushy nuisance who thinks sexual harassment is a PC snowflake term invented by prudes. 

You glance around him and groan at the long line forming behind his hunched back. “Mr. Murray, you’re flattering me, really, but I have a lot of people waiting.”

His brows draw in and you brace yourself for a temper tantrum when a frighteningly familiar voice interrupts. “Are you done?” Mr. Murray turns and you find a man with shark-eyes and auburn curls watching you. Jerking back slightly, your hand smooths over your hair, primping, as your neighbor moves beside the old man. 

Mr. Murray draws back with a why-I-oughta look but he cowers under the younger man’s intense gaze. It’s not even a glare, just the kind of stare that makes you completely rethink who you are as a person. 

“Just a joke,” Mr. Murray grunts as he wanders off. 

It’s just you and shark-eyes now, you can’t tell if you’re excited or dreadful. “Hi, again.” He says nothing and you scratch the back of your neck. “Nice to see you while I’m fully clothed.” It takes everything in you not to drop your head to your desk, because what compelled you to say that?

A small noise leaves him, nowhere close to a laugh but you think it’s the best you’ll get. “Need to open an account,” it’s all he says before sliding a large pile of hundreds toward you. 

“Oh,” your eyes widen as you gape at the obnoxiously large amount of money. You’re used to working at credit unions. They’re homely, poorly furnished, and not used by the richest people. This new job is cushy, a bank so fancy it’s even got a chandelier dangling from the ceiling. 

You haven’t had much time to grow accustomed to people with real money working with you. Still, though, this seems like an obscene amount. “Uh,” you clear your throat and tidy the bills into two piles. “My manager opens accounts, just give me a moment.”

His hands ball into fists and he lets out another sharp huff. “I’d prefer if you did it,” he insists and your brows turn in. 

“I don’t think I’m-”

“What’s going on over here?” Your manager comes up behind you, hand trailing across your shoulders as he leans against your desk. Shark-eyes tracks the movement and how you shudder. Your manager’s attention falls to the stacks of cash and his breath stutters. 

“He wants me to open his account.”

“Why aren’t you?” He demands sharply, pulling back. 

Your eyes dart between the two men and you shrink back. Switching jobs was supposed to help you regain control over your life, not put you under the thumb of another poorly developed man-child. 

“I’m not supposed to,” you grit out. “You said that, Mike.”

He rubs his hands together and lets out a nervous laugh, “Good day to start.” He collects the other man’s cash and pulls out your chair. He says your name and places his hand on your lower back. “She’ll take you to one of our offices and help you get set up.” 

With a huff, you jerk away from Mike’s hand and motion for your neighbor to follow you. He’s eerily silent as he trails behind you. Opening up an empty office, you motion him inside, letting the door shut quietly behind him. 

Situating yourself behind the desk, you pull out the new account paperwork. “Alright,” you hum to yourself, leafing through the papers. 

“Is he always like that?” 

Your eyes widen as you glance up. “Sorry?”

He leans back in his chair, elbows on the armrests and body stiff with tension. “Your boss. Is he always like that?”

You scoff and log in to the bank’s system. “If you mean domineering and a pain in my ass, then yes.” Somehow, his lips fall even flatter at your blunt admission. “It’s a new job,” you find yourself explaining for some reason. “Once the ‘fresh meat’ interest wears off, I’m sure he’ll back off.”

He hums but doesn’t offer you anything else. “Okay,” you draw the word out and slide him the papers. “First things first, need your name.”

He picks up the pen and scribbles it down, you tilt your head in curiosity. “Andrew,” you muse. His shoulders stiffen but he says nothing. “I thought Smurf only had four sons.” It’s an innocent enough inquiry, but from the glare he sends you, you’d think you’d told him you ran over his dog. 

“Sorry,” you back off, sliding the papers back toward yourself. Your nails click against the keyboard, struggling to figure out the alien system as you try and finish this as quickly as possible. 

“Three,” he suddenly announces. 

You hum absentmindedly. “What was that?”

Andrew clears his throat and shifts slightly, but his stare remains strong. Practically burning into you. “She’s got three sons. Deran, Craig, and me. Baz and J aren’t hers.”

You glance over at him and your brows furrow at just how uncomfortable he looks at such a small admission. Further confirmation that you should probably stay as far away from the Codys as possible. 

He clears his throat, shifting around again. “What about you?” 

You count his money and cast your eyes briefly toward him. Each question he asks sounds like someone’s pulling teeth to force it out of him. He hasn’t looked away, not once, but you’re wondering if that’s just a different sort of stress tic. As if taking his eyes off you means leaving himself vulnerable. 

“Nope,” you click your tongue and pass him more forms to sign. “All on my own.”

He straightens and lazily scribbles out his signature. “No family? Boyfriend? You moved into that big house on your own?”

Your fingers still on the keyboard as your shoulders stiffen. From anyone else it could just be a hopeful ploy to see if you’re single. But this is the same man whose mother practically kidnapped you last night and all of a sudden, he’s popping up at your place of work. 

With a sly grin you don’t truly mean, you turn to him, arms crossed on the desk. He doesn’t falter, eyes never wavering. “Are you trying to ask me out, Andrew?”

For the first time, you get a true reaction out of him. He blinks rapidly, lips parting as he pulls back from you. “No,” he sounds incredulous and you can’t help but laugh. 

“Relax, I’m messing with you. Because, honestly, you sound like I’m going to find you waiting at my house for me tonight.”

He settles and crosses his arms. “I am your neighbor.” If you could read anything about him at all, you might have recognized it as a joke. But it feels more like a threat to you. Stiffening, you draw back and place his money in a bag. 

“I’ll just go deposit this for you.” You rush out of the room before he can say anything else. 

Andrew turns and watches as you practically run down the hall. He sinks back into his chair with a heavy sigh. He hadn’t even wanted to do this. It's not like he was exactly eager to be back in banks again. 

But Smurf and Baz got on his ass about checking out the new neighbor. Making sure she wasn’t a plant or going to cause any trouble. He’d watched you all morning up until now. From all he could tell you were on your own, working a boring nine-to-five, and there was absolutely nothing interesting about you. 

You also seemed pretty smart, already aware of just how far you should be staying away from his family. Even more reason you’re not going to be causing any trouble for them. Hopefully, this meant Smurf would get off his back and his day wouldn’t have to revolve around some harassed bank teller. 

The low murmur of conversation catches his attention and he turns back toward the glass door. Your manager has stopped you in the hall, hand cupping your elbow as he stands far too close. 

You’re actively shrinking back, face curled with displeasure as Mike only gets closer. Pope’s lips curl slightly as he watches you jerk away. You rush down the hall, bag clutched tightly to your chest. Mike glowers until he turns to find Pope watching him. 

With a lazy smile, he approaches your office and takes a seat behind the desk. He steeples his fingers, eyes eager as he watches Pope. “Is she treating you alright?” 

“She’s fine,” he grits out.

Mike shrugs and gives him a smile like they’re sharing a secret. “No need to cover. We’ve gotten quite a few complaints about her already. There’s only really one reason we hired her, you know?”

Pope doesn’t feel like entertaining the conversation anymore. He wants Mike gone, he wants you gone. He wants to leave. But Smurf always knows when he’s lying and he doesn’t have the option of bullshitting his way out of this ridiculous errand. 

“No, I don’t know,” he’s speaking through clenched teeth and, still, Mike is incapable of taking the hint. 

“Well,” Mike clears his throat, trying to find a way around a harassment suit. “It’s always nice to have something pretty to look at, you know? Decor’s just meant to be attractive, doesn’t have to be smart.”

“Neither does the manager, apparently.” It takes a moment for the insult to settle. Mike’s wide eyes only further prove Pope’s point. 

He clears his throat uncomfortably and shifts, “Right. Well, I’ll just let her finish up here.” Pope says nothing, just watches the old man as he walks out with his tail tucked. He can hear you bump into him in the hallway, Mike snaps at you, taking his frustration out on the first easy target. 

Pope turns again and when Mike catches his eye he shoves past you and storms his way back to the front. You watch him go with an awed expression and shake your head. Pope hears you mutter, “Jackass,” as you make your way inside the office. 

You settle into your chair with a loud huff. “Here are your checks. It’s just a few, you’ll receive the book in the mail.” He takes it wordlessly, eyes darting to your phone as it lights up on the desk. 

🚫drunk texting shows on your screen for a split second before you offer him a sheepish smile and turn it off. “Sorry about that.”

“Who is it?” He’s being invasive, that’s the whole point, but he almost hopes you don’t tell him. If you’re the type to just spill so easily, it’s going to cause trouble for you in the future. 

“A mistake,” you bite out, not meeting his eyes. Pope lets out a small sigh as you shove his papers haphazardly into a file. “There you go, Mr. Cody. Please let us know if there’s anything else you might need.” 

Your smile is tight, sharp at the edges, your tone is practiced. The same voice you’d given the old man who wouldn’t take no for an answer. You’re dismissing him and wordlessly making it clear that should he ever need anything you want nothing to do with it. Pope’s lips curl ever so slightly but they drop when he catches the surprise on your face at his expression. 

He takes the folder from your hands and leaves the office without another word. Making his way through the lobby, he finds himself sitting in his truck, just watching. You never take a lunch break, not leaving your stall unless it’s to deposit money. Pope finds himself growing more and more irritated the longer he has to watch this. 

You’re harmless, worth nothing to Smurf. Yet, every time he tries to get her to let this go, she insists he stays. The entire day is wasted on you. Finally, at 5:30, you make your way from the bank. You don’t wave goodbye to your coworkers, effectively ignored as they brush past you. You don’t even linger in the parking lot, just get started going down the sidewalk. 

Pope’s brows furrow as he watches you go. “Fuck’s sake,” he mutters. You walk home. And it’s not like he can just trail beside you in his truck. Getting out, he follows after you, lingering behind just enough for you not to notice him. 

He keeps his hands stuffed in his pockets, feeling more like a pervert than ever before. J or Craig should be doing this shit, not him. This is so far below him it's infuriating. After tonight, Baz better get that stick out of his ass about you. 

You pause and Pope ducks back. You dig around through your purse, letting out a soft curse as your head drops to hang between your shoulders. “Dammit.” Pope has no warning as you pivot around, eyes widening as they land on him. 

“Oh,” you let out a shrill sound that might have been a laugh and take a large step back from him. “You. Again.” Your eyes dart over his form and he can see as fear settles on you. “I really want to think this is a coincidence.”

Pope’s prolonged silence probably isn’t helping anything. But he genuinely has no excuse that could explain this away. And he knows what he looks like, unblinking, odd, something women don’t want to see following them home. 

“You shouldn’t walk home alone,” he finally settles on. The disturbed look on your face doesn’t abate, but you’re also not running. 

“Clearly,” you snap. “I knew your family was weird,” you settle on the word carefully and Pope almost laughs. Weird doesn’t even come close to explaining the Codys. He’s not sure any one word could. “But this is a lot.”

Pope shrugs and takes a step closer to you. You don’t move, eyeing him warily. “Do you want a ride back?”

“Are you going to kill me?” He gives you a flat look and you deflate. “Fine. I accidentally left my keys in the bank anyway.” This time, when you walk it’s beside him. Though you keep your purse clutched tightly to your chest, shooting him a wary look every so often. 

“Do you want to tell me why you were following me?”

Pope watches you and you don’t shrink away like he expects. You face him head-on, lips set in irritation. “Wanted to check out the new neighbor.” He knows you understand what he means. He’s not looking for a good time, he’s checking out that you’re not going to be a problem.