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pairing – garrett graham x petal!reader
summary – after months of small humiliations, one party becomes the final straw, and garrett learns too late that being sorry after the damage isn’t enough.
warnings – angst, breakup, argument, jealousy, public humiliation, relationship insecurity, crying, swearing, emotional hurt, no happy ending.
notes from me – uhhhhhh, you guys asked for it!! but based on this ask, thank you bby!! i was stuck on ideas for their break up until you sent this through!!
word count – 3.7k
navigation – masterlist |
The door had shut behind her with a hard, cheap little clap, cutting off the full ugly body of it all, the music and the shouting and the sound of someone in the kitchen yelling for Dean like Dean had ever once improved a situation by arriving. But pieces of it kept slipping through anyway.
Bass through the walls. Laughter when the door opened again somewhere behind her. The sticky-sweet smell of beer and perfume and winter-damp wool clinging to her coat like the house had put hands on her and refused to let go.
Her boots hit the pavement too hard. Every step sent a thin jolt up through her knees, but she couldn’t make herself slow down because if she slowed down, Garrett would catch up properly, and if Garrett caught up properly, he would talk. He always wanted to talk after the thing had already happened.
After she had already stood there with her cup going warm in her hand while three girls boxed him into the corner by the kitchen and laughed up at him like he had invented oxygen and jawlines and playoff hockey.
After one of them touched his arm and he didn’t step back. After another one said, “You’re so bad,” in that breathy, delighted voice girls used when bad meant attractive and accessible and maybe mine if I keep smiling right. After he had looked over once, seen her looking, and still stayed.
That was the part her body couldn’t get around. The seeing. The quick flicker of his eyes across the room, the half-second of recognition, the tiny change in his face like he knew, he knew exactly what it looked like, and then the way he’d smiled back down at the blonde in front of him anyway because Garrett Graham had never met attention he didn’t know how to catch one-handed.
“Baby.”
His voice came from behind her, breathless enough that he had jogged the last few steps. Good. Great. Fantastic. He could chase her now. He could find his legs now that the whole party wasn’t watching him be wanted.
She walked faster.
“Baby, come on.” Garrett’s sneakers scraped lightly over the pavement as he caught up beside her, his shadow cutting across the wet shine of the sidewalk under the streetlamp. “Can you just stop for a second?”
“No.”
“Okay, then can you slow down before you eat shit? You’re in heeled boots.”
She let out a laugh so sharp it barely sounded like one. “Oh my god.”
“What?”
“Nothing. That’s just–” She shook her head, eyes burning already, which made her angrier because she hadn’t even got to the yelling properly and her body had started betraying her like some kind of amateur. “That’s so you.”
Garrett moved into her path just enough to make her have to angle around him. Big and warm and breathing a little harder than normal, curls messy from the party heat, the collar of his jacket sitting crooked like one of those girls had maybe caught it when she leaned in to say something stupid into his ear. “What does that mean?”
“It means move.”
“Not until you talk to me.”
She stopped so abruptly he almost walked into her. For one second they stood under the streetlamp outside the row of dorm buildings, campus stretched cold and quiet around them, the party pulsing behind them like another life.
The air bit at her cheeks. Her hands were shaking, so she shoved them into her coat pockets and curled them there until her nails pressed little crescents into her palms.
Garrett’s face softened the second he saw her properly. He always looked sorry once the damage had a visible shape. “Hey,” he said, lower now. “Baby–”
“You’re such a piece of shit.”
His mouth closed. The words came out flat and ugly, too quick to stop, and for half a second even she seemed to hear them from outside herself. Not because they weren’t true in the hot, vicious courtroom currently operating under her ribs, but because they were not the sort of thing she usually said to him first.
She usually worked up to it. Usually gave him three warning shots and a sarcastic little exit route and enough room to pretend they were having an argument instead of watching one person bleed out slowly from the same cut.
Garrett blinked once. “Me?”
She laughed again, and this time the wetness in it made her want to claw her own throat open. “You’re such a fucking piece of shit.”
“Okay.” His jaw tightened, but he nodded, both hands lifting slightly like he was trying to calm a dog that had bitten him before and might do it again. “Okay. Let’s talk about why I’m a piece of shit.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“No, seriously. Let’s talk about it.” His voice had gone careful in that way that made her feel more insane, like he was standing there with a clipboard while she came apart on the pavement. “This is what I’ve been trying to do. I’ve been trying to talk to you about this all night.”
“All night?” Her head snapped back like the sentence had shoved her. “Garrett, you were not trying to talk to me all night. You were trying to flirt your way through three girls and then act shocked when I didn’t clap for you.”
“I wasn’t flirting.”
She stared at him.
“I wasn’t,” he said again, faster now, one hand dragging over the back of his neck. The old move. The Garrett Graham damage control special. “Jesus, they came up to me. What was I supposed to do, tell them to fuck off?”
“No, apparently that’s reserved for me.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You didn’t have to say it.” Her voice climbed, then cracked, and she hated the crack so much she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste metal. “You do this thing where you make me feel like I’m ruining your night by existing.”
Garrett looked genuinely thrown for a second. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. It’s not.” The defensive edge came in then, quick and familiar, the one that always arrived right after his guilt and right before her humiliation got turned into a debate topic. “I’m allowed to talk to people.”
“Holy fuck,” she said, quietly enough that it came out worse.
“What?”
“You’re fucked.”
“How am I fucked?” His hands spread, and there was a flash of frustration under the apology, the part of him that couldn't understand why wanting her and disrespecting her were not mutually exclusive in her body. “Talk to me. I’m right here. Tell me.”
“No.”
“Baby.”
“No.” She pointed back toward the house, eyes hot and too full now, the streetlamp turning everything soft-edged and horrible. “You know what? Actually, go ahead. Say your piece. Say your Garrett Graham bullshit. Please. Tell me what shit you’re gonna come up with this time.”
He watched her for a second, mouth pressed tight, breath coming out white in the cold. A car rolled past at the end of the street, slow enough that its headlights moved over them like a searchlight, catching the shine on her cheeks before she could turn away.
“Nah,” Garrett said finally. “I want to hear you out first.”
Her laugh was immediate and mean. “Of course you do.”
“I’m serious.”
“No, you want me to say it first so you can pick it apart.”
His brows drew together. “I’m not trying to pick anything apart.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m trying to understand what happened in there.”
“I’ve been telling you what happened.” Her voice broke properly this time, anger ripping through the words before she could sand them down. “For months. For fucking months, Garrett.”
His expression shifted. “No, you’ve been getting upset and then shutting down.”
“Because you make me feel stupid when I talk.”
“I don’t mean to.”
“But you do.” She stepped closer without meaning to, the space between them shrinking until she had to tilt her face up to keep looking at him. “You do, and then you stand there like because you didn’t mean to, I’m supposed to take that home and sleep next to it.”
Garrett swallowed. His hands dropped to his sides. “Okay. Then tell me properly now.”
Something in her face twisted. “Properly?”
“I get you’re frustrated–”
“Frustrated?” The word came out almost silent. Then she laughed, one hand flying up like she could physically bat it away from her. “Oh my god.”
“I’m trying to talk to you.”
“No, you’re trying to make me calm enough that you don’t have to feel like the bad guy.”
“That’s not–”
“You’re not respectful in the slightest,” she said, and the tears started then for real, hot and fast and humiliating, slipping down before she could do anything useful with her face. “Have some fucking respect for your fucking girlfriend!”
Garrett went still.
She made a frustrated sound, almost a groan, pressing the heel of her hand to one eye for half a second before dropping it again because crying into her own palm on a sidewalk was not the kind of tragic she respected. “What the fuck.”
Then she turned and started walking again.
“Hey, stop.” Garrett caught up in two strides, and his hand came to her waist. Warm fingers through her coat, a gentle pull meant to turn her back to him, and her whole body rejected it before her mind caught up.
She shoved him away with both hands. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
Garrett’s face changed so quickly it almost made something in her collapse. His hands lifted, empty. “Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t.”
“I don’t want to fucking talk to you.”
“I feel like shit,” he said, voice rougher now. “Please talk to me.”
The words should have softened her. Maybe some version of her, one who hadn’t spent the last month measuring how long it took him to remember she was standing beside him in rooms full of girls who wanted him, would have stepped into that roughness and let it mean enough.
But tonight her chest was too packed with old little injuries, all of them awake at once, crowding under her ribs until she could barely breathe around them.
“You weren’t feeling bad fifteen minutes ago,” she said. “Surrounded by girls. You weren’t feeling bad yesterday when we got stopped every three seconds and I stood there like an idiot while people talked through me to get to you. You weren’t feeling bad when you dropped my hand in that coffee shop, or when you missed the first half of my showcase because practice ran over and apparently I was supposed to be grateful you made it before bows.” Her breath hitched. She hated that one. Hated that it came out. “There was no consideration for me. There wasn’t. Or you wouldn’t have acted the way you fucking acted.”
“Whoa. Hey.” Garrett stepped closer, then seemed to remember and stopped himself. The restraint looked painful on him. “First of all, I always consider you. Always. I can’t help that people want to talk to me–”
She started laughing before he finished. Her body had found one last emergency exit before sobbing, and it was laughing in Garrett Graham’s face under a dorm streetlight with mascara starting to move at the corners of her eyes. “Holy fuck.”
His mouth tightened. “What?”
“How bad did you really feel if this is your version of a fucking apology?”
“I’m trying to explain.”
“You’re explaining why it’s not your fault.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing.” She wiped under one eye with the side of her finger, furious when it came away damp and black-smudged. “You stand there in the corner with three puck bunnies flirting with you like, what? You’re rubbing that shit in my face?”
“No. No, no, no.” His face opened with alarm, real now, not defensive for one precious second. “Baby, that’s not– no. I wasn’t flirting with them. It’s not like that.”
“If you felt bad, you wouldn’t have continued to do it,” she said. “But you did. And you have. Over and over. So, cool. You want them, go get them. They’d be more than happy.”
“I don’t want them.” Garrett’s voice cracked around the denial, and the sound did something terrible to her stomach. “That’s not what this is. I get it, okay? I fucked up. I get that. But I’m human.”
The air went very thin for a second. She stared at him, tears cooling on her cheeks, the whole night narrowing down to his face and those two words sitting there between them like an insult wearing a reasonable coat.
“No,” she said.
Garrett’s brows pulled in. “What?”
“No. I don’t buy that shit.” She shook her head, slow at first, then harder, because if she stopped moving she might actually feel how much of her was splitting open. “I’m human too, Garrett. I’m human, and I’m not letting three different guys get me drinks and hang off me all night because I know how that would make you feel. I know. I don’t need a fucking thesis. I don’t need a seminar on empathy. I just think about you before I do things.”
He flinched.
Good, some ugly little part of her thought, and then immediately felt sick from the taste of it.
“You do not have the same respect for me that I have for you,” she said, quieter, which made it worse. “So I don’t want to hear that I’m human shit. I don’t give a fuck. I don’t feel sorry for you.”
“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.” Garrett stepped one half-step closer, stopped again, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. His eyes were bright now, not with tears exactly, but with panic pushing hard against the back of them. “Baby, I don’t. I just want you to hear me out. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I did that to you.”
She shook her head, and the movement sent more tears down. She could feel them hitting the cold air and tightening on her skin. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You’re not fucking sorry.”
“I am.”
“You feel no guilt about any of this.”
“Yes, I do.” His voice rose, desperate now, and for the first time all night Garrett looked younger than himself. A boy in the street with his jacket open against the cold, trying to hold water in his hands after the glass had already shattered. “I do. You can go ask any of the boys. Go ask Logan or Dean or Tuck. I swear.”
Her face crumpled before she could stop it, but the laugh still came out. Small, disbelieving, wrecked. “Oh, the same boys that keep telling me I’m the love of your life? Huh? Those ones?”
Garrett’s mouth parted.
“Those boys?”
“You are,” he said, and then stopped like he’d stepped too close to a ledge he hadn’t realised was there. His throat worked. “I–”
The cold moved between them. The party door opened in the distance, letting out a bright slash of noise and some girl’s laughter, then shut again. She watched Garrett stand there with the sentence stuck in his mouth, and there should have been some triumph in it, maybe. Some relief. The love of your life. The thing girls were supposed to want to hear. The thing that should have fixed something.
It didn’t. It only made the hurt widen, because what was she supposed to do with that? Let the love of his life get humiliated in coffee shops? Let the love of his life stand beside him at parties while he forgot how to be careful? Let the love of his life go home every night with a stomach full of little explanations she had to feed herself so she wouldn’t seem needy?
She shrugged, and the movement felt loose and awful on her body. “So be it.”
Garrett stared at her.
“So be it, Garrett.” Her voice dropped into something almost calm, except the tears wouldn’t stop, so the calm looked deranged even to her. “Be the love of my life.”
His face changed. The panic went quiet for one second, like she had hit somewhere deeper than anger could reach. “I’m trying.”
She looked at him, really looked, at the red at the tips of his ears from the cold, the crease between his brows, the mouth she had kissed against lockers and in his bed and outside this dorm with her hands in his hoodie.
He was trying. That was maybe the worst part. He had been trying in the way Garrett knew how. Apologising after. Ordering the coffee right. Kissing the top of her head. Pulling her back in with warmth every time she got close to the edge. But he kept letting the edge exist.
“I’m done,” she said.
Garrett shook his head immediately. “No.”
She turned away from him, because if she kept looking at his face she was going to start bargaining against herself. “I am.”
“No, hey.” He followed her. “You’re not even letting me talk.”
“I let you talk for months.”
“You’re not letting me talk now.”
“No, I’m done.” She spun back so fast her coat swung open, cold hitting her through the thin party top underneath. “I’m done. I’m good. I’m not doing this stupid back and forth with you where I tell you something hurt me and then you explain your intentions like I’m dating your intentions. I’m not. I’m dating you. And you acted the way you acted, and you won’t change that shit, so we’re done.”
“Baby–”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
“It is.” She nodded too many times, tears still spilling, breath starting to shake now in a way she could not control. “It’s fine. I get it now.”
“No, you don’t.” Garrett’s voice went rough, almost angry with fear. “You’re hurt and you’re pissed off and you’re deciding something huge because of one night.”
“One night?” she whispered.
He realised it the second it left his mouth. She saw it. The tiny collapse around his eyes. “No,” he said quickly. “I know it’s not one night. I know that. I didn’t mean–”
“You never do.”
Garrett flinched again, and this time it didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel like anything except more damage in a street already full of it.
“I’m trying to fix this,” he said. “Let me fix it.”
“There’s nothing to fix.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Don’t.”
“It is.” He took a step closer, and then stopped himself again, because she had told him not to touch her and he was finally, finally listening when it no longer had anywhere useful to land. “It’s bullshit. You don’t get to just– baby, come on. You don’t get to decide this alone.”
For a second she almost smiled, because it was so perfectly him. So wildly, painfully Garrett. Still arguing with the scoreboard after the game had ended. Still believing there had to be a third period if he wanted one badly enough.
“I just did,” she said.
His face went blank. The dorm entrance buzzed faintly behind her, ugly fluorescent light spilling over the steps. Her fingers had gone numb in her pockets, and her face felt swollen from crying, and somewhere inside the building there were people doing laundry or microwaving noodles or living tiny, ordinary lives not currently ending under a streetlamp.
She wanted that so badly it almost made her dizzy. A room. A door. A place to put her body down without Garrett looking at her like she was taking his apart.
“Go back to your puck bunnies, Garrett,” she said, and the bitterness came out exhausted now, all the teeth worn down. “I’m done. I’m so fucking done.”
She turned before he could answer. He said her name once, not baby this time, and that almost did it. That almost made her stop. Her actual name in Garrett’s voice, cracked at the edge, chasing her up the first step like a hand she had told him not to use.
She kept walking.
The key card shook when she pulled it from her pocket. She missed the scanner once, plastic tapping uselessly against the panel, and behind her Garrett made a small sound like he was physically stopping himself from coming closer. She swiped again. The lock clicked.
“Please,” he said.
She opened the door. Warm stale dorm air hit her face, carrying the smell of old carpet, microwave popcorn, and somebody’s overworked vanilla plug-in. She stepped inside and turned just enough to see him through the wired glass before the door shut between them.
Garrett stood on the sidewalk with both hands in his hair now, elbows out, jacket open, mouth parted around words he had nowhere to put. For one awful second he looked completely lost. Alone under the streetlamp, staring at the door like he could still make it open if he found the right thing to say.
Then the door closed. The sound was small. Pathetic, almost. A dull latch catching in an institutional frame.
She made it halfway up the stairs before her legs stopped working properly. One hand caught the railing, cold metal biting into her palm, and the first sob tore out of her so hard she bent over it, forehead nearly touching the sleeve of her coat.
A brutal little failure of breath, her ribs pulling too tight around nothing, her mouth open while the stairwell blurred in ugly blocks of cream paint and grey steps and the dark smudge of mascara on her fingers.
She pressed both hands over her face, trying to hold herself together with pressure, but there was too much of it. Garrett’s face. The girls’ laughter. His hand letting go in the coffee shop. His voice saying I’m human like she hadn’t spent months being human quietly beside him. Be the love of my life. I’m trying.
The words kept moving around inside her, useless and sharp, knocking against every place she had already bruised trying to love him without asking to be chosen out loud.
Downstairs, through the thick dorm door and the stairwell concrete and the blood in her ears, she thought she heard him say her name again. Or maybe she wanted to. Either way, she climbed the rest of the stairs alone.
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synopsis: angsty fic based on the song ‘don’t you’ by taylor swift 😃 lmk if you want a sad ending or a happy ending
warnings: kinda sad and kinda shit ngl, i wrote this in math class so probably a shit ton of mistakes, and its not proofread :)
no hate to alex!!
Hey, I knew I'd run into you somewhere
It's been a while, I didn't mean to stare
It was inevitable. You knew this. You remember Charles vaguely mentioning that he was invited to some movie premiere, but you didn’t know it would be this one.
And he must’ve known you would be here, you were quite literally in the movie.
Maybe he’s moved on, so he doesn’t feel the need to avoid you.
But it’s only been 6 months, how could he move on so quickly when you feel like the hole in your heart would never close up?
You let out a sigh, brushing your sweaty palms on your dress, rehearsing things you’re supposed to say on your interviews: the dress is by Antonine Guerin.. makeup sponsored by Charlotte Tilbury..
Once the staff gave you the signal to step onto the red carpet, your name was frantically called by one of the interviewers.
“Y/n! Hi!” the woman said, “We’re so glad we caught you!”
You gave a polite smile in return, “What do you have for me?”
The woman smiled, “We love your dress! Tell us, who are you wearing? What inspired it?”
Bingo. “Thank you. My dress is Antoine Guerlin. Umm- The gold details are, obviously, inspired by greek-“ You continued, repeated lines your publicist made you memorise, when you saw someone approaching in your peripheral vision.
You didn’t realise who it was, until the lady said, “Thank you, Y/n. Charles! Do you mind stepping in with Y/n?”
Charles. Charles. Charles.
You lifted your gaze to look at him.
Those eyes. The eyes that stare down at yours, tired, lustful when you make love.
Eyes filled with so much pride after he wins a race, eyes that look for you as soon as he steps out of the car, eyes that tease when you reluctantly wear the extra jacket he brings you every time because he knows you were cold and that you didn’t bring one for whatever reason, eyes that comfort when you blame yourself for not being good enough, when you don’t win an award. Eyes that-
The lady cleared her throat.
Fuck.
Charles falters when he catches your gaze- your stare.
You both gave a nod in greeting.
“Great!” The woman said, “Now, I know it’s tense with you guys, since you broke the whole internet with your breakup announcement a couple months ago-“
God.
“What happened? You two were going strong, with almost 8 years together.” The lady finished, looking pleased with herself, and you fought the urge to bitch-slap her across the face.
You opened your mouth to repeat the same answer you gave every time, the one your publicist carefully crafted for you, when Charles beat you to it.
“Yes, Y/n and I broke up.” He started, “I’ve.. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love Y/n, and I know she feels the same. But sometimes love isn’t enough to fix a relationship. Trust me when I say we’ve tried everything, but somethings were bound to end.” He swallowed, “We will always love each other. Y/n was- is a very special and important person to me. She always will be. And I hope you-“ His eyes flickered to you for a millisecond. “-she never stops smiling that beautiful smile of hers, and I wish her nothing but the best.” He finished.
The woman stared at him for a few seconds, “Wow- Thank you, Charles! I’m sure she’s falling right back in love with you right now-“
Wrong. It only made the ache in your heart worse. The longing you felt for him strengthen.
-
F1gossip shared a new post!
liked by user1, user2, alexandrasaintmleux and 368 others
F1gossip: BREAKING! Y/N L/N AND CHARLES LECLERC HAVE BROKEN NO CONTACT AT THE GLADIATOR II PREMIERE! When asked about their breakup, Charles Leclerc gave a VERY emotional answer! (link to the video on our story)
user1: the pain in y/n’s eyes omg
user2: isn’t @/alexandrasaintmleux the girl charles was seen sneaking around with after chary/n broke up? why’s she liking this
user3: CHARY/N COME BACK TO ME
user4: The way they look at each other is the definition of LONGING
user5: can they stop being so angsty and get back together?!
user6: what did charles want to achieve with that answer tho
-
I heard she's nothin' like me
They confirmed it.
You’ve heard rumours, sure, but you didn’t think he would move on this quickly.
Alexandra and Charles confirmed their relationship with a story of them cuddling in bed. At least, that’s what your friends told you.
You and Charles had long unfollowed each other, on both your public and private accounts, and viewing his story would be.. awkward.
You scrolled through Alexandra’s photos from google, since her Instagram was private.
She was tan, her hair was perfect, her body.. Perfection. She was perfection. She was everything you were not. Her appearance exuded grace, class.. At least, that’s what this gossip article says.
She’s private, nobody knows anything about her, and her life was peaceful.
She was everything you weren’t.
I'm sure she'll make you happy
Charles finally found what he wanted. Peace. In her.
*flashback*
“Chérie, please, understand that I- I can’t do this anymore.” He whispered.
“Come on,” you pleaded, “we’ve made it work for years, I don’t see why it-“ You said, but Charles cut you off, “Mon dieu, Y/n, they broke into our apartment!”
You stared at him.
“I-“ You started.
“No, Y/n.” He said, “No.”
Tears welled up in your eyes, “You knew what you were signing up for- Hell. you were the one who said not to worry about- about the fame, the press, the paparazzi, the fans- You told me to go for it.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.” He said, “Je suis désolé.” (I’m sorry)
“It’s not like- You have to deal with the fame too, I don’t see why mine is an issue-“
You’re rambling now, trying to salvage what’s left of your relationship with the love of your life.
“Y/n, listen to me.” He said, grabbing hold of your shoulders, “First, some fucker flew a drone to our bathroom window, hoping to catch you naked. Then they flew it into our goddamn apartment throw the balcony.” He said, moving a hand to grab ahold of your chin, making you look up at him.
His voice softens when you make eye contact, his gaze softening, “People stalk you. Everyday. You can’t go out without a bodyguard anymore.” He leans his forehead onto yours and whispers, “I can’t take it anymore. I can’t live my life when I know I’m being watched, Constantly. I’m used to it, I know I have to deal with this with my own career, but with you- It’s different. The- The hollywood fame is different from my kind of fame. And it’s too much for me. I need some peace for-“
“So what, this is the end?” You cut him off, pulling away.
“I just-“ He sighs, pulling back his arms, “I just mean that we should take a little break. Put some distance between us to clear our minds, then we can talk.”
You swallowed, “But what if we don’t?” You continued, “What if- What if we don’t talk- What if we don’t come back to each other?”
Charles stared at you for a beat.
He ran a hand through his hair, the same hair that you run your hands through every night.
“Listen, let’s just.. Take a break for a couple of months, and when we feel like the time is right, we’ll reach out, alright?” He said, his voice softening at the end.
He cupped your cheek with his hand, kissing away your tears.
*end of flashback*
She had the one thing you couldn’t give him. Peace.
But don't you
Don't you smile at me and ask me how I've been
It was inevitable that you bumped into him sooner or later, Monaco was a small place.
So you weren’t surprised, but you certainly weren’t prepared when you quite literally bump into him when you’re on your way to the bathroom at your (and his) favourite restaurant in Monaco- Étoile Monte Carlo.
“Y/n!” He said, a warm smile and dimples plastered on his face, “Comment as-tu été?” (how have you been?)
How have you been? How have you been?
“Just fine,” you said, forcing a smile on your face, “And you?”
“Great,” he said, smile widening, “I’m here with my girl-“ he caught himself, smile slipping from his face.
You cleared your throat, “That’s great, Charlie.” You said, “Have fun.” Giving him another small smile, you slipped into the bathroom.
Don't you say you've missed me if you don't want me again
“Y/n!” He called after you.
She’s not you, he wanted to say, she’ll never be you.
“I miss you.” He blurted out. It was the best he could do.
You turned back to look at him.
Without a word, you vanished into the bathroom.
He collected himself, and went back to his table- The table you two sat at, every time. Every week. Your table.
You don't know how much I feel, I love you still
And the only thing on his mind was you, even when his girlfriend welcomed him back to their- your table, was a kiss to the cheek.
You.
The only thing he wanted to do was to come back to you.
So why don't you, don't you?
-
Sometimes, I really wish that I could hate you I've tried, but that's just somethin' I can't do
“Yes, my girlfriend- My Alex is here today.” Charles’s voice pours from the TV in your living room, “She’s my number 1 supporter. I couldn’t have done it without her.”
He won the Monaco Grand Prix.
All those late nights, and warm afternoons on his yacht talking about how you’d celebrate with him when he finally wins. Sipping champagne together, with his head laying on your chest, and your fingers playing with his hair, discussing where to eat on the night of his Monaco win- Because he would rather spend that night with you, rather then going clubbing.
You always go back to one conclusion: Étoile.
You were his biggest supporter. You were the one who picked him back up, the one who stopped him from spirally after every bad race.
You were the one who talked about his dreams- His home win with him.
But you don’t hate him for saying otherwise.
“..This win is for you.” He said, quietly, to the camera. Others would think he directed that to Alexandra. But you- You knew it wasn’t.
You hate him. You hate him for leaving you when you were at your worst, when you needed him the most. You hate him for moving on so quickly- Or, pretending to, at least. You hate- try to hate him for saying everything he’s said, for doing everything he’s done after your split.
You try, but you can’t.
My heart knows what the truth is
I swore I wouldn't do this
You stared at your phone.
‘mon coeur ❤️’
It wasn’t your fault- The ‘delete contact’ button was right next to the ‘call’ button.
And it wasn’t your fault that you were slightly tipsy. You just got a leading role in what you believe will be the biggest movies of the year, you had to celebrate.
Fuck it, you thought.
YOLO, right?
You hit the call button.
It rang- One, two, “Allo?” You heard.
His voice was rushed, a hint of shock in it.
“Y/n?” He said, his voice rushed- worried, “Êtes-vous d'accord?” (are you okay?)
Maybe it was the dramatic side of you that was controlling you right now, because for some reason, you burst into tears.
“Y/n.” He said, “Listen to me.”
After a beat, “Mon ange, listen to me.”
“Tu me manques, Charlie, tu me manques-“ you said. (I miss you, Charlie, I miss you)
”Hey, hey, hey,” he soothed, "listen.. I can't do this."
Your heart dropped, "what?"
You heard some shuffling from his end, "I'll just go straight to the point, Y/n. I can't do this. I 'm with Alex now, and.. it's serious. She's.. she's sleeping right now-"
On your side of the bed. Where the nightstand was once overflown by your little trinkets- Jewelry, mints, your chargers, now filled with her perfume- Her.
"-And I can't do this to her." He finished.
You stilled.
Can't do this to her? You can't do this to me!
"But you said that this was only gonna be like a break. Some temporary space, and that things will go back to how it was." You rambled, "You promised." Your voice cracked.
He promised, didn't he?
"I can't do this to her, Y/n, I'm so sorry." He repeated.
"And what about me?" You said, finally, "What about me?"
"I'm so sorry, Y/n." He said, for the tenth time, "I'm so sorry."
So I walk outta here tonight
Try to go on with my life
And you can say we're still friends
(But I don't wanna pretend)
"You'll always be welcome, Y/n. With me or with my family," Charles continued, his voice cracking a little, "We can be friends, still, if that's what you want."
A beat of silence, "I don't want to lose you, Y/n. You're really special to me."
You didn't lose me, you left me.
"Okay." you said, "okay."
"Y/n," he started, but you beat him to it, "good night, Charlie."
So if I see you again
Don't you (don't you)
Don't you smile at me and ask me how I've been
Sometimes you find yourself wearing his hoodies to sleep.
Don't you (don't you), say you've missed me if you don't want me again
He texts you 'merry christmas' or 'happy new year', and things like that on special occasions.
He still invites you to family brunch with Pascale, Arthur and Lorenzo.
His brothers still catch up with you from time to time.
You still go to brunch with his brother's girlfriends, pretending that you don't mind when they cancel on you for Alexandra.
You don't (you don't), know how much I feel I love you still
You're at brunch with Arthur and his girlfriend.
It's turned into a once-in-6-months thing, when it used to be a weekly or monthly thing.
You pretend that doesn't hurt you.
"You know, he's really sad you never come to brunch with everyone anymore." Arthur commented.
"Why would I? I'm not his girlfriend anymore, and it'd be weird." You said, "Besides, what would his girlfriend think?"
Arthur and his girlfriend stared at you for a few seconds, "You don't know?" Arthur finally blurts out.
"I guess that bastard wasn't lying when he said you two don't talk anymore." Arthur said.
"Know what?" You said, eyes flickering from Arthur to his girlfriend.
Arthur cleared his throat, awkwardly.
"They're engaged."
So why don't you, don't you?
-------------------------------------------
so, any ideas for part two? something like that fic called wistful yearning (One of my fav fics) or just angsty shit?
Hello, my name is Rola, and I am a mother of two children living in the Gaza Strip. Our lives were once filled with love, laughter, and dreams for the future. But everything changed on October 7th, when the war shattered not only our home but our entire world.
That morning, my family and I were enjoying coffee together on the balcony. Out of nowhere, an explosion erupted, shaking our home violently. My husband and son ran for cover, falling over each other in panic, while I stood frozen, still holding my cup, unable to process the chaos around me. When I looked out the window, I saw that our neighbor’s house, once filled with life, had been reduced to rubble. Ambulances rushed to the scene as people scrambled to rescue the injured and pull bodies from the debris.
The bombings didn’t stop. At night, the rain poured heavily, and the cold seeped into our bones. I stayed awake, covering my children to keep them warm and praying for their safety. But safety is an illusion here. Another explosion shattered the night, and our neighbors’ home was destroyed. Their children, who had been sleeping peacefully under a blanket, were found lifeless, their cover soaked in blood.
I looked at my children with tears in my eyes and thought, How can I protect you? We had to flee our home with nothing but the clothes on our backs. We left behind my children’s toys, their clothes, and their beautiful bedroom. Everything we had worked so hard to build is gone.
Our Current Reality Now, we are displaced and living in a nightmare. Food is scarce, and prices are unimaginably high—$10 for a kilo of sugar! The fear of death hangs over us constantly. My children deserve a life of joy and hope, not one defined by fear and loss. Why can’t we live like everyone else—go to work, visit family, and watch our children play in safety? Why do our children have to grow up surrounded by death and destruction?
How You Can Help I am pleading for your kindness to help us rebuild our lives. We need your support to: 💔 Rebuild our home, so my children can feel safe again. 🌍 Evacuate from Gaza, seeking a future where my family can live with dignity. 🩺 Provide urgent medical care for my children, who need protection from this nightmare.
Even the smallest donation can make a difference. If you can’t donate, please share my story. Every share brings us closer to hope.
What Your Support Means Your kindness is not just about helping us survive; it’s about giving us a chance to dream again. To rebuild what we’ve lost and to ensure my children have a future filled with possibilities, not fear.
Thank you for taking the time to read my story. Your support means the world to us. Let’s work together to rebuild hope, one step at a time.
🌸 Please share our story and consider donating today. 🌸
Hi I am Fatima and live in London UK. I have known Rola now for appr… Fatima Rajwani needs your support for From Despair to Hope: Help us to
Summary: they always knew their love wasn’t enough to keep them on the same path. Over the years, they find and lose each other in an endless cycle of nostalgia, love, and goodbyes. There’s no resentment, only the pain of knowing that even the purest love may never be enough. But among the people, they were always each other's.
A/N: some might say that I'm not capable of writing beautiful things, but the truth is, I LOVE angst. I cried while writing this—I hope you give it the love it deserves and appreciate it a lot. Like and reblog!! Lots of kisses <3 I PROMISE IT HAS A HAPPY ENDING
masterlist
The first memory she had of Carlos Sainz wasn’t particularly grand. It wasn’t of a rising Formula 1 driver, nor of a young man carrying the weight of a last name that already resonated in motorsport. It was, simply, of a guy who had walked into a café in Madrid with messy hair and exhaustion in his eyes, ordering a black coffee with the deep voice of someone who hadn’t slept enough.
She didn’t know him personally, but she knew his name. She had seen him on TV, in sports articles, in interviews where he smiled with the same expression he had now—a little distracted, as if his mind were somewhere else. On another track, in another country, in another time.
It was a mutual friend who introduced them, almost as an afterthought. A simple, “Oh, by the way, this is my friend,” as if he weren’t about to change the course of their lives.
Carlos shook her hand and smiled.
“Nice to meet you.”
It wasn’t a spectacular moment. There was no spark of electricity, no instant certainty that they were destined for something more. But when they sat at the table and he looked at her with a hint of curiosity, she knew she was in trouble.
The conversation started effortlessly, with the ease of two people who, though they came from different worlds, shared the same language in humor and irony.
“So… you’re the one who wants to be world champion?” she teased, resting her chin on her hand.
Carlos set his coffee down on the table and held her gaze with a smile that didn’t hide his pride.
“I don’t want to. I’m going to be.”
He didn’t say it with arrogance, but with the certainty of someone who had spent his life preparing for it. There was no doubt in his voice, not a hint of false modesty. And in that instant, she understood that this was not a man who knew how to love halfway. That if he gave his life to something, he did so completely.
“And what if you don’t?”
Carlos looked at her as if the question didn’t make sense.
“That’s not an option.”
There was nothing more to say on the matter.
Outside, Madrid carried on at its usual pace, but inside the café, time seemed to slow down. They talked about everything and nothing, losing track of time until Carlos checked his phone and frowned.
“Are you in a hurry?”
“No,” he replied, but slid his phone back into his pocket with a hint of discomfort.
She understood the signal. She smiled, leaning back in her chair.
“Do you have a flight?”
Carlos let out a low chuckle, scratching the back of his neck.
“Tomorrow.”
“And today?”
“Today I have training. Then the simulator. And after that, probably a call with the team.”
“Ah.”
There was no reproach in her voice. Just the acknowledgment of a truth she didn’t yet know would weigh so much.
Carlos noticed her expression and tilted his head with an amused smile.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You don’t seem like the kind of person who says ‘nothing’ when clearly thinking about something.”
She let out a sigh, playing with the napkin between her fingers.
“I was just thinking that if this were a date, it’d be pretty depressing to know I have to share you with a race car.”
Carlos raised an eyebrow, feigning indignation.
“Hey, it’s a very beautiful car.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And fast.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And it’s my job.”
She smiled, unsurprised.
“I know.”
He studied her for a moment, as if weighing the meaning of her words. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and looked at her intently.
“And if this were a date?”
She tilted her head, amused.
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
Carlos held her gaze for another moment before letting out a short laugh and shaking his head.
“If this were a date,” he said, picking up his coffee, “I’d probably do something stupid like try to impress you.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. I’d tell you something exaggerated about my job, like that my heart rate never goes above 80 beats per minute while driving at over 300 kilometers per hour.”
“That sounds like a lie.”
“It’s completely true.”
She set the napkin down on the table, crossing her arms.
“And how would I know you’re not saying the same thing to everyone?”
Carlos rested an arm on the table and leaned slightly toward her.
“Because if this were a date, I would’ve already asked you to have dinner with me tonight.”
She felt a flutter in her stomach, but didn’t let it show.
“And if it weren’t a date?”
Carlos held her gaze for another second before smiling, resigned.
“Then we stick with coffee.”
And it was. For weeks, months. They saw each other whenever flights and schedules allowed. They shared late nights in airports, brief calls between meetings, messages sent across time zones.
She nodded, smiling too.
"Then coffee it is."
They didn’t rush to put a label on it because they both knew the truth from the start: she wasn’t competing against another person.
She was competing against the one love Carlos would never sacrifice.
And the worst part was that he never made her feel like she had to.
The problem with Carlos Sainz was that loving him felt like the easiest thing in the world.
She hadn’t looked for it, hadn’t planned it. It just happened. A quick call that stretched into the early hours. A message between flights that made her smile before she even realized it. A conversation that started with “Have you eaten?” and ended with her staring at him through a screen, feeling both closer and further away at the same time.
They weren’t together in the traditional sense of the word. No promises, no unrealistic expectations. No grand declarations, no ultimatums. Just him and her, finding each other in whatever gaps the calendar allowed, in every city where their paths happened to cross.
Sometimes, that meant a quiet dinner in a tucked-away corner of Barcelona. Other times, it was a fleeting visit to his hotel room after a race, where she would find him exhausted, the marks from his helmet still pressed into his skin—but his eyes lit up when he saw her.
“Come here,” he’d say, reaching for her.
And she would.
She’d sit next to him on the bed, the TV humming softly in the background, while he talked about tires and strategies, blind corners and missed opportunities.
Sometimes, he would fall asleep mid-sentence, his head resting against her shoulder.
She never woke him.
The first time she realized she had crossed an invisible line was at Silverstone.
It wasn’t because of a fight. It wasn’t because of a misunderstanding. It was because of how she felt when Carlos crossed the finish line, arms raised, his team’s cheers echoing through the radio.
She was in the stands, lost in the sea of people celebrating his victory, and yet, in the middle of all that euphoria, she felt something unexpected: emptiness.
Because when he stood on that podium, adrenaline rushing through his veins, the anthem playing, the flag waving above him—she knew she wasn’t there.
Not because she didn’t want to be.
But because, in that moment, he didn’t need her to be.
And it didn’t hurt. It didn’t make her feel small. It only reminded her of what she had always known: in Carlos’ life, she wasn’t the main character.
She was a pause.
A beautiful, warm, fleeting pause. But a pause, nonetheless.
And that day, as she watched him celebrate with his team, arms wrapped around his people, she understood that she couldn’t compete with something that had been his whole life long before she ever came along.
So she didn’t try.
She simply loved him.
She loved him the way you love something ephemeral, the way you love a summer sunset you know won’t last.
She loved him without asking for more than what he could give.
And Carlos never promised more than he knew he could offer.
That was the cruelest part of it all.
He never lied to her.
He never misled her.
He never asked her to stay.
But he never let her go, either.
With time, she learned to read the signs.
The way his voice sounded when he was exhausted. The way his gaze shifted when something frustrated him. How his laughter changed depending on whether he was truly happy or just covering the weight of a loss.
She also learned to recognize when he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—reach out to her.
Not because he didn’t care. Not because he didn’t miss her. But because sometimes, his world was too loud, too demanding, and there simply wasn’t room for anything else.
She never complained.
Never asked why his replies sometimes took hours. Never mentioned that, during the busiest weeks of the season, the calls became fewer, the messages shorter. Never admitted that there were nights she fell asleep with her phone in her hand, rereading their last conversation, wishing it had lasted a little longer.
And Carlos, somehow, knew.
Because when he finally had a moment to breathe, he sought her out.
Not with apologies, not with excuses.
Just with his voice, with that quiet laughter through the phone, with an “I miss you” whispered between sighs, as if the words slipped out before he could stop them.
She always answered with the same softness.
But one day, without knowing exactly when it had started happening, she stopped feeling like that was enough.
The first and only time she thought about leaving was in Abu Dhabi.
The end of the season always carried a mix of exhaustion and celebration. Carlos had finished the race with a solid performance, and though he hadn’t made the podium, his team was satisfied.
At the closing party, he was surrounded by his people, a glass of champagne in hand, his smile easy, relaxed. She watched from a quiet corner, the same tenderness in her gaze, the same admiration.
But something inside her felt different.
It wasn’t jealousy.
It wasn’t anger.
Carlos would have celebrated just the same. He would have laughed just the same. He would have woken up the next day with the same determination as always, ready for the next season, ready to keep chasing the dream that had been his long before she came into his life.
And for the first time, she allowed herself to ask:
What’s in all of this for me?
She didn’t have an answer.
But she did have a ticket back home.
And that night, while he kept celebrating with his team, she decided she wouldn’t wait until the end of the party to use it.
When Carlos saw the message on his phone, his smile faded.
I love you. I’ve always loved you. But in this story, the protagonist has always been F1. And I’m just someone passing through.
There was no reproach.
She hadn’t asked him to stop her.
Just a truth that, deep down, he had always known.
The noise of the party continued—the toasts, the laughter, the camera flashes—but to him, it all became a distant echo.
For a second, he convinced himself that she was still there, somewhere in the room, with her quiet smile and patient gaze, waiting for the moment he would realize he had neglected her once again.
But no.
She was gone.
Not in anger. Not with accusations. Just with the certainty that he couldn’t give her more than he already had.
And the cruelest part of all was that she was right.
She always had been.
Carlos doesn’t remember leaving the party. He doesn’t remember crossing the hotel lobby or the way his footsteps echoed in the hallways when he reached his room’s door.
He finds it just as he left it: closed. Untouched. As if she had never been there.
But when he turns the handle, what he sees tells him otherwise.
There’s a coffee cup on the table, still bearing the imprint of her lipstick on the rim. Her jacket is draped over the chair, as if she had hesitated for a moment before deciding not to take it.
And on the bed, perfectly folded, is the sweater he had lent her the last time they saw each other.
Carlos stares at it for too long.
He doesn’t touch it.
He doesn’t move.
Because in that moment, he finally understands.
She never wanted him to choose between her and Formula 1. She never asked him to.
But the problem was that even if she had, Carlos wouldn’t have been able to give her the answer she deserved.
It had always been her who adjusted to his life.
It had always been her who found the gaps between races, between commitments, between flights and hotels.
It had always been her who waited for him.
It had always been her.
And now, for the first time, she had stopped waiting.
For the first time, she had decided she didn’t want to be just the space between his priorities.
Carlos sits on the edge of the bed.
He closes his eyes.
And for the first time in a long time, he feels what it’s like to lose something without ever meaning to let it go.
The airport was almost empty at that hour of the night.
Cold lights illuminated the polished floor, reflecting the silhouettes of the few passengers dragging their suitcases with tired steps.
Carlos found her by the boarding gate, sitting with her back straight, hands clasped in her lap.
For a moment, he just watched her.
He wanted to memorize her like this, before she saw him. The serene profile of her face, her hair falling over one shoulder, the way her lips pressed together softly, as if holding back a thought she wouldn’t say out loud.
He didn’t realize how much time had passed until she lifted her head and saw him.
And then, she smiled.
Sweet. Calm. As if his presence didn’t surprise her at all.
As if she had known he would come.
“You came,” was all she said.
Carlos exhaled, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as he walked toward her.
“Of course I did.”
He didn’t ask why she hadn’t told him she was leaving.
He didn’t ask why their last conversation had been a message instead of a goodbye in person.
Because deep down, he knew.
If she had told him earlier, he would have tried to convince her to stay.
And she had never wanted to force him into that.
They sat in silence for a while, watching the runway through the window.
The murmur of flight announcements filled the space between them, blending with the muffled voice of a child playing with a toy plane a few seats away.
“I didn’t want it to end like this,” he said at some point, without looking at her.
She turned her face toward him but didn’t answer right away.
Not because she didn’t have something to say, but because she was choosing her words carefully.
“It was never about how it would end,” she finally replied. “It was about everything it meant while it lasted.”
Carlos clenched his jaw.
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fair how calm she sounded, how at peace she was, while he felt like something inside him was slowly breaking.
Because he loved her.
He loved her with a certainty he had rarely felt in his life.
But love wasn’t enough.
Not when she had always been the one who waited.
Not when he had never put her first.
Not when, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, his world would always revolve around one thing: Formula 1.
She smiled at him, as if she could hear his thoughts.
"I know you, Carlos. I don’t want you to promise me something you can’t keep."
He closed his eyes.
Because that was the hardest part of all this.
That even if he loved her with everything he was capable of, he couldn’t promise her that he would change.
He couldn’t give her a different story.
And she knew that.
That was why she was leaving.
That was why, this time, she wasn’t going to wait for him.
Carlos didn’t know when he started crying.
It wasn’t when he saw her pick up her bag. It wasn’t when he heard the final boarding call for her flight.
It was when he truly understood that there was nothing he could say to make her stay.
He wouldn’t lose her because he didn’t love her.
He would lose her because he had never known how to make room for her in his life.
And that truth, so brutal and definitive, shattered him.
She watched him break.
And yet, she didn’t walk away.
Instead, she came back to him. Without hesitation. Without thinking. She hugged him as if it hurt to let him go, as if she loved him with every part of herself but knew that love wasn’t enough to stay.
"I can’t do this," he murmured against her shoulder, his voice broken in a way he had never let anyone hear before. "I can’t…"
She shut her eyes tightly, feeling his tears soak through the fabric of her coat, but she didn’t let go.
"Carlos…" she whispered, and the way she said his name—filled with both sweetness and sorrow—made him tremble.
He held onto her tighter, desperately, as if some part of him still believed that if he held her long enough, she wouldn’t leave.
But she couldn’t stay.
Not when he had never asked her to.
"Tell me what I have to do," Carlos's voice broke into a plea he never thought would leave his lips. "Tell me how to fix this."
She let go just enough to take his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her.
And the image of her tears sliding down her cheeks burned into his mind like a wound that would never heal.
"You don’t have to fix anything," she said, her voice softer and more broken than he had ever heard it. "I never asked you to change for me."
"But I want to," he insisted, and his voice cracked at the end, because now he understood, now he saw everything clearly, and goddamn it, why did it have to be now? Why so late? "I want to, for you."
She shook her head, with a tenderness that tore him in two.
"You can’t. You don’t know how."
And she was right.
Because she never wanted him to give up anything.
And he didn’t know how to love in a way that wasn’t defined by Formula 1.
Carlos swallowed hard, feeling the anguish burn in his throat.
"I need you."
She smiled—a sad, beautiful smile that shattered what little was left of him.
"No," she whispered. "You want me. That’s different."
Carlos closed his eyes as if that could contain the pain, as if not seeing her could make it hurt a little less.
It didn’t work.
Because when he opened them again, she was still there.
Beautiful. Steady. Determined to leave him.
And yet, with trembling hands, she wiped the tears from his face with her thumbs.
"You don’t know how much this hurts me," he murmured, his voice barely audible.
"Of course I do," she replied, and a single tear rolled silently down her cheek. "Because it hurts me too."
He shook his head, as if he couldn’t accept that this was the end. As if there was still something he could do to stop her.
"How do I go on without you?"
She let her hands drop to her sides, as if she no longer had the strength to hold him.
"You will. You always have."
And that was what finally destroyed him.
Because he knew she was right.
Life would go on. The engines wouldn’t stop. The next flight would be waiting for him, and then another, and another, and another…
But she wouldn’t be there.
And when she took a step back, Carlos felt every part of him screaming for him to stop her. To do something, anything.
But he didn’t.
Because he no longer had the right to ask her to stay.
"I don’t want you to go," he whispered, his voice raw and broken.
She closed her eyes.
Because she knew.
Because if she had heard those words before, if he had said them at any other moment, maybe everything would be different.
But he didn’t.
And now, it was too late.
"I know," she whispered against his hair. "I don’t want to go either."
Carlos swallowed hard.
She looked into his eyes one last time.
And with the same tenderness she had always spoken to him, with the same sweetness with which she had loved him, she said:
"I’m glad I loved you."
Carlos felt his throat close up.
But he didn’t say anything.
He didn’t try to stop her.
He didn’t reach for her when she turned and walked toward the gate.
He just stood there, watching her leave.
Watching as, for the first time, she took a path that didn’t include him.
And when the last image he had of her was her silhouette fading beyond the gate, Carlos knew that no matter how much he had loved her, he had always been too late.
The first reunion
Airports had never meant anything to Carlos.
They were nothing more than transit points, impersonal spaces where life moved too fast to leave a trace. Arrivals, departures, goodbyes, reunions… everything happened in a rush, leaving no time to process anything.
But that wasn’t true.
Because there was one airport that had marked him forever.
And now, so many years later, in another airport, he sees her.
Just a few meters away.
His heart lurches in his chest, strong enough to make him stop in his tracks.
She hasn’t changed. Or maybe she has, but not in the ways that matter.
She still has that natural elegance, that quiet air of someone who doesn’t need to draw attention to fill a space. Her hair is a little longer, her movements a little more measured. Life has passed.
But not enough to erase what they once were.
She looks up.
And sees him.
Carlos doesn’t know if one, two, or five seconds pass before a smile curves her lips.
It’s a warm smile, but soft. No surprise, no hesitation, as if finding him here were the most natural thing in the world.
"Hello, Carlos."
God.
Her voice.
He hadn’t expected hearing her voice after so long would do this to him.
Carlos feels a tightness in his chest. It’s not sadness. It’s not regret.
It’s just… affection.
A deep, unwavering affection that time hasn’t managed to wear down.
He smiles too. He couldn’t not.
"Hello."
She lowers her gaze for a second, as if processing something, before looking at him again.
"I wasn’t expecting to see you here."
"Me neither."
And yet, here they are.
They are no longer the same people. Life went on, the choices they made led them down different paths, but…
But they haven’t forgotten.
And maybe that’s enough.
There are no promises, no expectations. Just two people who once meant everything to each other, meeting again in the one place where they had always said goodbye.
"Do you have time for a coffee?" she asks, with the same sweetness with which she once offered him her love.
Carlos nods, feeling that, even though he’s no longer part of her life, he still likes the idea of sharing a little time with her.
Because love doesn’t disappear.
It just changes shape.
And this time, instead of hurting, it feels like a beautiful memory that still breathes.
The coffee between them is a clumsy attempt at normalcy, a shared routine that feels foreign after so much time. Sitting across from each other at a small table, they play with their cups in their hands.
"You still take it the same way," he murmurs, breaking the silence.
She nods with a tense smile. She doesn’t dare tell him she’s spent years waiting to hear his voice this close.
"So do you."
Carlos lets out a soft laugh, but neither of them finds the conversation funny. Another silence settles between them, heavier this time, more suffocating.
"How did we end up in the same airport, on the same day, at the same time?" she asks, her tone light, almost amused.
"I don’t know." He plays with the handle of his cup. "Probably the universe deciding we haven’t had enough."
She smiles, but it’s a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
"It always did have a twisted sense of humor."
"I couldn’t agree more."
They remain silent for a few seconds, but this time, she is the one who breaks it.
"Do you still not know how to pack properly?"
Carlos bursts into genuine laughter, remembering all the times his suitcase looked like it had been packed by someone with their eyes closed.
"I’ve gotten a little better, but I still don’t know how to fold shirts properly."
"I always found it incredible that you could drive a car at 300 km/h but couldn’t fold a T-shirt without it looking like crumpled paper."
"Everyone has their talents."
She smiles, lowering her gaze to her coffee, stirring it unnecessarily.
"And you?" he asks, resting his arms on the table. "Do you still carry a library in your suitcase?"
"Of course," she laughs softly. "You never know when you’ll need to kill time."
Carlos nods, vividly remembering all the times she pulled out a book in the middle of the chaos of a paddock, as if the world around her didn’t exist.
"What are you reading now?"
"Something on Stoic philosophy," she replies. "I bought it out of curiosity, but I think I’m getting more out of it than I expected."
"Sounds deep."
"It is. It’s basically about accepting what you can’t control."
Carlos sets his cup down on the table, watching her intently.
"That sounds pretty convenient."
She shrugs, offering a half-smile.
"I guess at some point, we all need to learn how to do that."
Silence creeps between them again. They don’t ask because they fear the answers. They don’t talk about the important things because they know it will hurt.
He doesn’t ask if she’s been happy without him.
She doesn’t ask if he still thinks of her before falling asleep.
He doesn’t ask if she ever loved someone else.
She doesn’t ask if, at any point, he wanted to find her.
Instead, they keep talking about trivial things, as if they were strangers. As if they didn’t know how the other kisses, how their laughter sounds intertwined in a dark room.
"Well..." she checks the time. "My flight leaves soon."
Carlos nods but doesn’t move.
"Yeah, of course."
She stands, and he follows, walking together toward the boarding gate. They stop a few steps apart, looking at each other.
"I’m glad I saw you," she says, and it’s the first truth they dare to admit.
"Me too."
She hesitates for a moment before smiling at him, as if the goodbye doesn’t hurt.
"See you around."
Carlos holds her gaze, watches her walk away, and feels like he’s losing her all over again.
The second reunion
Carlos wasn’t expecting to see her.
Not here, not tonight.
But fate, with its twisted sense of humor, has brought her to the same wedding he’s attending.
When he sees her, something inside him stops.
It’s a mutual old friend who’s getting married—someone with whom they once shared memories of another time, back when they were still a couple, when life seemed a little less complicated. Carlos wonders if she knew he would be here, if she saw his name on the guest list and decided to come anyway.
Or if, just like him, she simply went along with the invitation, without thinking too much about what she might find.
She hasn’t changed.
Or maybe she has, but not in the ways that matter.
The dress she wears falls elegantly over her figure, and her smile is still the kind that lights up a room without effort. She’s talking to someone, a glass of wine in hand, tilting her head with interest—the same way she used to listen to him when he told her stories that didn’t really matter.
He wonders if she still bites the inside of her cheek when she’s nervous.
If she still falls asleep on planes before takeoff.
If she ever thinks of him when she hears about Ferrari.
She notices him after.
Their eyes meet across the crowd, and it’s as if time contracts. As if all the times they’ve avoided each other, all the efforts to stay apart, are erased in this single moment.
And yet, they don’t move closer.
Not yet.
But the entire night revolves around them in ways neither wants to admit.
Mutual friends glance at them with nostalgia—some with knowing smiles, others with a hint of sadness in their voices when they remember what they once were.
"Do you remember them? How good they were together…"
"They were perfect."
"Such a shame it didn’t work out."
She smiles politely. Carlos merely takes a sip from his glass.
They don’t say anything.
Because what could they say?
That yes, they were happy, but they were also not enough.
That love is not always enough when time and priorities are working against you.
The night goes on.
And stolen glances become inevitable.
Carlos looks for her in the crowd, only to find her already watching him.
She finds him when he’s at the bar, when he laughs at someone’s joke, when his expression softens for a fleeting moment.
They both look away, but never for too long.
Then comes the accidental brush of their hands when they cross paths on the dance floor.
She’s spinning with someone else, and he’s passing through the crowd.
It’s just a second, a fleeting touch of her skin against his.
But they both feel it.
Like an echo of everything they once were.
A moment that lingers longer than it should, though neither says it out loud.
And the respect.
That silent respect, that invisible space they’ve learned to keep—as if getting too close might wake something that has only ever been asleep, never truly gone.
Carlos watches her as she dances with others, laughing, her hair falling down her back, the golden light reflecting off her skin.
She watches him when he stops to talk to old friends, when his laughter rings through the warm night air.
They have never been strangers.
But they can’t be what they were either.
And that truth weighs as heavily as the music filling the room.
The music changes.
From the lively, upbeat songs that have dominated the dance floor, the DJ slows things down with a soft melody—one of those that invite bodies to draw closer, to sway gently, as if time might pause just for a little while.
Carlos looks at her.
"Dance with me," his voice is low, barely audible over the wedding’s hum.
She looks at him, surprised.
For a moment, Carlos thinks she’s going to refuse. That she’ll smile kindly and say no, that it’s better not to tempt fate.
But then she nods.
"Okay."
And she lets him take her hand.
They move through the crowd with the same ease with which they once sought each other out in any room. But there’s a chasm between them, one that time and choices have carved with ruthless precision.
They dance.
They move with a familiarity neither dares to acknowledge. Hands on waist and shoulder, fingers brushing with painful tenderness. They’re not pressed together—not like before—but the space between them is filled with what they were and what they still feel.
It’s the perfect balance between nostalgia and restraint.
Between the love still burning in their eyes and the certainty that they can do nothing about it.
They dance in silence.
No words. Just slow movements, the careful touch of their bodies, the feeling that this is the last time they’ll be like this—in each other’s arms, pretending for a few minutes that life didn’t get in the way.
Carlos takes a deep breath.
He wants to say something, anything.
But what can he say when she already knows everything?
When she has always known?
She is the one who breaks the silence.
"You still dance the same," she murmurs, a sad smile on her lips.
Carlos lowers his gaze to hers, to her eyes that are still the same as always.
"And you still fit here just the same," he answers quietly.
She looks away for a second, but she doesn’t pull back.
Around them, their friends watch in silence. There’s no need for words to see the obvious—the way they look at each other, the gentleness in their movements, the way neither seems willing to let go. There is no tension, no resentment, only love wrapped in the careful restraint of what can no longer be.
"It was always them," someone whispers, with a hint of melancholy.
"It still is. They just… can’t be anymore."
"Look at them. If you didn’t know their story, you’d think they were still together."
"No, if you knew their story, you’d understand why it’s so heartbreaking to see them like this."
The murmurs reach their ears, but neither of them says anything. They simply keep moving, letting the music be the only one to speak.
Because, in the end, what else is there left to say?
As the song ends, their hands slip away slowly, as if letting go of each other is the hardest thing in the world.
And maybe it is.
The Third Reunion
She has a few days free from traveling and decides to seek peace where she once found it: a small coastal town in northern Spain. She walks through the same plazas as years ago, the same streets, the same ports. The restaurant is the same, but everything seems smaller now.
The last time she was here, it was with Carlos, and it was warm. It was summer, and he had made her promise not to work or think about the future—only about the days they had together. Now it’s winter, and the sea breeze drifting through the empty streets carries a feeling of emptiness, of something that once was and is now gone.
The restaurant remains a forgotten corner, with its dim lighting and the same wooden chairs that creak when you sit. She orders a glass of wine and lets herself be enveloped by nostalgia, by memories that shouldn’t hurt this much.
And then, she sees him.
Carlos is standing at the door, still wearing his coat, looking at her as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. As if time has played a cruel trick on them again.
“It can’t be…” he says, with a disbelieving laugh.
She blinks, shakes her head, and laughs too. There’s no other possible reaction. The coincidence is absurd, cruel, inevitable.
Carlos shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the rack before sitting across from her, without asking for permission. As if this place, this moment, still belonged to them and no one else.
“How long has it been since you were here?” he asks, resting his elbows on the table.
“Since the last time. With you.”
Carlos nods, and the silence between them is dense, heavy. They order their food without thinking, as if they were still the same as before. She still asks for the sauce on the side. He still orders the same glass of wine. Small habits that haven’t changed, even though everything else has.
“How have you been?” she finally asks.
Carlos looks at her, and in his expression, there are a thousand answers he will never say out loud.
“Good. Racing. Traveling. The same as always.”
“The same as always,” she repeats with a broken smile. “I figured.”
She doesn’t say it with resentment, only with a certainty that aches. Because she always knew Formula 1 was his life. She was only a stop along the way.
Carlos places his glass down and looks away.
“And you?”
She takes a moment to answer.
“Trying to live.”
Carlos looks back at her. It’s a simple response, but there’s something else beneath it. Something he doesn’t want to analyze too much.
“Are you happy?”
She holds his gaze, as if daring him to hear the truth.
“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Are you?”
Carlos wets his lips, hesitates.
“I don’t know.”
She gives him a sad smile.
“How ironic.”
Carlos wants to say something more, but instead, he pulls out his phone and scrolls through it until he finds something. He sets it down on the table.
“Do you remember this?”
She frowns and picks it up. It’s a photo. The last one they took here, years ago. They’re sitting together at a table—the same table where they’re sitting now. She has her head resting on his shoulder, and Carlos is looking at her instead of the camera.
The love is evident.
She runs her finger over the screen delicately, as if doing so could bring her back to that moment.
“I never realized you looked at me like that.”
“I always looked at you like that.”
She lifts her gaze. Carlos doesn’t look away. It’s a punch to the chest.
“Why are you showing me this, Carlos?” she asks softly.
Carlos lowers his head, exhaling.
“Because sometimes I wonder if I made the right decision.”
She tenses. She sets the phone down carefully and pushes it away.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
“No. It’s not. The truth is, you did what you had to do. What we always knew you would do.”
Carlos clenches his jaw.
“And what if I was wrong?”
She sighs and leans back in her chair.
“You weren’t. I never would have asked you to choose. And you never would have.”
Carlos feels like he’s been punched in the chest.
“I loved you.”
She smiles sadly.
“I loved you too.”
“Then why are we here and not together?”
She leans toward him, resting her elbows on the table, and says with devastating calm:
“Because love isn’t enough when there’s always something more important.”
Carlos says nothing.
She shakes her head with a soft, trembling laugh.
“How am I supposed to forget you, Carlos? How am I supposed to move on when every turn I take, you’re there?”
Carlos closes his eyes for a moment.
“I can’t change the past.”
“No. And I can’t change how I feel.”
Carlos swallows hard.
“You were never my second choice.”
“Then why wasn’t I the first?”
Silence.
She smiles bitterly, running a hand through her hair.
“Tell me something. If you could go back, would you do anything differently?”
Carlos looks at her. The answer is in his eyes, in the way his fingers tighten around the edge of the table.
She nods before he can say anything.
“I thought so.”
And that’s when Carlos understands. This is the end.
Not because they don’t love each other. Not because they don’t want to be together.
But because he never would have chosen differently.
She stands up, leaving money for the bill on the table.
“Fate is cruel, isn’t it?” she whispers, with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
Carlos watches as she walks away. It’s like that day at the airport, but worse.
Because now, he knows he has lost her for good.
For the first time in years, he feels like the world is collapsing around him.
The Atlantic air is sharp, cutting.
She walks without looking back. But Carlos follows her. Because he can’t let it end like this. Not again.
The night is dark, and the waves crash against the rocks with fury. The wind hits them with the same intensity as the feelings they have repressed. There’s no one else in the street. Only them.
“Are you going to keep running from me forever?” His voice reaches her before she can walk any further.
She stops dead in her tracks. She doesn’t turn around.
“Running?” she lets out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Don’t make me laugh, Carlos. If anyone has run away here, it’s always been you.”
He clenches his fists, walking until he’s standing right in front of her. The sea roars behind him, the wind pushes them, but the distance between them remains the worst storm of all.
“I didn’t run.”
She lifts her gaze, and her expression is filled with a sorrow that hurts more than any shout ever could.
“No. You just left me behind.”
Carlos feels like a dagger has been driven into his chest.
“You knew…”
“Of course I knew!” she bursts out, raising her voice for the first time all night. “I always knew. From the very first day, from the first time you said you loved me. From the moment you looked at me, and I believed we could find a way.”
Carlos takes a deep breath, the wind whipping against his face.
“I never wanted to hurt you.”
She laughs again, without joy. Her eyes shine with a mix of fury and unbearable sadness.
“That’s the worst part, you know? That you didn’t want to. That you never meant to. But you did it anyway. And you keep doing it!”
Carlos takes a step forward, but she steps back.
“Do you want to know why I’m here?” she asks, her voice trembling. “Because I tried to move on. I tried. But here I am, standing in front of you, and I still feel the same. I still love you the same way, I still look at you as if you’re the only thing in this world.”
Carlos closes his eyes tightly, as if doing so could keep out the pain of hearing her words.
“Don’t say this…”
“Why not?” she whispers. “Because it hurts you?”
Carlos clenches his jaw.
“You have no idea how much it hurts.”
She looks at him, the wind tangling her hair, the waves roaring behind her.
“Oh, don’t I? Do you have any idea what it feels like to always be the one left behind? The one who watches you go, who’s left with memories that are too heavy to carry?”
Carlos feels something inside him shatter.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth. It always has been!”
“I loved you!” he yells, desperation burning his throat. “God, how I loved you. Do you know how many times I tried to forget you?” His voice breaks on the last word. “How many times I wanted to hate you? But I can’t. I can’t, because I love you with every fiber of my being, and that’s the cruelest thing of all.”
She laughs, a hollow sound.
“Fuck, it’s so fucking unfair.”
Carlos swallows hard.
“It is.”
She lifts her gaze, her eyes burning.
“You know what’s worse? That all this time, I’ve tried to convince myself I was wrong. That maybe I didn’t love you that much. But every time I see you, I know I was lying to myself.”
Carlos holds her gaze.
“I never stopped loving you.”
She smiles, and it’s a sad smile.
“I know.”
A silence falls between them, heavy, suffocating.
She wipes her tears away with the palm of her hand.
“But loving me was never enough for you.”
Carlos feels something inside him tear apart.
She takes a step back.
“I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep seeing you and pretending I don’t still love you.”
Carlos looks at her, desperation in his eyes.
“Please…”
She shakes her head.
“Tell me how to move on. Tell me, Carlos.”
Carlos clenches his fists.
She laughs again, her laughter broken by sobs.
“You can’t, can you? Because you haven’t done it either.”
Carlos feels his throat close up.
She looks at him for a long moment, memorizing every detail.
“I loved you with everything I had. And I’d do it all over again. But I can’t keep choosing you if you never chose me.”
Carlos feels a knot in his stomach.
She walks away, her footsteps echoing against the wet stone of the promenade.
Carlos watches her go. And once again, he doesn’t stop her.
The Last Reunion
There is no noise in his head when he crosses the finish line for the last time.
No shouts, no euphoria, no deafening roar of the engine drilling into his ears.
Just calm.
The kind of calm he never imagined feeling in a moment like this—the kind of serenity one finds when, after years of fighting against the current, they stop rowing and simply let themselves drift.
He expected nostalgia. He expected emptiness. He expected fear. But he feels none of those things.
He feels peace.
The peace of someone who has given every last piece of himself to something and, for the first time, doesn’t feel like he’s leaving anything behind. He has given it all, with no regrets and no reservations.
He removes his helmet with steady hands, no hesitation. He hears his name chanted from the grandstands, feels the pats on his back from his team, the embrace of his engineer, the flashes of cameras capturing the end of an era.
But inside, everything is silent.
Carlos Sainz is no longer a Formula 1 driver, and the world keeps turning.
That night, while the echoes of celebration still hum through the streets, he is alone in his hotel room, staring at the open suitcase on his bed. For years, his entire life has fit into a single piece of luggage—race suits, boots, headsets, caps with the logos of Ferrari, Red Bull, McLaren, Renault, Williams. The stickers on his passport are the only proof that, for more than a decade, he never truly belonged anywhere.
Until now.
Carlos has never been one to hesitate, but still, when he books the flight, his fingers tremble slightly over the screen.
He doesn’t know what he expects to find on the other side.
He doesn’t know if she will want to see him, if she still feels the same, if she still thinks of him when a song plays on the radio or when she watches a race on a quiet Sunday.
He doesn’t know anything.
Carlos stands in front of her door, his heart pounding in his throat, and one unshakable certainty in his chest: he can’t spend the rest of his life without trying.
When she opens the door and sees him, her expression freezes.
And then, slowly, it crumbles.
Carlos doesn’t speak at first. He just looks at her. Just feels her.
Years have passed.
Years of trying with other people, of unintentionally searching for each other in different eyes, of accepting that what they had would never be repeated with anyone else.
Years of remembering.
But now they’re here. In the same time, in the same place.
And Carlos has never wanted anything more than this.
“Hi,” he says, with a tired smile.
She blinks, as if unsure whether to laugh or cry.
“Carlos…”
His name is a whisper. A plea.
He takes a deep breath.
“I didn’t come to ask for your forgiveness.”
She looks at him, saying nothing.
Carlos swallows, his voice softer than ever.
“I didn’t come to make promises either.”
She closes her eyes for a moment, as if the weight of everything unspoken is crushing her.
Carlos steps forward.
“I just want to tell you the truth.”
She trembles.
“Carlos…”
He shakes his head.
“Let me say it.”
Their eyes meet, and it’s like being back in that airport, at that wedding, in that small town where they unknowingly broke each other.
“If you ever thought you weren’t enough for me,” his voice cracks, “that I didn’t choose you, that you were always second place…”
He pauses, swallowing the lump in his throat.
“You were so, so wrong.”
Her eyes shine with tears.
Carlos smiles sadly.
“You were always the only one that mattered.”
She exhales a shaky breath, as if the air has been stolen from her lungs.
Carlos takes one last step—without touching her, without forcing anything.
“But I chose you too late.”
His words land like a blow, an open wound.
She looks away, unable to hold his gaze any longer.
Carlos runs a hand through his hair, letting out a bitter laugh.
“God… I spent so much time running from this. Believing I had all the time in the world. That loving you was enough, even if I always left you waiting.”
She looks at him.
And in a low, wounded voice, she says:
“But it never was.”
Carlos nods, his eyes glassy.
“It never was.”
Silence engulfs them. Everything they are, everything they were, hanging between them.
Until she, lips trembling, asks:
“What are you doing here, Carlos?”
He closes his eyes for a moment, as if gathering every last ounce of courage he has left.
“I left Formula 1.”
Her brows furrow, surprised.
“Why?”
Carlos takes a deep breath.
“Because I don’t want my life to keep racing past without you in it.”
She loses her breath.
Carlos continues.
“Because after all this time, after every goodbye and every reunion… I still love you.”
Her lips tremble harder.
“Carlos…”
He gives her a small, sad smile, holding her gaze.
“And this time, I’m not letting you go.”
The silence that follows is dense, heavy, filled with promises and fears and years of restrained love.
She doesn't answer right away.
Because this is real. This is everything.
When she finally speaks, her voice is a broken whisper.
"I don't know if I can go through this again."
Carlos nods. "I know."
"I don't know if I can trust that this time you'll stay."
"I know."
She blinks, a single tear falling.
Carlos steps closer, his eyes burning with contained emotion.
"But I want to find out with you."
She looks at him, searching his face for something that will tell her this is just a fantasy.
But all she finds is truth.
Truth and love.
A love untouched. A love that never ceased to exist.
She closes her eyes and lets out a sob.
Carlos smiles softly.
"For the first time in my life, I don’t know what comes next."
She watches him, her heart pounding.
Carlos takes a breath, and with more sincerity than ever, he murmurs:
"But if you let me… I want to find out by your side."
She laughs through her tears.
And this time, when Carlos takes another step closer… she doesn’t pull away.
She stays.
The way she was always meant to.
@smoooothoperator
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summary: for years, james potter thought he was chasing love. sirius black knew better — he’d been holding it all along.
warnings: fluff fluff fluff, friends to lovers, idiots in love, james calls reader love, no use of y/n, english isn’t my first language
word count: 11.3k
a/n: it was probably the longest idea to write and edit. i rewrote every moment a bunch of times trying to bring it all to perfection. therefore, this time I hope more than ever that you will like it and you will support me with a like, comment or reblog. have a nice time reading this work! love u <3
ᯓ★ now playing…
slaves – footprints
You left your mark on me like footprints in the snow
Would you promise me you'll never let me go
November 15, 1971
My dear best friend,
Hogwarts is brilliant! You should see the castle; it’s massive, with these moving staircases that sometimes take you to places you didn’t even mean to go! I tried to get to Charms class last week and ended up in the Trophy Room instead. Sirius says it’s part of the fun, and I’m starting to agree.
Speaking of fun, I made a new friend! His name’s Sirius Black, and he’s a bit of a troublemaker like me. Don’t tell Mum, but we might’ve let some Filibuster’s Fireworks off in the Great Hall during lunch. The teachers were furious, but the look on their faces was worth it.
How’s Beauxbatons? Is it true your castle is magical in a totally different way? Sirius said something about unicorns roaming the grounds. Is that real? Write me everything—I want to know what it’s like over there.
Hope you’re having as much fun as I am.
Forever yours,
Jamie
SIRIUS BLACK WAS UTTERLY SPENT. Not the charming, rakish kind of spent he might brag about after a late night of mischief, but truly, completely, soul-drainingly done. The journey to the Potter family cottage, which should have been a brisk jaunt, had turned into a Herculean trial. Blame the snowstorm that had swept through magical London like some vengeful Norse curse, burying everything in its path under heaps of frosty misery.
It started with a delayed train — no, not delayed, imprisoned. Sirius and James were already aboard when the announcement came, trapping them in a stuffy carriage surrounded by loudly complaining wizards and at least one crying baby. And because the universe clearly found Sirius’ misery entertaining, the train came to a jolting halt halfway to their destination, snow packing the tracks so thickly that it took hours of magical clearing before they moved again.
When they finally arrived at the station, they discovered that Mr. Potter, their much-needed savior with a warm car and a better attitude than either of them, had been delayed at work. Thus, Sirius and James were left to trudge through the snow-laden countryside, dragging their trunks behind them, with James’ endless chatter about Lily Evans ringing in Sirius’ ears like a persistent curse.
“Her smile, Padfoot,” James had sighed dreamily at least seventeen times, his glasses fogging up as if even thinking about Lily caused them to malfunction. “And the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating—”
By the sixteenth sigh, Sirius had been sorely tempted to shove a fistful of snow into James’ face. By the seventeenth, he was mentally composing a list of Unforgivable Curses and ranking them by efficiency. Yet, even as he grumbled under his breath, Sirius couldn’t bring himself to abandon the trek. The Potters were the closest thing he had to a family, and spending Christmas anywhere else — no matter how dire the journey — was unthinkable.
When they finally reached the Potter home, Sirius didn’t so much step inside as collapse into it. He shoved the front door open with the dramatic flair of a man escaping death itself and sprawled across the polished wooden floor like a martyr for his own cause. His trunk fell beside him with a satisfying thud.
“Home at last,” he groaned, voice muffled against the rug. “Tell me, Prongs, do they serve last rites before cinnamon rolls, or do we skip straight to the feast?”
The cottage, of course, was as warm and welcoming as Sirius remembered. Strings of fairy lights twinkled across the beams, casting a cozy glow of red, gold, and green. A holly wreath hung crookedly on the wall — lil’James’ handiwork, no doubt — and the scent of pine mingled with the tantalizing aroma of cinnamon, butter, and something sweet. Sirius’ stomach growled audibly.
“Oi, shut it, you ungrateful mutt,” James shot back with a grin, though Sirius could see his friend’s eyes darting toward the kitchen. “You’re embarrassing us in front of the wreath.”
James hadn’t even set his trunk down before a figure appeared in the doorway.
At first, Sirius barely registered her presence. He was too busy muttering about the injustice of underage magic restrictions. But then — oh, then — she stepped fully into view.
A girl.
Not just any girl, but you.
You moved with a kind of quiet confidence that Sirius instantly clocked, your steps unhurried, your presence undeniable. The golden glow of the fairy lights danced across your hair, giving it a shimmer that seemed almost unreal. You were wrapped in a deep blue jumper — Sirius realized this after a moment’s brain lag — and your cheeks were rosy, likely from the heat of the kitchen.
You carried a tray of steaming cinnamon rolls, the scent of melted sugar and spice trailing after you like some kind of domestic enchantment. Sirius’ mouth went dry, and for the first time in years, he was at a loss for words.
“Well,” he managed after a beat, hauling himself upright and trying for a semblance of decorum. “Now I see why you were so keen to come home, Prongs. You’ve got cinnamon-roll-bearing angels dropping out of the sky.”
You laughed, soft and melodic, the sound so unguarded it seemed to wrap the room in warmth. Sirius couldn’t help but notice the way your lips curled into a smile that was equal parts inviting and mysterious.
“Hello to you too, Sirius,” you said, your voice carrying a familiarity that made his ears perk up.
Sirius blinked. Wait. Of course. This wasn’t some celestial being summoned to his rescue; this was James’ childhood best friend. The one James had vaguely mentioned — just a handful of times over the years, always in passing and with a strange softness that Sirius hadn’t thought to question before.
And yet, here you were. In the flesh. Standing in the middle of the Potters’ living room with a tray of baked goods and a smile that Sirius suspected had the power to stop traffic.
“Well, well, Jamie-boy,” Sirius drawled, nudging James with his elbow and watching his friend with amused curiosity. “You never told me the famous cinnamon-roll angel was also — what’s the word? Ah, yes — real.”
You raised an eyebrow at Sirius’ antics, though your smile didn’t falter. Instead, you glanced toward James, who looked like he’d been hit with a Confundus Charm.
Sirius smirked. “James, mate, you alright? You’ve gone all... slack-jawed.”
But James wasn’t paying him any attention. His hazel eyes were locked on you, wide and brimming with something Sirius couldn’t quite place. He watched as James' gaze traced over the streak of flour smudged on your cheek, the stray strands of hair escaping from your ponytail, and the red apron dusted with flour and cinnamon.
Sirius almost snorted aloud. This was the James Potter who couldn’t shut up about Lily Evans — the boy who spent half his waking hours plotting ways to win her over. And yet, here he was, staring at you like you’d just descended from the heavens.
“Jamie,” you said softly, setting the tray down on the nearby table.
It was just one word, but the way you said it — warm, tender, and utterly unguarded — sent a jolt through Sirius.
Before he could process what was happening, James crossed the room in a few long strides and swept you into his arms. You squealed in surprise, and the sound was pure delight, echoing off the walls.
Sirius blinked, startled. The way James held you — hands firm on your waist, his head dipping into the crook of your neck — wasn’t friendly, not by a long shot. Sirius had known James since he was eleven years old, had seen him charm and flirt with half of Hogwarts, but he had never seen this.
“Missed me, Jamie?” you teased, your fingers slipping into his unruly hair with the kind of ease that spoke of years of familiarity.
“Always,” James murmured, so quietly Sirius barely caught it.
“Bloody hell,” Sirius muttered under his breath.
He glanced around the room, half-expecting someone to explain this baffling scene, but it was just him, James, and you, wrapped up in some intimate little bubble that made Sirius feel like an intruder.
James murmured something into your shoulder — too soft for Sirius to catch — and you laughed, your voice light and unrestrained. The sound pulled James’ head up, and Sirius couldn’t miss the way his eyes traced your face with a kind of devotion Sirius had only read about in sappy romance novels.
It was then that the memories began to click into place. The scattered mentions over the years, the odd tone James always took when he talked about you. “She’s not like anyone else, Padfoot. She just gets it.” Or that one summer when James had come back to Hogwarts looking utterly miserable and wouldn’t explain why. Sirius had teased him about it for weeks, thinking it was Lily-related. But now, seeing the way James looked at you...
“Wait a minute,” Sirius blurted, his grin widening as realization dawned. “You’re the one. The one he’s always sneaking off to write letters to, the one he’s all secretive about.”
James shot him a glare, his cheeks burning bright red.
“Padfoot—”
“—the one who sent him that hideous scarf last Christmas!” Sirius continued, thoroughly enjoying himself now. “I knew there had to be someone. Prongs doesn’t just get that moony-eyed look over just anyone.”
You laughed again, covering your face with your hands, while James muttered something about strangling Sirius later.
Before Sirius could needle him further, the kitchen door creaked open, and Euphemia Potter swept into the room. She was radiant as always, her cheeks rosy from the cold, her dark hair streaked with silver. Her eyes lit up the moment she saw James.
“There’s my boy!” she exclaimed, pulling him into a tight hug before he could even attempt to protest.
“Hi, Mum,” James mumbled, his voice muffled against her shoulder.
Euphemia pulled back, cupping his face in her hands as though memorizing every detail. “It’s been too long, Jamie. Too long. You’re far too skinny — have you been eating properly at school? And what have you done with your hair?”
James groaned, though his smile was fond.
Then her eyes fell on Sirius, and the warmth in her expression grew tenfold.
“Sirius, my dear,” she said, moving toward him with open arms. “I’m so glad you’re home, too.”
Sirius froze for a moment, caught off guard. He wasn’t used to this — the genuine affection, the way Euphemia made him feel like he belonged.
When her arms wrapped around him, the embrace firm and filled with love, Sirius felt an odd lump form in his throat. He couldn’t help but think of his own mother’s cold, perfunctory hugs, her disdainful gaze, and the way her affection always felt like a transaction.
“You’ve grown even handsomer,” Euphemia said, pulling back to study him. “Fleamont’s going to be jealous.”
Sirius managed a crooked grin, the lump in his throat still stubbornly there. “That’s the goal, Mrs. Potter. Keep him on his toes.”
Euphemia laughed, her eyes twinkling, before cupping his cheek briefly. “You’re family now, Sirius. Never forget that.”
Satisfied, Euphemia turned her attention to you. Her face softened even more, and she reached out to squeeze your hands. “Oh, there you are, dear. I was wondering where my helper had gone. The mince pies won’t bake themselves, you know”
You shot James a quick, playful glance before following Euphemia toward the door. “I’ll be back in a bit,” you said, your smile lingering.
As Mrs. Potter ushered you toward the door to finish the pies, Sirius remained rooted to the spot. The warmth from her hug lingered, and for a fleeting moment, he thought of how lucky James was to have parents like that — and how lucky he was to have stumbled into their lives.
James watched you leave, his gaze following you until you were out of sight. Sirius couldn’t help but laugh.
“Mate,” he said, clapping James on the shoulder. “You’re a goner.”
James huffed, shoving him away, but the goofy grin on his face was impossible to hide.
And Sirius? Sirius couldn’t wait to see how this played out.
July 2, 1973
My Love,
Summer’s only just started, and I can’t wait to see you. Mum’s already planning another one of her “legendary” tea parties, which means she’ll fuss over you endlessly. You’ll smile politely and charm her like always, and she’ll end up spoiling you with biscuits to take back to Beauxbatons.
I’ve got so much to tell you. Sirius and I found this secret passageway that leads straight to Hogsmeade. We’ve been practicing spells to make it even harder for Filch to find us. Remus is shaking his head, but I think he secretly loves our schemes. Oh, and Lily—she’s still brilliant. She’s got the most incredible laugh. But you, my love, I bet your laugh would still outshine hers any day.
Do you still walk in those Beauxbatons gardens at sunset? I can imagine you there, glowing in the soft light. It suits you. Write me back quickly, won’t you? The days are always better when I hear from you.
Forever yours,
Jamie
SIRIUS BLACK HAD ALWAYS KNOWN JAMES POTTER WAS A TACTILE PERSON. James spoke fluently in the language of touch — claps on the back that lingered just a second too long, overly enthusiastic shoulder bumps that almost knocked you off your feet, and the occasional arm slung around your shoulders like he was staking a claim. But this? This was something else entirely.
It wasn’t just the way James touched you. It was the way he seemed to orbit you, like some lovesick moon drawn to its planet. Wherever you were, James was never far behind — hovering, grinning, completely and utterly besotted without even realizing it. And for someone so allegedly brilliant, he was astoundingly stupid about it.
Sirius noticed it within minutes of their arrival at the Potter cottage for the holidays. As the snow settled outside, so did James — right beside you, always beside you. If you were arranging the flowers Euphemia had insisted on, James was there offering suggestions like he’d suddenly become an expert on floral arrangements. If you were curled up in the drawing room with a book, James was sprawled across the nearest sofa, pretending to read but actually just watching you out of the corner of his eye like some hopeless romantic idiot in a badly written Muggle novel.
Sirius had been rolling his eyes so much, they were practically stuck in the back of his head.
THE SECOND MORNING WAS WHEN THINGS REALLY CLICKED. Sirius had woken up earlier than usual — a rare and uncomfortable event for him. He had no plans to do anything productive, of course, but the faint sound of footsteps in the hallway intrigued him. Padding out of his room, he peeked around the corner just in time to see James sneaking toward the kitchen.
Naturally, Sirius followed. He found James standing at the counter, sleeves rolled up like some kind of domestic god, arranging breakfast with the precision of someone preparing an offering to Merlin himself. There was a plate of toast with cream cheese and thinly sliced avocado, a bowl of berries that looked like they’d been picked by woodland elves, and a steaming cup of coffee. The smell alone was enough to make Sirius reconsider his usual disdain for mornings.
“Fancy,” Sirius said, leaning lazily against the doorframe, voice still scratchy from sleep.
James jumped slightly but recovered quickly, flashing Sirius a sheepish grin. “Morning, Pads. Coffee’s on the counter.”
Sirius eyed the tray suspiciously. “Is this for you, or is it for your favorite person in the world aka me?”
James’s ears turned pink. “It’s for her,” he admitted, almost bashfully, like he hadn’t just spent ten minutes crafting the most meticulous breakfast Sirius had ever seen.
“Of course it is,” Sirius muttered with a smirk, grabbing a mug for himself. “You realize this is bordering on embarrassing, yeah?”
James shot him a look, but before he could respond, you appeared in the doorway, still looking half-asleep. Your hair was mussed, and the oversized jumper you’d borrowed from James was slipping off one shoulder, but you somehow managed to look effortlessly radiant. Sirius rolled his eyes again.
“Morning, love,” James said, his voice soft and warm in a way Sirius had never heard before.
“Morning, Jamie,” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep as you shuffled into the kitchen.
James practically tripped over himself to hand you the coffee. Sirius watched, amused, as James’s fingers brushed yours in the exchange, his entire face lighting up like someone had cast Lumos Maxima directly on it.
You took a long sip of the coffee, humming in contentment. “Perfect, as always,” you murmured, looking up at James with a sleepy smile that could have melted a Dementor.
And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
Sirius nearly choked on his coffee. He wasn’t sure what was more painful — the nauseating sweetness of the moment or the fact that neither of you seemed to realize how completely ridiculous you were.
“Right, well, I’ll just... leave you two to it,” Sirius said, waving his mug in mock surrender as he backed out of the room. “Try not to get married while I’m gone.”
“Shut up, Sirius,” James called after him, but the way his voice wavered slightly betrayed his embarrassment.
By the time Sirius reached the living room, Euphemia and Fleamont were already seated by the fireplace, exchanging knowing glances like they’d seen this coming a mile away.
“Is he making her breakfast again?” Euphemia asked with a smile that was far too pleased for Sirius’s liking.
“Every detail,” Sirius confirmed, sinking into an armchair. “I’m starting to think he’s auditioning for Witch Weekly’s ‘Most Devoted Boyfriend’ feature.”
“Don’t tease him too much,” Euphemia said with a chuckle. “He’s just like his father was with me.”
“Merlin, it’s contagious,” Sirius groaned, dramatically throwing an arm over his face. “If I start acting like that, someone put me out of my misery.”
But even as he joked, Sirius couldn’t help but smile. Because for all his teasing, it was obvious to anyone with eyes that James was hopelessly gone for you. And judging by the way you looked at him, Sirius had a feeling the feeling was mutual — even if neither of you was bright enough to figure it out.
AND THEN THERE WERE THE SMALL, INTIMATE TOUCHES SIRIUS COULDN’T IGNORE, no matter how much he wanted to. James’s hand resting on the small of your back as he guided you through a doorway, like you might somehow lose your way without him. The way his fingers traced lazy patterns on your knee under the dinner table, as though the contact grounded him. Or how he’d tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering just long enough to make Sirius roll his eyes and fight back a gag.
It was maddening to watch, really. Not because Sirius minded the affection — no, James deserved a bit of softness in his life, and you were undeniably good for him. It was maddening because you were both so oblivious. James was a goner, sure, but you weren’t far behind. Every time you leaned into his touch, smiled up at him like he hung the stars, or called him Jamie in that soft, teasing tone, it was like watching two wizards tiptoe around a cauldron, waiting for it to explode.
One evening, as the three of you lounged in the living room, the dynamic was on full display. The Potters had insisted on a family movie night — Euphemia’s idea, of course, because family time was important. Sirius couldn’t say no to the fire roaring in the hearth, the massive bowl of popcorn, and the ridiculous Muggle Christmas film flickering on the screen. But as the minutes passed, he started to regret not escaping upstairs.
James had situated himself squarely in the middle of the sofa, with you tucked neatly under his arm. His hand played absently with the ends of your hair, fingers twisting the strands like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. You had your legs curled beneath you, leaning into him with the kind of comfort Sirius had only ever seen in old couples who had been together for decades. James pressed a kiss to your temple, murmuring something Sirius couldn’t quite catch.
It was unbearable.
“Oi, lovebirds,” Sirius interrupted, launching a piece of popcorn at James. It hit him square in the forehead, a small but satisfying victory. “Some of us are trying to watch the movie without choking on all this sap.”
You burst into laughter, sitting up just enough to toss a handful of popcorn back at him. “You’re just jealous, Black.”
“Jealous? Me?” Sirius placed a hand over his chest, mock-offended. “Of what, exactly? Watching James Potter transform into a human puddle before my very eyes? No thanks. I’ll pass.”
James didn’t even flinch. He just grinned, looking every bit the lovesick fool he was. “You’ll get it one day, Pads,” he said with infuriating calm.
Sirius snorted, grabbing a handful of popcorn and tossing it into his mouth. “Right. Because what I’m really missing in my life is the chance to turn into that.” He gestured at the two of you with a dramatic wave of his hand.
But despite his teasing, Sirius couldn’t ignore the warmth spreading in his chest as he watched the scene unfold. James, the arrogant, Quidditch-obsessed, devil-may-care prankster he’d known all his life, was utterly, completely, hopelessly in love. And the worst — or perhaps best — part? He didn’t even seem to realize it.
BY THE END OF THESE COUPLE OF DAYS VACK AT THE POTTER COTTAGE, SIRIUS KNEW. James Potter wasn’t in love with Lily Evans — not really, not anymore and maybe not ever. He was in love with you. It wasn’t in the dramatic declarations Sirius had once teased James about making to Lily. No, this was quieter, deeper. It was in the way James’s gaze softened whenever you spoke, like he couldn’t believe you were real. In the way his hand always seemed to find yours, even when there was no need for it. And in the way his entire being lit up when you smiled at him.
And you? You weren’t much better. You laughed at his terrible jokes, poked fun at him with an ease Sirius envied, and looked at James like he was the center of the universe. It was so obvious it made Sirius want to scream.
“This isn’t normal, you know,” Sirius said later that night, cornering James in the kitchen as he made tea.
“What’s not normal?” James asked, far too casually for Sirius’s liking.
“You and her. You’re not just friends. Stop pretending you are.”
James frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. “We are just friends. She’s my best mate, Pads. You know that.”
Sirius laughed, loud and sharp, shaking his head. “Oh, Prongsie. You’re an idiot.”
“Am not,” James shot back, but there was a flicker of doubt in his voice.
Sirius leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. “If you’re just friends, then I’m a unicorn. Face it, Potter — you’re in love.”
James opened his mouth, probably to argue, but then you walked into the room, yawning and looking for all the world like you belonged there. James’s expression softened immediately, his gaze lingering on you like you were the only thing that mattered.
Sirius didn’t say another word. He didn’t need to.
Because James Potter was already lost, and for once, Sirius didn’t mind watching his best mate fall.
March 30, 1975
My Love,
It’s been ages since your last letter, and I miss you like mad. Exams are coming up, and I’m hopeless at concentrating without your words to keep me sane. The Marauders are in full swing, though—our latest adventure involved sneaking a swamp into one of the corridors. Filch is still grumbling about it.
I told you before how Lily has the most beautiful laugh, right? Well, I think she might finally be warming up to me. I’m playing it cool, but honestly, every time she looks at me, I feel like a kid with a new broomstick. And yet... you’re still the one I write to when I want to share everything. Funny, isn’t it?
How’s the ballet going? I remember you mentioned your school recital. I wish I could see you dance. You’d be like a dream on stage, graceful and bright. Maybe one day.
Forever yours,
Jamie
SIRIUS BLACK WASN’T ONE TO BELIEVE IN LOVE — not the kind spun into poetry or whispered in secret corners of libraries. Sweet words, fleeting touches, long glances… all of it sounded like an elaborate prank. A fantasy created by people who hadn’t tasted the bitterness of the world.
How could anyone believe in love when raised in a house where affection was a weapon and the family motto might as well have been stab first, smile later? The Black family had given Sirius many things: wealth, privilege, and a last name dripping in infamy. But love? That was a foreign concept, spoken in a dialect he’d never been taught.
And yet, Sirius Black — child of darkness and rebellion — had found light. That light had a name: James Potter. From the moment James had barreled into Sirius’s life, grinning like the sun itself, everything had shifted. James had yanked him out of the shadows and dragged him into a world Sirius didn’t know existed — a world filled with warmth, laughter, and actual hugs.
It wasn’t just James, though. It was the whole bloody Potter family. Euphemia and Fleamont were like characters out of a Muggle holiday film. Euphemia, with her soft, unrelenting affection, had made it her personal mission to drown Sirius in love and sweaters. Fleamont’s laughter could fill a room, a deep, belly-shaking sound that warmed Sirius from the inside out. Together, they moved through the world as though their love was an unshakable force, a steady undercurrent in every shared look and word.
“Darling,” Fleamont would call from across the kitchen, leaning over the counter with a newspaper in hand.
“Yes, Fleamont?” Euphemia would reply, her smile soft and teasing as she stirred whatever heavenly dish she was making.
Never by name. Always darling.
Still, if love like that was rare, James bloody Potter seemed hell-bent on stumbling into it without even realizing.
James and you had been dancing around each other for years, so oblivious it was borderline painful. Sirius sometimes wondered if you two were practicing for a comedy sketch, the way you acted like best mates while exuding the kind of tension that could make a Dementor blush. If Sirius had a Galleon for every time James looked at you like you were the only person in the room, he could have bought his own Quidditch team by now. And he's only been watching you for a couple of days.
IT WAS THE FOURT DAY OF HIS CHRISTMAS STAY AT THE POTTER HOME, and the dynamic was impossible to ignore. You and James were practically inseparable, moving through the house like two planets caught in the same orbit. You helped Euphemia with the decorations while James carried boxes of ornaments up from the cellar, always hovering nearby like he was afraid you might vanish if he looked away.
“You know,” Sirius said, leaning casually against the doorway, “most people don’t need to supervise someone hanging tinsel.”
James didn’t even glance back. “She’s not most people, Pads.”
Sirius groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “For Merlin’s sake, just marry her already.”
James froze, an ornament dangling from his hand. “What are you on about? We’re just friends.”
“Sure, and I’m a Muggle,” Sirius shot back, rolling his eyes.
You, blissfully unaware of the conversation, turned from where you were perched on a stepstool. “What are you two arguing about now?”
“Nothing,” James said quickly, his cheeks tinged pink. “Sirius is just being Sirius.”
“That’s never good,” you teased, smirking at Sirius.
“Oi! I’ll have you know I’m delightful company.” Sirius crossed his arms, feigning offense. “But if you’re not careful, pretty, you’ll end up trapped in Potter’s web of undying devotion.”
You raised an eyebrow, stepping down from the stool. “Potter’s web of what now?”
James shot Sirius a warning glare, but Sirius just grinned. “Oh, nothing. Just that James here is—”
“Hungry!” James interrupted, loudly and awkwardly. “Right, Pads? Didn’t you say you were starving?”
Sirius barked a laugh, shaking his head as James practically shoved him out of the room. “Subtle as ever, Prongs.”
From Sirius’s vantage point, it was painfully obvious. James was hopelessly, stupidly in love with you. And you? You weren’t much better. The way you smiled at him, teased him, trusted him without question — it was all the evidence Sirius needed. And yet, you were both blissfully, idiotically unaware.
One evening, as Sirius sprawled on the sofa in the Potters’ living room, he couldn’t help but notice the way you and James interacted. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, rifling through a box of Christmas decorations Euphemia had set out.
“Jamie, hand me the gold bauble,” you said, tossing him a quick glance over your shoulder.
James, who had been half-heartedly untangling a string of lights, immediately perked up. “Which one?”
You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. “The one in your hand, genius.”
James laughed, tossing it gently toward you. It missed entirely, landing with a soft thud on the carpet.
“Good aim, Prongs,” Sirius drawled from his spot on the couch. “Truly inspiring.”
“Shut it, Padfoot,” James shot back, but his grin never faltered. He turned to you, sheepish. “Sorry, love.”
Love. Sirius didn’t miss the way the word slipped out so naturally, like James had been saying it his whole life. And he definitely didn’t miss the way your cheeks flushed as you ducked your head, pretending to focus on the decorations.
LATER THAT EVENING, SIRIUS FOUND HIMSELF LAYING ON THE SOFA IN THE LIVING ROOM AGAIN (it probably was his favorite place in the house by now), a book abandoned on his chest as he watched Euphemia and Fleamont dancing in the kitchen once, a slow, swaying movement that didn’t match the upbeat Muggle music crackling from the wireless. Euphemia had rested her head on Fleamont’s chest, his arms wrapped around her like it was the only place in the world she belonged. It wasn’t dramatic or flashy — just simple and unshakable. And it made Sirius ache in ways he didn’t understand.
And a moment later they were in the same kitchen, preparing tea and laughing softly as they worked.
“Darling, pass me the sugar, would you?” Fleamont said, his voice warm and affectionate.
Euphemia handed him the sugar bowl without looking up, her smile soft. “Here you go, darlin'.”
It was the kind of exchange that Sirius might have mocked once. But now, as he watched the way Fleamont leaned in to kiss Euphemia’s cheek, or how she swatted him away with a laugh when he tried to sneak a biscuit, he felt something unfamiliar tugging at his chest.
“They’re sickeningly sweet, aren’t they?”
Sirius turned to see you standing in the doorway, a mug of hot chocolate in your hands.
“They are,” he admitted, sitting up and motioning for you to join him. “But it’s sort of... nice. In a vomit-inducing way.”
You laughed, settling beside him. “I think it’s lovely. They’re so in tune with each other, you know? Like they’ve been dancing to the same song for decades.”
Sirius tilted his head, watching you as you spoke. “And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you want that? The whole ‘dancing to the same song’ thing?”
You hesitated, your fingers tracing the rim of your mug. “I don’t know. I suppose it would be nice, but... I’m not sure it’s in the cards for me.”
Sirius frowned. “Why not?”
You shrugged, a wistful smile tugging at your lips. “Because my dance partner’s too busy tripping over his own feet to notice I’m right here.”
Sirius stared at you, his mind racing. Did you mean James? Surely you meant James. But before he could say anything, James walked in, ruffling his hair like he always did.
“Alright, what are you two plotting?”
“World domination,” Sirius replied without missing a beat. “Want in?”
James grinned, flopping onto the sofa and immediately throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Always.”
Sirius watched as you leaned into James, your head resting against his shoulder. James turned to look at you, his expression soft and unguarded.
And that’s when Sirius knew — again, because he seemed to be realizing this every ten minutes — just how much trouble you two were in.
DAYS LATER, SIRIUS WAS STANDING BY THE WINDOW OF THE POTTER COTTAGE, a steaming mug of hot chocolate warming his hands. The world outside was a vision of winter — snow blanketed the ground in pristine white, the trees bowed under its weight, and the air held a sharp, crystalline stillness. Inside, the house was alive with warmth: the crackle of the fire, the gentle hum of Euphemia’s humming, and Fleamont’s cheerful banter as he set up a chessboard by the hearth.
But Sirius wasn’t watching any of that. His attention was fixed on the two figures trudging down the snow-covered path just beyond the window.
You and James walked side by side, your mittened hands brushing against each other with the kind of unconscious familiarity that spoke volumes. The path ahead glittered in the weak afternoon sun, the frost catching the light like scattered diamonds. Clouds of breath curled into the frosty air as you laughed at something James said, the sound clear and bright, even from a distance.
Sirius couldn’t hear the words, but he didn’t need to. He saw everything in the way James turned his head toward you, his face lit with the sort of joy that was impossible to fake.
Then it happened — your foot slipped on a patch of hidden ice. Sirius’s grip on his mug tightened for half a heartbeat, but James was already there. His hand shot out, steadying you before you could fall, as if the world might crumble if he didn’t catch you in time.
“Careful there, love,” James said, his voice carrying easily through the crisp winter air.
You laughed, brushing snow from your coat as your cheeks turned pink — not just from the cold, Sirius was sure. “You’d think I’d have learned how to walk by now.”
James grinned, tugging you a little closer to his side. “Good thing you’ve got me.”
“Good thing indeed,” you replied, your eyes crinkling at the corners, your voice soft and full of affection.
And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, James reached out to brush a stray snowflake from your hair. His fingers lingered for just a moment, his expression open and unguarded, filled with something so pure that Sirius had to look away for a second.
It wasn’t the first time Sirius had seen that look on James’s face. It was the same quiet, awestruck gaze he’d noticed a thousand times when James thought no one was watching. But seeing it now, against the backdrop of snow and laughter, it struck Sirius like a Bludger to the chest.
That’s how Fleamont looked at Euphemia, Sirius realized. He’d seen it that very morning, when Euphemia had walked into the kitchen with a sleepy smile and Fleamont had paused mid-sentence, his face lighting up as if she were the sunrise itself.
Sirius took a long sip of his hot chocolate, the sweetness of it sharp against the lump forming in his throat. He muttered to himself, a small smile tugging at his lips, “Never by name. Always love.”
“What are you smiling about, Sirius?” Euphemia’s voice broke the quiet, warm and curious. She stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
He turned, raising his mug in a mock toast. “Oh, nothing, Mrs. P. Just watching James make a right fool of himself in the snow. Again.”
Euphemia chuckled, stepping closer to peer out the window. Her gaze softened as she spotted you and James, now engaged in some sort of playful shoving match, James clearly letting you win.
“Hopeless,” Sirius added, shaking his head.
“Like father, like son,” Euphemia said with a knowing smile.
Sirius huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”
They stood in companionable silence for a moment, watching the scene outside. Sirius’s gaze lingered on James’s hand as it rested on your shoulder, the ease of the gesture speaking louder than words.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Sirius allowed himself to believe. Not just in the love he saw in James’s face or the easy affection between Fleamont and Euphemia. But in the idea that maybe—just maybe—love wasn’t the cruel, twisted thing his family had tried to make him believe.
Maybe love, real love, was something entirely different.
November 27, 1976
My Jamie,
Winter has settled over Beauxbatons, and the mountains are kissed with snow. I wish you could see how the frost sparkles on the trees. I think of you often, imagining the mischief you’re up to at Hogwarts.
I heard you’re Quidditch Captain now — congratulations! I can already picture you soaring through the air, the wind in your hair and that unstoppable grin. You were born to lead, Jamie, and I’m so proud of you.
Your mum wrote me again last week. She’s sent another scarf, this one in Gryffindor colors. She says it’ll keep me close to you. It does, in a way — I wrap it around myself when I miss you most.
Do you think of me as much as I think of you? You’re my constant, my warmth on the coldest days. Soon it’ll be Christmas, and we’ll have the stars and endless nights to talk about everything. Until then, stay safe, my Jamie.
Forever yours,
Love
THE CHRISTMAS CHAOS AT THE POTTER HOUSE STARTED BEFORE SIRIUS EVEN HAD A CHANCE TO GRUMBLE ABOUT THE HOUR. The sun wasn’t up yet, but Fleamont Potter most certainly was, barreling into James’s room with the energy of a man half his age. Before Sirius could properly complain — or hide under the covers — he and James were unceremoniously hauled to the garage. Their mission? Assembling the absurdly large Christmas table that Euphemia insisted on every year.
Sirius swore under his breath, wrestling with the oversized wooden monstrosity. “You know,” he grumbled, glaring at James, “if your parents had just gone for a nice, normal-sized table, we wouldn’t be out here freezing our—”
“Language, Sirius!” Fleamont interrupted cheerfully, though there was a definite glint of amusement in his eyes.
Sirius rolled his eyes but complied, though only because Euphemia’s kitchen smelled like heaven, and he was determined to earn his way to a plate of whatever was roasting in the oven.
Inside, the house was a picture of festive perfection: holly strung along the bannisters, twinkling fairy lights glowing softly in the corners, and a wireless by the fireplace playing carols just loud enough to make Sirius hum along when no one was listening. Euphemia’s soft laughter echoed from the kitchen, mingling with yours as the two of you prepared a feast fit for kings — or in this case, a house full of Marauders.
And James? Well, James wasn’t himself.
Sirius noticed it almost immediately. His best mate was usually a hurricane of enthusiasm during the holidays, cracking jokes, sneaking sweets from the kitchen, and generally making a nuisance of himself. But today, James kept glancing toward the kitchen like a puppy waiting for its owner to come home.
The idiot was besotted.
Every time your laughter drifted into the room, James’s head whipped around like he was under some sort of spell. If you so much as said his name, he’d stop mid-sentence, his eyes lighting up like the Christmas tree in the corner. Sirius would’ve teased him mercilessly if it weren’t so... obvious. Painfully, ridiculously obvious.
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, WHEN JAMES AND FLEAMONT HAD VANISHED TO THE GARAGE — probably to charm something they had no business charming — Sirius found himself tasked with tidying up James’s room. He grumbled the whole time, of course. Cleaning wasn’t his style, and James’s room was a disaster zone: Quidditch magazines spilling off the desk, parchment crumpled in corners, and socks scattered in ways that defied the laws of physics.
“Honestly, Prongs,” Sirius muttered, holding up a suspiciously stiff sock with the tips of his fingers. “How are you supposed to woo Evans — or anyone, for that matter — when your room smells like the wrong end of a hippogriff?”
As he moved to clear a particularly cluttered shelf, a box caught his eye. It was tucked in the far corner, partially hidden behind an old textbook. Sirius raised an eyebrow. Anything stashed away like that was bound to be interesting. With a mischievous grin, he reached for it, only for the entire thing to tumble off the shelf, spilling its contents across the floor.
“Bloody hell,” he swore, crouching to pick up the mess. His hand froze mid-reach when he realized what had fallen out: letters. Dozens of them, bundled in ribbons of various colors.
Sirius sat back on his heels, eyeing the pile. His curiosity, as always, got the better of him. With a glance at the door to ensure James wasn’t about to barge in, he grabbed the nearest stack and plopped himself onto the bed, cross-legged and grinning like a kid about to open a box of Zonko’s best tricks.
The first letter he unfolded smelled faintly of vanilla. Your scent, Sirius realized, and his grin faltered for just a moment.
October 7, 1971
Beauxbatons is so different from Hogwarts. The professors here are so strict, James, sometimes it feels like I’m being watched all the time! I miss the feeling of freedom you must have at Hogwarts, even if you’re always getting into trouble with Sirius. Do you ever just wish you could escape the rules and run wild?
Sirius chuckled softly, his eyes scanning the elegant handwriting. “Trouble? Me? Never,” he muttered, his tone dripping with mock innocence.
But as he reread the letter, a strange tightness settled in his chest. The way you wrote about Hogwarts — it wasn’t just about the school. It was about James. Even miles away, you saw him as something larger than life, as the embodiment of freedom and adventure.
And James? The idiot probably thought you were just being polite.
February 21, 1971
Sirius sounds like a bit of a handful, but I bet he’s hilarious. I think I’d like him, even if he does cause chaos. You all sound like you’re constantly up to something, but I imagine you get into trouble a lot, don’t you? Anyway, I’d love to hear more about his pranks— I’m sure you and him must make a great team!
Sirius barked a laugh. “A handful? Pretty, you have no idea.”
Still, the words struck a chord. He could see it so clearly now: the way you’d woven yourself into James’s world with every playful question and teasing remark. You weren’t just curious about his adventures; you wanted to be a part of them, to understand the boy behind the Quidditch bravado and the wild schemes.
Then came the letters about Lily.
March 25, 1973
James, you always talk about Lily, and I think it’s sweet that you have such admiration for her. I bet she doesn’t even know how much you like her. She sounds like she’d be really hard to win over, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Just don’t forget to have fun along the way, yeah?
Sirius groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Merlin’s saggy pants, Prongs, how thick can you be?”
He could almost picture you writing those words, the careful balance between encouragement and self-sacrifice. Even as you pushed James toward Lily, your letters were saturated with love — pure, unguarded, and heartbreakingly unspoken.
It was infuriating. How could two people so obviously meant for each other be so oblivious?
By the time Sirius reached the later letters, the humor had drained from his face.
December 5, 1974
Your mum sent me another gift! She’s so sweet, and I can’t believe how kind she is to me. It always makes me feel so loved. You know, when I’m away from you, it’s like I’m missing something... like the best part of my day. I never want to take our friendship for granted.
The parchment crinkled slightly as Sirius’s grip tightened. That wasn’t just gratitude — it was devotion, raw and aching. The kind of love that didn’t need fireworks or grand declarations because it was already woven into every moment, every memory.
And James? Sirius shook his head, a pang of frustration mixing with pity. James had spent years chasing the idea of love, blind to the fact that he already had it.
The final letter undid him.
December 12, 1975
I was thinking about you today, and how you’ve always been there for me — whether it was listening to me complain about the Beauxbatons professors or laughing with me when I’m in a bad mood. You’re always there, and I think that’s why I trust you more than anyone else. You’ll never know how much that means to me, Jamie.
Sirius closed his eyes, letting the words sink in. You didn’t just see James; you knew him. The real James — the boy who laughed too loudly, who lived for Quidditch, who couldn’t resist a good prank. You loved James, not the idealized version he tried to be for Lily or anyone else.
Sirius exhaled sharply, folding the letter with a reverence he didn’t usually bother with. His heart ached — not for himself, but for you, for James, for the years you’d both spent dancing around the truth.
“Merlin, you’re both idiots,” he muttered, though his voice was softer now.
Sirius ran a hand through his dark hair, ruffling it further into disarray, his mind replaying what he’d just uncovered. The letters — those bloody letters — had been the key. Now everything fell into place: James’s barely-there smiles over the past few days, the way his gaze lingered when you entered the room, the softness in his laugh when you said something clever. James Potter, his brash, unrelenting, wildfire of a best friend, was utterly transformed around you.
Balanced. Grounded. Sincere.
It was unbearably obvious now, as if someone had pulled back the curtain.
And yet, the idiot still had Lily Evans’s picture on his bedside table in his dorm.
Sirius’s gaze fell on the stack of letters once more, neatly tied with a ribbons that seemed far too delicate for James’s usual chaos. He could have left it alone, let James figure things out in his own thick-headed way — but that wasn’t Sirius Black’s style. If there was one thing he’d learned from years of pranks, broken curfews, and bending the rules until they snapped, it was this: sometimes people needed a push, even if it stung a little.
Sirius exhaled and leaned back against the headboard, the letters still in hand. "You're a fucking idiot," he muttered under his breath.
A slow smirk tugged at his lips. Oh, the look on James’s face when he confronted him — it would be priceless. Sirius wasn’t one for sentiment, but for you? For James? Maybe, just maybe, he’d make an exception.
The door creaked open, and James stumbled into the room, his steps heavy with exhaustion. Sirius watched as his best friend all but collapsed into the armchair by the bookcase, running a hand through his already-messy hair. He looked like he’d been wrestling dragons all day — or, more likely, his dad’s endless list of chores.
But there was something else, too. A tension in his jaw, a restless energy that practically vibrated off him. Sirius could see it plain as day: James hadn’t seen her all day, and it was driving him mad. She was so close — just a staircase or two away — and yet untouchable.
Sirius cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “So, Prongs, is this why you’ve been obsessing over the owl schedule for years? Didn’t peg you as the secret pen-pal type.”
James’s head snapped up, his hazel eyes narrowing in confusion. They darted to the bed, where the stack of letters lay exposed, and then to the shelf where the box had clearly been moved. He froze for a second before letting out a long, resigned sigh.
“Pads,” James said, his voice low and uneven, heavy with an edge Sirius rarely heard. “It’s not cool to read someone else’s letters.”
The room seemed to still, the words settling into the air like dust, soft but laden with weight. James’s eyes — those unmistakable hazel orbs that always held a spark of mischief — were guarded now, a flicker of something raw and unspoken behind them.
Sirius leaned forward, a grin stretching across his face like the blade of a knife, sharp and unapologetic. “Not cool,” he echoed, his voice laced with mockery, “is keeping this from me for six bloody years. Care to explain, or should I guess?”
James flinched, the tension in his shoulders visible even through the soft knit of his jumper. He moved toward the bed with the slow, deliberate steps of someone walking a tightrope, balancing the fragile threads of anger and restraint. The dim light of the room cast long shadows over his frame, making him seem taller, older — more vulnerable.
He reached for one of the letters, his hand hesitating for the briefest moment before his fingers curled around the parchment. His thumb brushed over the faded ink, tracing the loops of her handwriting like a blind man reading Braille. The edges of the letter were frayed, softened by years of touch, and as he lifted it to his face, Sirius caught the faintest smile tugging at James’s lips.
It was a small, private thing, that smile. Reverent. It wasn’t the boyish grin Sirius knew so well, the one James wielded like a weapon to charm or disarm. No, this was different — softer, as though the mere act of holding the letter in his hand brought James closer to something sacred.
Sirius felt his chest tighten. He’d seen James in every possible state — triumphant on the Quidditch pitch, livid after a prank gone wrong, devastated when the world seemed too heavy — but this? This was new. This was James Potter unguarded.
“She’s different, isn’t she?” Sirius said, his voice quieter now, almost gentle.
James didn’t look up. He sat on the edge of the bed, sorting the letters with a precision that bordered on ritual. Each movement was deliberate, his fingers careful not to smudge the ink or crease the paper. Sirius had never seen him handle anything with such care — not his broomstick, not his glasses, not even the Marauder’s Map.
“It’s not what you think,” James murmured, but the words lacked conviction, as though he knew they’d crumble under scrutiny.
Sirius scoffed, leaning back in his chair with an exasperated snort. “Not what I think? Mate, I think you’re in love with her and too much of an idiot to admit it. Am I wrong?”
James froze mid-motion, the ribbon he was tying slipping from his fingers. For a moment, he didn’t speak, didn’t move — just stared at the letters as if they might answer for him.
“She’s…” He trailed off, his voice barely audible. “She’s different, Pads. She’s… everything.”
There it was. The confession, raw and trembling in the space between them. Sirius leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his expression unusually serious.
“Yeah,” Sirius said softly. “She is. And that’s exactly why you’re a bloody idiot for pretending she’s not.”
James let out a bitter laugh, the sound low and fractured. He raked a hand through his already-messy hair, his movements frenetic, as though he were trying to shake off the weight of the moment.
“You don’t get it,” he said, his voice cracking under the strain. “It’s not that simple.”
“Like hell it isn’t,” Sirius shot back, his tone sharp but not cruel. “I’ve watched you for years, Prongs. You talk about Evans like she’s some kind of bloody trophy, but her? You look at her like she’s the air you breathe. Like without her, you’d suffocate. And you’re sitting here telling me it’s complicated?”
James’s laugh turned hollow, empty. “Lily’s… safe. She’s who I’m supposed to want. She’s not my bloody childhood best friend.”
The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Sirius said nothing. Then, he barked out a laugh, loud and biting.
“Safe?” he repeated, incredulous. “Since when have you ever played it safe, James Potter? Love’s not supposed to be safe. It’s messy, terrifying, and completely bloody worth it. Or are you seriously telling me you’d rather be ‘safe’ than happy?”
James looked up at him then, and Sirius’s breath caught. His best friend’s hazel eyes, usually so full of fire and mischief, were red-rimmed and glistening with unshed tears.
“Do you think…” James’s voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “Do you think she feels the same?”
Sirius’s grin returned, slow and wolfish. “Mate, judging by these letters? She’s just as much of an idiot in love as you are.”
For a moment, James didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. And then, like a dam breaking, he laughed — a shaky, unsteady sound that grew louder, freer, until it filled the room.
“What do I do?” James asked, his voice raw and trembling with vulnerability.
Sirius stood, crossing the room to clap a hand on James’s shoulder. “You start by telling her everything. No more hiding. No more pretending. You owe her — and yourself — more than that.”
James nodded slowly, the faintest glimmer of determination flickering in his eyes. “You’re right.”
As James reached for the letters, carefully tucking them back into their box, Sirius watched him with a rare sense of pride. This wasn’t just James Potter, the fearless Quidditch captain, the prankster extraordinaire. This was James Potter, a boy on the cusp of something extraordinary.
And for once, Sirius Black wasn’t just causing chaos — he was helping someone find their way through it.
THE SNOW OUTSIDE FELL IN HEAVY, DELIBERATE FLAKES, BLANKETING THE WORLD IN A SOFT, UNBROKEN QUIET. Sirius stood on the second-floor landing of the Potter home, a mug of hot coffee cradled in his hands. The rich aroma mingled with the faint scent of pine and cinnamon wafting from the decorated tree below. The whole house seemed to hum with a kind of warmth that Sirius rarely allowed himself to imagine, let alone experience.
From his vantage point, he had a perfect view of the living room below. The fire in the hearth crackled gently, casting golden shadows across the walls. Mr. Potter sat on the sofa with an arm draped around Mrs. Potter, the two of them cocooned under a soft plaid blanket. A book rested on Fleamont’s lap as he read aloud, his voice low and steady. Euphemia’s head rested against his shoulder, her eyes half-closed in serene contentment. Every so often, she’d smile at something he read or reach up to adjust her husband’s glasses, her touch so light and familiar it made Sirius’s chest ache with longing — not jealousy, but something softer. A wistfulness for this kind of unshakable bond.
But his gaze didn’t linger on the Potters for long. It drifted to the corner of the room, where the Christmas tree’s twinkling lights bathed two figures in a kaleidoscope of warm colors. You and James sat on the floor amidst the chaos of torn wrapping paper and open boxes. The morning’s gifts had already been exchanged, but it seemed James had saved something special for last.
Even from here, Sirius could see the faint nervousness in his best friend’s posture. James wasn’t one to fidget, yet his hands moved restlessly, smoothing invisible creases on his trousers, brushing imaginary dust from the tree skirt. His eyes, though, were unwavering as they watched you. You were cross-legged on the fluffy white rug, your hair falling in soft waves over your shoulder as you picked idly at a ribbon. Sirius noticed how your gaze lingered on James, curious and full of quiet affection.
James leaned closer, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable lilt of mischief. “One of the owls was late,” he said, holding up a slightly weathered envelope. The parchment looked a little worse for wear, its edges crumpled as if it had been handled too often. “It dropped this off this morning… asked me to give it to the most beautiful girl in the world.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head as you reached for the envelope. “Still using that line, are you, Potter?”
“Can you blame me? It’s worked wonders so far.” His grin was cocky, but Sirius saw the faintest flicker of uncertainty in his eyes as he handed it over.
You rolled your eyes, but the way you bit your lip betrayed your own anticipation. Turning the envelope over in your hands, you ran your fingers along the black-inked scrawl of your name before carefully breaking the seal. Sirius leaned forward slightly, his coffee forgotten as he watched the scene unfold.
The moment the letter emerged, the air seemed to shift. Your eyes darted across the page, your expression softening with each word. Sirius could see the precise moment the meaning settled in — the way your lips parted in surprise, the way your shoulders tensed, then relaxed, as if letting the weight of something long unspoken sink in. James’s hand rested on your knee, his thumb moving in small, nervous circles.
“Love?” James’s voice was barely above a whisper, his usual bravado stripped away. He was watching you as though the world rested on your reaction, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around yours. “You’re awfully quiet. Should I be worried? Say something. Anything.”
You didn’t answer immediately. Your eyes stayed fixed on the page, even as a tear slipped down your cheek, catching the light like a tiny diamond. James froze, his face paling slightly.
“Hey, hey, no…” His voice cracked. “Don’t cry. If it’s rubbish, just say so and we can forget it. Burn it, even.” He laughed nervously, though it sounded forced. “I’ll… I’ll pretend it never happened.”
That’s when you looked up, meeting his gaze with eyes so full of emotion it made Sirius’s breath hitch even from across the room. You didn’t say anything. Instead, you reached out, cupping James’s face in your hands. He stilled under your touch, his wide-eyed surprise melting into something softer as you leaned in and pressed your lips to his.
It wasn’t the kind of kiss Sirius might have teased him about — not fiery or impulsive. It was quiet, deliberate, and full of a tenderness that made Sirius feel like an intruder, even though he couldn’t look away. James’s hands found your waist, pulling you closer as though you might slip away if he let go.
Sirius smiled to himself, feeling a rare swell of pride. James had always been the heart of their little group, the one who wore his feelings openly. And now, here he was, finding a kind of love that Sirius knew would anchor him forever.
A sharp click shattered the moment, and both of you turned your heads to find Sirius standing at the bottom of the stairs, a wide grin plastered across his face as he waved a freshly developed photo in the air.
“Perfect!” he announced, shaking the picture. “This one’s going in the family album. And when my godchildren ask how their parents got together, I’ll tell them Uncle Sirius orchestrated the whole thing.”
You laughed, leaning your forehead against James’s shoulder, while James groaned, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “You’re a menace, Pads,” he said, though his voice held no bite.
“A charming menace,” Sirius replied, retreating toward the couch where the elder Potters were watching the scene unfold with amused smiles.
“Everything alright, dear?” Euphemia asked, her eyes twinkling with affection as she glanced between you and James.
James nodded, his hand still firmly clasping yours. “Yeah, Mum. Everything’s perfect.”
Mrs. Potter’s smile widened, and she reached over to pat your hand. “Welcome to the family, my dear. Though, truth be told, you’ve always been part of it.”
“Thank you,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion.
THE REST OF THE DAY PASSED IN A GOLDEN HAZE OF LAUGHTER AND WARMTH. Euphemia roped you into helping her in the kitchen, insisting you learn the secret to her mulled wine. Sirius watched from the doorway, sipping his coffee and grinning as you tried to follow her directions, only for James to sneak in and steal a taste from the pot, earning himself a playful swat on the arm.
By evening, the fire burned low, and the snow outside had blanketed the world in an even deeper hush. Sirius sat in his favorite armchair, a blanket draped over his legs as he watched the scene before him. You and James were curled up together on the rug, a cozy tangle of limbs as you whispered to each other, your laughter soft and unguarded. The Potters sat nearby, sharing quiet conversation, their hands intertwined.
For a moment, Sirius closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the room and the sounds of contentment wash over him. He thought of his own childhood Christmases — cold, sterile affairs devoid of joy. And then he thought of this… the home James had built, not just for himself but for everyone he cared about. It was the kind of love Sirius had always believed was out of reach. Until now.
“Merry Christmas, Prongs,” he murmured, raising his empty mug in a toast to his best friend.
James glanced up, catching his eye. “Merry Christmas, Pads,” he replied, his grin soft but unmistakably James.
James had turned to you, his hand cradling your cheek as he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. You smiled up at him, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his arm.
"Merry Christmas, love," James murmured, his voice low and filled with a tenderness that made Sirius’s chest tighten.
"Merry Christmas, Jamie," you replied, resting your forehead against his.
Sirius chuckled, settling back into his chair, the warmth of the moment settling deep in his bones. The world outside might be cold and uncertain, but here, in this house, surrounded by love and laughter, everything felt exactly as it should be.
He thought about how James Potter had once given him the home and warmth he never had. And now, it seemed, Sirius Black had helped his best friend find his way home, too.
FROM THE ARCHIVE OF SIRIUS BLACK:
To my future, undoubtedly brilliant, devilishly handsome, and wildly talented nephews,
Listen up, you little rascals. You don’t know me yet, but let me make one thing very clear: I’m the reason you even exist. That’s right, your ridiculously perfect Uncle Sirius is the mastermind behind it all. Without my charm, wit, and expert meddling, your parents might still be doing the whole "will-they-won't-they" nonsense.
So, when you’re out there ruling the world, remember to thank yours truly. The coolest, suavest, and most humble uncle you'll ever have — Sirius Black. You're welcome.
December 25, 1976
My Love,
It’s Christmas, and the house is quiet now, the soft hum of the tree lights the only sound. I’ve been sitting here for hours, staring at this parchment, trying to find words big enough for what I feel, but they don’t exist. Still, I need to try.
Love, I see it now—what I’ve been too blind to see all along. I’ve always thought of myself as brave, fearless even. But when it came to you, I was a coward. I didn’t want to risk losing you. You, who have been the brightest part of my life since the moment we met. You, who’ve filled every corner of my world with warmth and light, even when we were miles apart.
Every summer, when you stepped into my life again, it was like the sun breaking through a storm. You’d sit by the lake with that book you never quite finished because I was always distracting you. You’d laugh at my terrible jokes, your nose crinkling just so. And you’d hum when you thought no one was listening, always off-key but somehow more perfect than any melody I’ve ever heard.
I thought I was looking for the kind of love my parents have — their unshakable bond, the way they look at each other like the world begins and ends with them. And all this time, it was right here, under my nose. You were under my nose.
I think I was afraid, love. Afraid that if I let myself feel what’s always been there, I’d ruin us. That I’d lose the only person who’s ever truly known me, the only one who can look past the pranks, the bravado, and see me—the real me. But Sirius, being Sirius, knocked some sense into me. He said I’ve been acting like a fool, and for once, he’s right. Rereading our letters with him was like seeing my life laid out before me, and every line, every word pointed to you.
Even when you were far away, you were my everything. The letters you sent were more than ink on parchment; they were lifelines. When Hogwarts felt too big, too chaotic, you were the quiet in the storm. When I felt lost, you reminded me who I am. Do you know how many times I reread your words, just to feel close to you? I kept your letters in my trunk, hidden from the others like a secret treasure. Because that’s what you’ve always been — my treasure.
How could I have been so blind? How could I have wasted so much time thinking it was Lily I wanted when it’s always been you? I’ve spent so long chasing a dream when the real thing was right in front of me. I see it now, clearer than I’ve ever seen anything. You are my stars, my moon, my sun. You’re the laugh that makes everything brighter, the voice that feels like home.
I love you. I love the way your handwriting gets messier when you’re excited. I love the way you argue with me over the silliest things just to see me smile. I love the way you hum when you’re nervous and how you always know exactly what to say to pull me out of my worst days. I love you.
I don’t know if you feel the same way, but I hope with everything in me that you do. And if you don’t, I’ll understand. Because having you in my life, even just as my friend, has been the greatest gift I could ever ask for. But if there’s even the smallest chance you might love me too, then I promise to spend the rest of my life proving I deserve you.
Merry Christmas, my love. You’ve been my greatest gift every day since I met you.
Forever yours,
Jamie
thankx for reading <3
god, this is my biggest work and I was so afraid to publish it, cause it seems to me that no one reads such long fics (I myself adore long fics).
and if you've finished reading this, thank u and I love you so much! I hope you enjoyed every part of it and I will be very glad if you leave a comment, because it seems to me that I have left all of myself in this work!
you can always share your opinion in comments or my inbox. btw my requests are open so… make a wish :3
SUMMARY: three times you sneak away to eat noodles, one time he does the same + bonus
WORD COUNT: +7.6k
GENRE: fluff
CONTENT WARNING: nothing
the first time
tannyhill was eerily quiet, bathed in faint moonlight filtering through the windows. you stirred in rafe’s bed, his arm thrown over your waist like a weighted blanket, his slow breaths warm against your shoulder. for a moment, you lay there, staring at the ceiling, willing yourself to fall back asleep.
but then your stomach growled. loudly.
you winced, glancing over your shoulder to make sure rafe was still asleep. he was, his face half-buried in his pillow, completely oblivious to your plight.
biting your lip, you slowly shifted out from under his arm, careful not to disturb him. he groaned faintly in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible, but didn’t wake up. you grabbed your phone from the nightstand and slipped out of the room, making your way downstairs.
the house was dark, and as you padded down the hallway, a strange sound made you freeze.
whispers.
you tilted your head, straining to hear. the voices were muffled, coming from the direction of the kitchen. for a split second, your brain went straight to the worst-case scenario: intruders.
grabbing the nearest ‘weapon’ (a decorative vase from a side table), you crept toward the kitchen, heart pounding. the whispers grew louder, accompanied by the distinct sound of rustling bags.
you tightened your grip on the vase, poking your head around the corner—and stopped dead in your tracks.
there, in the glow of the open pantry, stood sarah and wheezie, bickering in hushed tones as they dug through the shelves.
“what do you mean we don’t have oreos? you said there were oreos,” sarah was whispering, pulling out random boxes and shaking them.
“they were here yesterday!” wheezie replied, holding up a bag of chips. “just eat these.”
“no way. i don’t want something salty.”
still clutching the vase, you exhaled loudly, causing both of them to whip around, startled.
“uh… hi?” you said, setting the vase down and trying to calm your racing heart.
“hi?” sarah echoed, her hand frozen mid-reach into the pantry.
wheezie just blinked at you, her cheeks stuffed with chips like a squirrel caught hoarding food.
you looked between the two of them, raising an eyebrow. “so… we’re all just hungry?”
sarah raxed, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. “apparently.”
wheezie nodded, swallowing her mouthful of chips. “what are you doing down here? shouldn’t you be upstairs… with rafe?”
you shrugged, holding up the pack of buldak carbonara noodles you’d grabbed from the counter. “i got hungry. and, well, noodles.”
sarah squinted at the packaging. “wait, isn’t that the crazy spicy stuff?”
“it’s not crazy spicy—it’s creamy and amazing. big difference,” you corrected, already moving toward the kettle to start boiling water.
wheezie craned her neck to get a better look. “is it actually good? i always thought those things were just for people trying to punish themselves.”
“it’s the best late-night snack ever,” you said, putting a pot on the stove. “want to try some?”
wheezie’s eyes lit up. “yes. chips are boring.”
sarah made a face but eventually sighed. “fine. i’ll try a bite. but only because i want to understand the hype.”
as the water began to boil, you leaned against the counter, glancing between the two of them. “what are you guys even doing up? i thought i was the only weirdo sneaking around for snacks at midnight.”
“wheezie woke me up,” sarah said flatly, glaring at her sister.
“i was starving!” wheezie protested, clutching her chips defensively.
“you were also banging cabinet doors like a maniac,” sarah shot back. “it’s a miracle you didn’t wake the entire house.”
“fair,” wheezie admitted, taking another handful of chips.
you laughed, shaking your head as you poured the boiled water in the pan and put the noodles in as well. “honestly, i thought you were burglars or something.”
sarah smirked. “that would’ve been entertaining.”
“not for me!” wheezie exclaimed.
the three of you dissolved into quiet laughter, the tension of the moment melting away. when you poured some water away and added the cream, cheese and spices a rich and spicy aroma began to fill the air.
sarah tilted her head, smirking at you.
“you know rafe’s gonna freak when he wakes up and he can’t find you?”
“probably,” you said with a grin. “but he can survive for five minutes without me.”
“bold of you to assume,” sarah teased.
you set three bowls on the counter, handing one to each of them. wheezie immediately dug in, her eyes widening as she took her first bite.
“okay, wow, this is amazing,” she mumbled through a mouthful of noodles.
“told you,” you said smugly, taking a bite from your own bowl.
sarah hesitated but eventually took a small bite. her eyes widened slightly, and she cleared her throat, trying to play it cool. “it’s… decent.”
“decent?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow with a smile.
“fine. it’s amazing,” she admitted begrudgingly.
as you were sitting around the island, slurping noodles and swapping stories under the dim glow of the overhead light. sarah was making fun of wheezie for the way she held her chopsticks, while wheezie defended herself with half-coherent arguments between bites.
you were laughing so hard you nearly dropped your bowl when you heard the telltale sound of heavy, uncoordinated footsteps padding down the stairs.
all three of you froze, turning toward the doorway just as rafe stumbled in, his hair sticking out in every direction, his hoodie slightly askew. his half-lidded, sleepy eyes scanned the scene, his brows furrowing as he tried to make sense of what he was looking at.
“what the hell is going on?” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
“hi, baby,” you said, trying to stifle a laugh at how utterly confused he looked.
rafe blinked at you, his gaze shifting to sarah and wheezie, then to the bowls of noodles on the counter. “is this… a dream? am i—what?”
“nope, very real,” sarah quipped, taking another bite of her noodles. “welcome to the midnight noodle club.”
rafe rubbed a hand over his face, clearly trying to wake himself up. “i thought you were in bed,” he said, looking at you accusingly.
“i was,” you admitted, giving him an innocent smile. “but i got hungry. and, well, sarah and wheezie were already raiding the pantry, so…” you gestured at the spread of noodles like it explained everything.
rafe stared at the scene for a long moment, then pointed at the bowls. “are those the spicy noodles?”
“yes,” you said proudly.
he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “of course they are. why am i not surprised?”
“you want some?” you asked, holding up your bowl in offering.
rafe shook his head, though his lips quirked in a small smile. “nah, you can keep your torture food. i’m good.” he shuffled over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. “you left me for noodles?”
“i left you for the buldak carbonara noodles,” you corrected, twirling some noodles around your chopsticks and taking a bite.
“you’ve got issues,” he muttered, though there was no real heat in his voice.
“she fits right in,” sarah said, smirking at the two of you.
“clearly,” rafe muttered, glancing at his sisters. “what are you two doing awake anyway?”
wheezie shrugged, still focused on her bowl. “we got hungry.”
“and she woke me up,” sarah added, shooting wheezie a pointed look.
“whatever,” wheezie said with a mouthful of noodles. “these are worth it.”
rafe shook his head, his grip tightening slightly around your waist as he kissed your temple. “alright, noodle girl. finish up and come back to bed.”
“you could just sit and join us, you know,” you teased.
he smirked, leaning closer to whisper in your ear. “or i could carry you upstairs and steal you back.”
your face went warm, nudging him away playfully. “let me finish my noodles first, rafe.”
he sighed dramatically, but you could see the fondness in his eyes as he let go. “fine. ten more minutes.”
as rafe leaned against the counter, watching the three of you eat, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself.
the second time
it was the middle of the night at tannyhill again, and once more, you found yourself lying in bed wide awake. rafe was snoring softly beside you, one arm slung possessively over your waist. for most people, this setup would’ve been the perfect invitation to drift off into peaceful dreams.
but not for you.
you stomach growled, and the craving hit you like a truck. buldak noodles.
it had been a week since the first midnight noodle escapade, and rafe hadn’t let you live it down. but this time, you promised yourself you’d be quick and quiet—no waking him, no recruiting his sisters. just you, your noodles, and a late-night craving.
sliding out of bed, you tiptoed out of the room and down the stairs. the house was silent. you slipped into the kitchen, grabbed your favorite noodle packet, and started boiling water.
as the water bubbled away, you heard a faint noise behind you. freezing mid-stir, you listened carefully. footsteps? whispers?
not again, you thought. for a moment, you were sure it was wheezie and sarah trying to raid the pantry like last time. but when you turned around, you saw two familiar figures sneaking in through the back door: sarah and john b.
both froze when they saw you standing there with a pot of boiling water and a packet of noodles in your hand.
“oh, hey,” john b said casually, as if it was totally normal to be sneaking into the house in the middle of the night.
“uh… hi?” you said, raising an eyebrow. “what are you two doing?”
sarah tossed her keys onto the counter, her expression completely unbothered. “we went to the beach. felt like a midnight swim.”
“in jeans and sneakers?” you asked, eyeing their less-than-swim-friendly outfits.
“okay, fine,” sarah admitted, pulling a stray leaf out of her hair. “we were climbing trees. john b’s idea.”
“climbing trees,” you repeated, deadpan.
“don’t look at me,” john b said, holding his hands up. “she started it.”
you sighed, setting the noodles aside for a moment. “and you thought sneaking back in through the back door at midnight wouldn’t look suspicious?”
“we didn’t think anyone would be awake,” sarah said, sliding onto a barstool. “what are you doing up anyway?”
“i got hungry,” you said simply, holding up the bright pink packet of noodles.
“is this your thing now?” she asked, smirking. “midnight noodles?”
“apparently.”
“i could get used to that,” she smiled as she sat down.
john b sniffed the air, his eyebrows raising. “what is that? smells good.”
“buldak carbonara,” you said proudly, grabbing the seasoning packets.
“spicy noodles?” he asked, looking intrigued.
“they’re creamy and spicy,” you corrected.
“want some?”
before john b could answer, sarah cut in. “you do not want that, john b. it’s her thing, and she’s obsessed, but trust me—it’s like eating fire.”
“it’s not that spicy!” you protested, tearing open the sauce packet.
“i had some last week,” sarah said, shaking her head. “pretty sure i saw my life flash before my eyes.”
“if you’re making it as spicy as last time, i’m out. that stuff nearly killed me.”
john b snorted. “now i kinda want to try it.”
you rolled your eyes but grabbed a second packet, adjusting the ratio of sauce for her and john b’s bowls. “fine. i’ll make a mild version for the babies,” you teased.
“thank you,” sarah said, watching skeptically as you stirred the sauce into the noodles.
once the noodles were ready, you served up three bowls—yours with the full kick, and theirs with a more toned-down spice level. sarah and john b eyed their bowls suspiciously at first, but after a few tentative bites, they both relaxed.
“okay, this is actually good,” sarah admitted, twirling more noodles onto her fork.
john b nodded enthusiastically. “yeah, this is solid. creamy, just a little spicy—perfect.”
you smirked, taking a bite of your own bowl. “told you. midnight noodles are superior.”
“alright, i’ll give you that,” sarah said with a grin. “but only if you keep making it like this. none of that fire-breathing dragon nonsense.”
“no promises,” you said, winking.
the three of you were mid-laugh—sarah nearly choking on her noodles as john b tried to recount the time he got stuck in a tree—when the familiar sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the stairs.
you froze, chopsticks halfway to your mouth.
“uh-oh,” sarah whispered, her eyes darting toward the doorway.
“don’t ‘uh-oh’ me,” you hissed back. “he won’t care.”
“i don’t know…” sarah said, a smirk already forming on her face.
before you could argue, rafe appeared in the doorway, looking half-asleep and entirely unimpressed. his hair stuck out in all directions, and he was wearing the same hoodie he’d been in earlier, though it looked like he’d thrown it on backward in his haste. His squinting eyes scanned the scene: you, sarah, john b, and three bowls of noodles.
for a second, he just stood there, rubbing his face like he couldn’t believe this was happening again.
“really?” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. “this is a regular thing now?”
“hi, baby,” you said, trying not to laugh at the way his brow furrowed.
ryafe’s eyes zeroed in on you first. “you ditched me for noodles. again.”
then his gaze shifted to sarah, who was grinning around her chopsticks. “you, i expected,” he said flatly.
finally, his eyes landed on john b, who had the audacity to look sheepish. “but you, john b? really, bro? midnight noodles with my girlfriend?”
john b put his hands up defensively, a noodle dangling from his chopsticks. “hey, man, she offered. i wasn’t gonna say no.”
“unbelievable,” rafe muttered, walking into the kitchen and leaning against the counter. “first my sisters, now you. what’s next? dad sneaking down for a bowl?”
sarah snorted. “dad’s too boring for this. but wheezie’s probably mad she missed it.”
“don’t give her ideas,” rafe grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose before looking back at you. “i thought we had a deal. you wake me up if you’re leaving bed.”
you smirked, twirling some noodles onto your chopsticks. “and ruin the surprise? come on, babe.”
rafe sighed dramatically, running a hand through his messy hair. “at this point, i’m not even mad about the noodles. i’m mad that everyone’s in on this except me.”
“you’re welcome to join,” you offered, sliding the half-finished pot of noodles toward him.
he looked at it skeptically. “did you make it with that insane sauce again?”
“nope,” you said sweetly. “mild, just for sarah and john b.”
sarah nodded eagerly, her mouth full. “it’s really good. you should try it.”
john b held up his bowl. “yeah, man. it’s fire—but, like, the good kind. not the ‘i need milk’ kind.”
rafe hesitated, then sighed, grabbing a fork from the drawer. “fine. but if this is some kind of trick…”
“it’s not,” you promised, watching as he took a small bite.
to your delight, rafe’s eyebrows lifted slightly, and he nodded. “alright. this is actually good.”
“told you,” you said smugly, taking another bite from your own bowl.
rafe shook his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he grabbed a barstool and sat beside you. “i swear, you’re corrupting this entire house.”
“just making it more fun,” you said with a wink.
the four of you spent the next half hour sharing noodles and banter, the feeling of rafe’s initial annoyance melting away. by the time the pot was empty, even rafe seemed to admit that midnight noodles weren’t the worst tradition to start.
and as you leaned into his side, your bowl empty and your stomach full, you couldn’t help but smile. midnight chaos, sleepy rafe, and noodles—what more could you ask for?
the third time
the house was silent, and the air was still, except for the soft snores of your boyfriend beside you. you glanced at rafe, his face half-buried in the pillow, the rise and fall of his chest slow and steady.
you tried. you really did.
gently nudging his shoulder, you whispered, “rafe… babe, i’m hungry.”
nothing.
you shook him a little harder. “rafe, come on. midnight noodles?”
still nothing.
letting out a sigh, you stared at him for a moment, debating your next move. but his peaceful expression convinced you otherwise—it wasn’t worth waking the grumpy side of rafe cameron just for noodles.
so, you slipped out of bed, grabbed a hoodie, and padded downstairs, the craving for your beloved buldak carbonara too strong to ignore.
the kitchen was eerily quiet. it felt strange not having sarah, wheezie, or even john b around, their late-night antics usually keeping the house alive. you moved quietly, grabbing a pot and filling it with water. the pantry drawer creaked softly as you pulled it open to retrieve your prized noodle packet.
but just as you reached for it—
“ooh, are we making noodles again?”
you let out a startled yelp, spinning around to see wheezie standing there, her arms crossed and a mischievous grin plastered across her face.
“wheezie! what the hell? you scared me!” you hissed quietly, clutching the packet like it was your lifeline.
she shrugged, completely unbothered. “you were loud. i heard the drawer.”
“you are supposed to be asleep.”
“please,” she whined, hopping onto a barstool. “i’ve been waiting for this. i’m still mad i missed it last time.”
you groaned, setting the pot on the stove and turning on the heat. “okay, fine. but this time, you’re helping.”
“deal,” wheezie said, practically bouncing off the stool to join you. “what do i do?”
“start by getting the bowls,” you instructed, grabbing the scissors to cut open the noodle packet.
as wheezie rummaged through the cabinet, she started her mini rant. “sarah told me all about last time, by the way. midnight noodles with you, her, and john b? and nobody thought to wake me up? rude.”
she was midway through her mini rant, waving the sauce packet for emphasis, when a voice interrupted from the doorway.
“this, again?”
you froze, chopsticks clutched in your hand, and slowly turned toward the source. standing there, looking far too amused for someone who was supposedly asleep, was ward cameron himself.
wheezie nearly dropped the sauce packet. “dad?”
you tried to play it cool, giving him your best innocent look. “huh? again? no idea what you’re talking about.”
ward stepped into the kitchen, arms crossed and a sly smile on his face. “who do you think cleans this up in the morning? or keeps restocking the noodles? you guys go through five packs at a time.”
wheezie gasped, whipping around to face you. “you knew!”
ward chuckled, shaking his head. “of course, i knew.”
you winced, trying to salvage the situation. “well… uh, thank you for restocking?”
wheezie, recovering quickly, grinned. “wait, so you don’t care?”
“i didn’t say that,” ward replied, giving her a pointed look. “but i figured it was harmless. midnight noodles are better than midnight parties, i guess.”
before you could respond, another voice chimed in from behind him.
“ooh, it’s midnight noodle time?”
you turned to see sarah stroll into the kitchen, her hair messy and a gleam of excitement in her eyes. she took one look at the scene—the noodles, the bowls, and ward standing there—and grinned. “guess i came down at the perfect time.”
wheezie raised an eyebrow. “you weren’t even awake five minutes ago.”
“i have a sixth sense for these things,” sarah said smugly, grabbing a bowl and plopping herself onto a stool.
ward sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose but still smiling. “this house…” he muttered under his breath, though he didn’t leave.
you decided to just embrace the chaos, handing sarah the next sauce packet. “fine. let’s make it a semi-family noodle night, i guess.”
“finally,” wheezie said, grinning as she helped stir the pot.
“i’m not making my own, though,” sarah declared, leaning on the counter. “this is your thing.”
“you’re so lazy,” wheezie muttered, but she passed the finished noodles to you for seasoning anyway.
as the four of you stood there—cooking, laughing, and chatting—the kitchen felt strangely cozy. ward shared stories about catching rafe sneaking snacks as a kid, wheezie kept complaining about how long it took her to get in on the noodle tradition, and sarah teased you about how you’d turned her boyfriend’s house into a late-night ramen hub.
when the noodles were finally ready, the four of you sat down to eat, the conversation flowing easily.
“this is actually really good,” ward admitted after a few bites, surprising everyone.
“you’re just figuring that out now?” wheezie teased, twirling noodles onto her fork.
sarah leaned toward you conspiratorially, repeating rafe’s words from the last time. “you’ve corrupted the entire family.”
you laughed, glancing at ward, who just shook his head with a bemused smile. “maybe,” you said. “but at least we’re all well-fed.”
the kitchen was alive with laughter and the clinking of chopsticks against bowls. wheezie was dramatically recounting her missed opportunity during the last noodle night, sarah was making snarky comments between bites, and ward was suspiciously quiet as he polished off his bowl.
“dad, you’re eating like you’ve been waiting for this all day,” sarah teased, nudging his arm.
“not true,” ward replied, his tone far too casual to be convincing. “it’s just good.”
you were mid-bite when the sound of footsteps echoed down the stairs. everyone froze, turning toward the doorway.
there stood rose cameron, her silk robe tied snugly around her waist, her hair perfectly in place despite the late hour. she took in the scene before her: ward sitting at the island with an empty bowl, sarah and wheezie slurping cheesy noodles, and you standing at the stove stirring yet another batch.
her expression was a mixture of confusion and mild exasperation.
“what is going on here?” she demanded, crossing her arms.
wheezie, unfazed, waved her chopsticks in the air. “midnight noodles. want some?”
rose blinked, clearly processing the absurdity of the situation. “i beg your pardon?”
“midnight noodles,” sarah repeated, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “it’s kind of a thing now.”
rose’s gaze shifted to ward, her eyebrows lifting. “and you’re okay with this?”
ward shrugged, completely unbothered. “it’s harmless. besides, they’re good. you should try some.”
“harmless?” rose echoed, gesturing to the cluttered counter and sink full of pots. “do you know how much cleanup this is going to take?”
“i’ll clean it up,” you offered quickly, not wanting to face her full wrath.
rose gave you a pointed look, then sighed, shaking her head. “i swear, this family is impossible.”
“oh, come on, rose,” ward said, a teasing lilt in his voice. “live a little. have some noodles.”
sarah snorted into her bowl. “yeah, rose. don’t knock it till you try it.”
wheezie chimed in, grinning. “i mean, if dad’s eating it, you know it’s worth it.”
rose hesitated, clearly debating whether to shut the whole thing down or give in. finally, with an exasperated sigh, she threw up her hands. “fine. one bowl. but only to see what all this fuss is about.”
wheezie practically cheered as you quickly made a fresh serving for rose, this time dialing back the spice even more. she accepted the bowl reluctantly, sitting down at the island with the rest of the family.
as she took her first bite, everyone watched with bated breath.
“well?” sarah asked, smirking.
rose chewed slowly, her face giving nothing away. then, to everyone’s surprise, she nodded. “it’s… not bad.”
“not bad?” wheezie repeated, laughing. “that’s basically a rave review coming from you.”
rose rolled her eyes but took another bite, and the conversation picked up again, the kitchen filled with warmth and chaos.
when the pot was finally empty, rose stood up, brushing imaginary crumbs off her robe. “i’m going back to bed. and this better be spotless by morning.”
“yes, ma’am,” you said with a mock salute, earning a laugh from sarah and wheezie.
as rose disappeared up the stairs, ward leaned back in his chair, smirking. “told you she’d like it.”
before anyone could respond, the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps came from the hallway.
and then rafe appeared, leaning against the doorway, his hair sticking up at wild angles, his hoodie half on and his face a mix of confusion and irritation. he squinted at the scene before him: ward sitting with an empty bowl, wheezie and sarah with noodles in hand, and you standing at the stove with chopsticks in one hand and a sheepish expression on your face.
“i really don’t like this,” rafe said, his voice groggy. he gestured vaguely to the kitchen. “this is happening again? and you didn’t wake me again?”
“hi, baby,” you said with an awkward smile.
rafe just blinked at you, his expression unimpressed. “no, seriously. you’re downstairs, eating noodles with my entire family, and i’m… asleep?”
you shrugged, trying to keep a straight face. “i tried to wake you! you’re a very heavy sleeper, rafe.”
“that’s not—” rafe started, but sarah interrupted with a laugh.
“oh, don’t pout, rafe. you missed it because you sleep like a rock.”
wheezie grinned, pointing her chopsticks at him. “she’s right. we’re over here having the time of our lives, and you’re drooling into your pillow.”
“i don’t drool,” rafe said defensively, glaring at wheezie before turning his attention back to you. “you could’ve tried harder to wake me up.”
“i shook you! i whispered! i even said, ‘midnight noodles,’ and you didn’t budge!” you said, laughing now. “at some point, i had to just accept defeat.”
rafe let out an exaggerated sigh, running a hand down his face. “unbelievable. first wheezie and Sarah then sarah and john b, now my dad and wheezie and sarah again? what’s next, rose?”
“already happened,” sarah said, smirking. “she had a bowl. loved it.”
rafe stared at her, then at ward, who gave him a shrug and a knowing look.
“even rose?” rafe said, his voice bordering on betrayal. “really?”
“welcome to the club,” ward said with a chuckle. “you’re late, son.”
rafe groaned, walking into the kitchen and flopping onto a stool next to you. “fine. where’s mine?”
you grinned, handing him the last bowl you’d prepared. “right here. but it’s the mild version. i wasn’t about to make a new batch just for you.”
he took the bowl with a grumble but didn’t hesitate to dig in, the familiar taste of the noodles clearly softening his irritation.
“see? now everyone’s happy,” you said, leaning against his shoulder.
rafe looked at you, still chewing, and muttered, “barely.”
sarah rolled her eyes. “oh, calm down. you’re here now. the chaos is complete.”
bonus
it had been one of those long, exhausting days. you’d been running around, working on a million things at once—picking up groceries, answering calls, finishing tasks, and just trying to survive the whirlwind. by the time you and rafe finally collapsed into bed, you were wiped out, barely able to keep your eyes open. you fell asleep almost instantly, the weight of the past few days finally catching up to you.
rafe woke up a few hours later, his stomach growling in hunger. the soft moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a silvery glow on the room. je groggily turned toward you, only to find you sound asleep, your body curled up against the blankets.
he smiled softly at how peaceful you looked, but his stomach was practically screaming for food. he nudged you lightly, hoping you might stir—after all, you had made a habit of late-night noodles together.
“babe,” he whispered, giving your shoulder a gentle shake. “baby, you awake?”
but there was no response. you were out cold, snoring softly in a way that made it clear you weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.
he sighed. “you’ve got to be kidding me.”
a deep hunger gnawed at him, and despite the temptation to just sleep through it, he couldn't ignore his cravings. grumbling under his breath, he got out of bed, slipping into a pair of sweatpants and making his way downstairs.
rafe padded down the stairs, grumbling to himself. he could always just raid the pantry, but that wasn’t going to fill him up in the same way. he paused at the kitchen drawer and opened it, scanning for something sweet. when his eyes landed on a few cookies tucked in the corner, he grabbed one and took a bite, savoring the sugar for a moment.
still not enough to satisfy him.
he closed the drawer and walked further into the kitchen, noticing the faint light coming from the living room. there, sitting around the coffee table, were sarah, kiara, wheezie, and ward—all waiting expectantly.
when sarah heard the sound of footsteps approaching, she shot up, excited. “finally—”
she froze when she saw who it was. “oh. it’s just rafe.”
rafe rolled his eyes, taking a bite of his cookie and leaning against the doorframe. “yeah, thanks for the warm welcome. can’t a guy just get a midnight snack?”
“and what are you doing here, kie?”
kiara, sitting cross-legged on the couch, flashed him a wide grin. “well, i couldn’t miss it. i heard so much about this midnight noodle thing from sarah that i had to try it myself.” she gave sarah a playful nudge. “i heard it’s become a legendary tradition in this family.”
wheezie grinned softly. “oh, it’s definitely legendary.” she took her chopsticks and tapped them dramatically against the counter as she readied the noodles. “we’ve been having these late-night noodle sessions since last month. but guess who helped start this? me.”
rafe looked at her with an eyebrow raised, still processing the whole situation. “so, you guys just wait for me to wake up to make noodles?”
“no,” sarah chimed in, “we wait for you to wake up so we can eat noodles. it’s a whole process, you know.”
rafe was about to make a snarky remark when he felt his stomach growl loudly again. “alright, alright. i’m hungry. but seriously, i tried to wake up my girlfriend, and she’s a rock.”
“you couldn’t wake y/n up?” kiara asked, her brows furrowing.
“yeah,” rafe sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “she didn’t budge. i was this close to dumping a glass of water on her just to get a response.”
wheezie looked over at him with a raised brow. “you should’ve just offered her some noodles. you know, she never says no to these.”
rafe frowned. “that’s not the point, wheeze.”
he leaned back against the counter, still holding his cookie. he glanced over at his dad, who was sitting casually on the couch, watching the chaos unfold with a hint of amusement.
“okay, so i tried to wake her up,” rafe added, running a hand through his hair. “but she’s completely dead to the world. like, no reaction.”
ward raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “well, if she doesn’t wake up, who’s gonna make the noodles?”
the entire house went quiet for a moment. everyone turned to look at each other, the realization hitting them all at once. without you, there would be no noodles. the dreaded no noodle night.
wheezie, ever the problem-solver, jumped to her feet. “we can do it. right, sarah? we’ve got this. we’ve watched her do it like a thousand times.”
sarah stared at her, blinking in disbelief. “are you crazy?” she said, her voice incredulous. “none of us can make the noodles like she does! you think we’re capable of pulling off the perfect midnight noodle recipe? you’re out of your mind.”
wheezie held up her hands, trying to calm the storm. “no, seriously. it’s simple. boil water, add noodles, dump away some water, add cheese and cream, dump in the sauce. done.”
“yeah, except we always argue over how much of sauce to use,” sarah countered, throwing her hands in the air.
“okay, but we have to use right ingredients now,” wheezie said, her confidence growing. “i mean, last time y/n wasn’t here, was a disaster because you decided to add soy sauce to everything.”
“i was going for flavor,” sarah shot back defensively. “you just don’t understand the artistry of seasoning.”
kie, who had been quietly observing, suddenly broke in with a laugh. “honestly, i’d like to see you try, wheezie. if you can make them as good as she does, i’ll eat the whole pot.” she was clearly egging them on, just to see where this would go.
rafe glanced between his dad, sister, and the others, amused by the chaos. “i think they’re underestimating you, wheeze. you might be onto something.”
wheezie flashed a smug smile. “exactly! i’ve got this. just leave it to me.” she pulled out the packets of noodles, looking at sarah for confirmation. “so, are we doing the spicy ones, or the mild ones this time?”
sarah sighed dramatically. “i told you, we’re doing mild. mild. we don’t need another spicy incident like last time.”
“can we do both?” kiara interjected, leaning forward from the couch. “it’s not that hard, right?”
“yeah, no, we can’t,” sarah replied, arms crossed. “if we mix flavors, it’ll be a disaster. like last time.”
wheezie’s eyes narrowed. “you ruined the noodles last time, not me.”
“i did not ruin them,” sarah snapped back. “you ruined them by adding too much sauce, and then they were like… liquid lava. you can't make noodles that spicy.”
“it’s the right amount of spice!” wheezie shot back. “if you can’t handle it, that’s on you!”
“okay, okay,” rafe said, stepping between them, looking a little exasperated. “how about we just stick to one thing and avoid turning this into a nuclear war?” he glanced at ward, who was sitting quietly at the table, clearly enjoying the chaos. “dad, tell them it’s not worth arguing over noodles.”
ward took a slow sip of his drink and grinned. “i’m just here for the noodles, kid. not getting involved in this one.”
it was clear that, in this family, noodles became a big deal. and while he wasn’t sure they’d survive the night without you, it seemed they were determined to try. all of them deiced to move towards the kitchen, watching the scene unfold before them as wheezie and sarah tried to make the noodles.
“alright,” rafe said, grabbing a chair and sitting down at the table. “i’ll just sit back and watch this trainwreck.” he looked at kiara. “if they mess this up, we’re all gonna starve.”
kiara grinned and took a seat next to him. “i’m here for the drama.”
wheezie set the pot on the stove, clearly in charge now. “watch and learn, people.” she added the noodles with a flourish, clearly more confident than anyone else in the room.
sarah crossed her arms. “i’m just saying, if this goes south, i’m not taking the blame.”
wheezie rolled her eyes. “trust me, it’ll be perfect.”
ward watched the entire scene with a quiet smile, shaking his head. “i can’t wait to see how this ends.”
as they started getting the noodles cooking, chaos resumed. sarah grabbed the spoon to stir the pot, only to have wheezie take it from her and dramatically announce, “you’re stirring wrong. you’ve got to spin it, not just swirl it around like you’re mixing a salad.”
“oh, seriously, can we just cook the noodles?” sarah groaned, rolling her eyes. “you make everything more complicated than it needs to be.”
“i’m just trying to make sure we don’t ruin the noodles, alright?” wheezie shot back, obviously taking her task very seriously.
you stirred awake, groggy and slightly disoriented, as faint sounds drifted up the stairs. it started as a low hum of voices, but as you became more alert, it was unmistakably the sound of laughter, bickering, and... was that a pot clanging?
you glanced over at rafe’s side of the bed and found it empty. typical. his late-night hunger strikes again. sitting up, you stretched and yawned, your stomach grumbling faintly as if to agree with your decision to investigate.
quietly padding down the stairs, you followed the familiar smell of something spicy and savory. the closer you got to the kitchen, the more chaotic the scene revealed itself to be.
the first thing you saw was rafe and ward sitting at the table, both looking more amused than anything else. rafe was slouched in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, clearly over the chaos, while ward nursed a glass of something that was definitely not water, a small smirk playing on his lips.
but that wasn’t all.
kiara was the next to catch your eye. she stood up the moment she saw you, beaming. “hey! you’re awake!” she said, crossing the room in a few steps to pull you into a warm hug. “we missed you for the start of this noodle madness.”
“what... what is even happening here?” you asked groggily, still half-asleep as you glanced around.
“welcome to the show,” rafe called from the table, flashing you a lopsided grin. “apparently, if you don’t wake up to make noodles, the entire house loses its mind.”
at the stove, wheezie and sarah were engaged in what could only be described as a full-on noodle battle. wheezie was stirring a pot while sarah tried to take over, her voice rising with irritation.
“you’re stirring it wrong!” sarah snapped, reaching for the spoon in wheezie’s hand. “you’re not mixing the sauce properly. it’s gonna be uneven!”
“excuse me, i know what i’m doing!” wheezie retorted, pulling the spoon back. “you’re the one who always burns it. back off!”
“i don’t burn it!” sarah shouted, throwing her hands up dramatically. “i caramelize it for flavor!”
“that’s just fancy talk for burning it!” wheezie shot back.
you blinked, taking it all in. “is this... about noodles?”
“yup,” kie said with a laugh, guiding you toward the table. “and it’s been like this for almost twenty minutes. honestly, i don’t know how they haven’t burned the kitchen down yet.”
“they might still,” ward said casually, taking a slow sip from his glass. he gestured toward the chaos. “this is what happens when you don’t wake up. no one can agree on anything.”
“i tried to wake you,” rafe chimed in, shrugging. “you didn’t even budge. you were out cold.”
you gave him a small, apologetic smile as you slid into the chair beside him. “it’s been a long day. i didn’t even hear you.”
“well,” rafe said with a smirk, leaning closer, “now you can witness this mess firsthand.”
your stomach growled, pulling your focus back to the kitchen. “are they even close to being done?”
“define ‘close,’” rafe replied, gesturing toward the stove where the two sister were still fighting over the sauce packet.
“i’m adding all of it,” wheezie declared, her voice resolute as she began to tear open the packet.
“no, you’re not!” sarah said, grabbing her wrist. “do you want everyone’s mouths to catch fire? we’re adding half—half!”
“it’s not my fault you can’t handle spice!” wheezie quipped, holding the packet out of sarah’s reach.
“stop!” you called, finally stepping in. “wheezie, sarah, just—let me do it, okay? sit down before you two kill each other over noodles.”
they both froze, blinking at you like children caught misbehaving. Reluctantly, sarah handed you the spoon while wheezie stepped back, muttering, “i was doing fine, but okay.”
you took over, quickly finishing the noodles with a practiced ease. in no time, the pot was off the stove, and you were dividing the steaming noodles into bowls.
as you placed a bowl in front of rafe, he gave you a look of pure gratitude. “this is why i need you, babe. no one else can handle these lunatics.”
ward chuckled. “true. if you hadn’t come down, we might’ve been here all night.”
kie grinned, holding up her chopsticks. “well, i’m glad i stayed for this. midnight noodles are officially my new favorite thing.”
sarah huffed, still glaring at wheezie. “next time, we’re doing it my way.”
“not if i get to the kitchen first,” wheezie shot back, smirking.
you rolled your eyes playfully as you took a seat beside rafe, finally ready to enjoy the meal. “remind me to never sleep through this again.”
“please don’t,” he said, leaning over to steal a bite from your bowl. “i don’t think my sanity can take another night like this.”
with laughter echoing around the room and the comforting warmth of noodles filling the air, you couldn’t help but smile. midnight noodles were chaotic, ridiculous, and absolutely perfect in their own way.
+ one time he cooks for you
the house was unusually quiet, with rose and ward away in the bahamas for business, wheezie holed up in her room, and sarah at the chateau with john b. normally, the lack of chaos would’ve been a treat, but today, the stillness only amplified how awful you felt. you were bundled up in a blanket on the couch, sniffling and surrounded by a collection of crumpled tissues, trying to find some comfort in the familiar melodies of frozen 2.
rafe sat beside you, his arm draped lazily across the back of the couch, occasionally glancing at you with concern. “you need anything, baby?” he asked softly, careful not to disturb you too much.
you sniffled, curling further into your fluffy blanket. “i’m kinda hungry,” you admitted, your voice hoarse.
he gave you a small smile. “alright, i’ve got this. how about your favorite noodles?”
your face lit up, despite your exhaustion, and you nodded. “that sounds amazing.”
rafe stood up, stretching briefly before leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “be right back,” he murmured, heading for the stairs. quietly, he knocked on wheezie’s door, sticking his head in when she called out. “hey, i’m making noodles for her. you wanna help?”
wheezie’s eyes lit up immediately. “obviously. let’s go!”
the two of them got to work in the kitchen, keeping their voices low and trying not to make too much noise. wheezie buzzed with excitement, pulling out the noodles and sauces while rafe set a pot of water on the stove.
“don’t forget to stir it, or it’ll stick to the bottom,” wheezie reminded him, sounding like a seasoned pro.
“i know,i know, wheeze” rafe said, rolling his eyes but smiling. “you’re not the noodle boss here.”
“actually, i am,” wheezie retorted, sticking her tongue out at him. “you just don’t wanna admit it.”
suddenly, the front door opened, and john b’s voice echoed down the hall. “anyone home?”
sarah’s voice followed. “oh my gosh, it smells so good in here.”
“living room!” you called weakly, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself as they appeared in the doorway.
sarah gasped when she saw you. “oh no, my baby, what happened to you? you look awful.”
“gee, thanks,” you said, smiling faintly. “just a cold. nothing dramatic.”
john b plopped down in the armchair while sarah sat on the edge of the couch near your feet. her eyes flicked to the tv. “frozen 2 again?”
“it’s her favorite,” rafe called from the kitchen, his voice full of affection.
“it’s the best,” you said passionately, sitting up a little. “the music is incredible, the animation is stunning, and elsa’s whole journey of self-discovery—ugh, it’s just perfect.”
sarah smiled. “okay, until olaf’s whole ‘dying’ scene. that was devastating and uncalled for.”
you nodded fervently. “don’t remind me. i cry every single time.”
john b chimed in. “but he comes back! like, i get it’s sad, but he’s fine in the end.”
“that doesn’t make it less emotional,” you countered. “and don’t even get me started on elsa being an absolute badass in the glacier. her solo scene? literal chills—no pun intended.”
sarah laughed. “i think you’ve seen this movie too many times.”
“not possible,” you said firmly. “the frozen movies are cinematic perfection.”
“alright, noodle delivery!” rafe interrupted, entering the room with a pot in his hands. wheezie trailed behind him, carrying extra napkins and plates.
“for the first time in forever—” wheezie began to sing, only for rafe to cut her off.
“nope. we’re not doing that.”
“but it’s perfect!” wheezie protested as she set the napkins down. “you’re no fun.”
the noodles smelled amazing, and you wasted no time digging in, the spicy warmth soothing your throat. everyone else followed suit, and for the first time ever, you all ate together on the couch, passing bowls and joking about the movie.
as the night wore on, your exhaustion crept back in. your head gradually drifted to rafe’s shoulder, your bowl empty in your lap. he adjusted his position slightly, careful not to wake you, and wrapped an arm around you protectively.
“out like a light,” john b said, nodding toward you with a small smile.
rafe glanced down at you, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “she’s had a rough day,” he said quietly. “she deserves some rest.”
sarah pulled a blanket over you both. “she’s got a good one, rafe. don’t screw it up.”
he chuckled softly, his hand resting on your arm. “yeah,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “i know.”
and with the movie’s credits rolling in the background, the warm camaraderie of the group filled the quiet house, leaving the night feeling cozy and perfect.
pairing singledad! zach maclaren x nanny! female reader
summary after you find out you’re pregnant, you tell zach and prepare to share the news together.
this is a continuation blurb of this two-shot! requested by anon.
You impatiently check the time on your phone again. It’s been fourteen minutes since you sat down in the private room at the doctor’s office.
Your eyes travel over the lockscreen photo from your wedding half a year ago. In the captured moment, Zach is holding Ella. Her left arm is around her father’s shoulders and her right is around yours.
Her poofy dress is sparkling under the warm banquet hall lights, her smile just as big as yours and Zach’s.
You’d done a lot of happy crying that day, but a moment after the photo was taken, you’d never had tears of joy quite like this.
Ella had run off after the shutter of the photographer’s camera and Zach pulled you in by the waist, his lips soft against your cheek, murmuring just loud enough to be heard over the music and people dancing around you, “You know what she asked me this morning?”
“What?”
“Since I get to call you my wife, if she can call you her mommy.”
You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, tearing up as he held you tighter. She had just turned seven years old and still didn’t talk about her biological mother all that much. She also hadn’t called you anything other than your name.
Zach had told you he’d be comfortable with it if Ella grew to want to call you her mom. You’d told him you’d be, too, but that you hoped she didn’t think you were ever trying to replace anyone.
“Really?” you said, your hand over your heart. “What’d you say?”
“I said she can,” he replied. You pulled back to meet his eyes, beaming up at him, almost in disbelief that three years ago, you’d knocked on his door for the first time. You could have never known the turn your life would take.
“You love her like she’s yours,” he said, his eyes glossy, “and she loves you the same way. I’m so happy she has you.”
You squeezed his hand. He’d already reassured you many times that you weren’t taking the place of Ella’s mother or being a substitution for what she lost. Instead, you’re an addition to their lives.
“I can’t believe how lucky I am,” he said. The tears he was trying to hold back fell from his eyes and he chuckled defeatedly. “Who’s cried more today, do you think?”
“I’d say it’s even,” you said with a laugh.
The door opening pulls you out of the memory. You meet the doctor’s eyes, your heart thrumming.
You and Zach had been trying for a baby for four months now. You didn’t even have to ask Ella what she thought about gaining a sibling. She’d been asking for one for a long time now.
After a string of failed attempts, you prefer not to tell Zach every time you take a test. You can see the disappointment in his eyes, no matter how hard he tries to hide it behind a gentle, “The baby just wants to make us wait.”
A couple of nights ago, when the home test you secretly took showed two lines, you booked a blood test to be sure. The doctor starts her sentence with Congratulations and you exhale a shaky breath of relief.
────୨ৎ────
Later that day, you’re folding laundry in the living room while Ella’s at school. Zach gets home from an early practice and beams when he sees you, dropping his bag on the floor.
“Hi, baby,” he says. “How are you?”
“Good. How was training?”
“I’m getting old,” he chuckles, stretching his arms over his head. You laugh.
Zach had already decided that after eight years, this is his last season professionally playing. He was offered a position on the coaching team after he told his managers he’d be resigning. He’s ready to slow down, to work a job that doesn’t have such a high risk of injury, to have more time for his family.
He sits next to you, takes the t-shirt out of your hands, folds it and then puts it on the stack on the table so that you’re free to hug him. You giggle as he leans forward and pushes you back against the couch. He’s hovering over you, his cheek pressed on yours as he hugs you, smelling like his body wash.
Zach lives for these simple moments. Getting home to you, holding you, grounding himself and reminding himself that this is what life is about.
“Hey, how’s your day look six Mondays from now?” you ask.
“That’s specific,” he laughs. “I’ll have to check. Why?”
“I’d prefer it if you came to the ultrasound with me.”
He pulls back, searching your face in awe.
“What?” he whispers. “Are you… What?”
“I am,” you laugh, tears building in your eyes, stroking his soft hair.
“When did you…?”
“This morning,” you say. “I didn’t want to tell you in case it came back negative.”
“I’m…” Zach doesn’t have words. He leans forward, gently pressing his lips against yours, shuffling quickly so he doesn’t put any weight on you.
“It’s okay,” you laugh. “You won’t break us.”
“Us,” he repeats happily, his voice cracking. He looks down at your stomach, gently putting his hand on you. “It’s okay that you made us wait,” he whispers to the baby. “I already know you were worth it. Are you being gentle with your mom?”
He looks up at you, a flash of concern washing over his awestruck face.
“I’m a little more tired than usual,” you say. “But nothing crazy yet.”
“I can’t believe it,” Zach sighs. He sniffles, his heart racing with happiness as his eyes fill with tears. “I can’t believe it.”
“I know,” you breathe. “Me, neither. We can give her the book soon.”
Zach smiles. He’d bought a children’s book a few months back about becoming a big sister for when it was time to tell Ella a baby was on the way.
Having known you for nearly four years now, he was already well aware of how pure your heart is. But the fact that your first thought is to tell Ella is yet another reminder of how you’ve always seen yourself as not only sharing your life with him, but with her, too.
“Gonna be hard not to do it right away,” he says.
“Do you have any idea how hard these last three hours have been?” you laugh. “I couldn’t wait to tell you. But we’ll share the news with her after the first trimester. To be safe.”
“Of course,” he agrees, cupping your face and pulling you in for another tender kiss.
────୨ৎ────
By the three month mark, your appetite has grown and fatigue has hit you hard. When the day comes to tell Ella, you’re bursting with excitement to tell her the news.
After dinner, you sit on the couch, already used to Zach quietly telling you to sit down and not do any housework.
Ella’s doing homework at the coffee table as you help. You gaze at her as she concentrates on her writing and remember the four-year-old she was when you first walked into this house.
She’s nearly eight now and still has so many of the qualities you’d first noticed about her. She’s energetic and loves conversation and never hesitates to show affection.
Zach comes in from cleaning up after dinner and raises his eyebrows at you, discreetly holding the book. You nod to confirm you’re ready, nervous.
He sits next to you, taking one last moment to look at you and at his daughter, accepting that this is the last moment the three of you will have like this. His family is growing now, and it feels like his heart is, too.
“Is it two R’s? Or one?” Ella mumbles, the pencil in her hand. She looks up when you don’t answer, too busy trying not to cry as you watch her. “Are you okay, mommy?”
“Yeah,” you say. “I’m okay. Can you sit with us for a moment?”
Ella nods, running towards you. Zach stops her in his arms before she lands too close to you. You laugh, having already told him privately that she’s never rough enough to hurt the baby, but he can’t be too careful.
“I have a book for you,” Zach says, kissing Ella on the temple as she sits between you. “Can you tell me what you think?”
He hands her the purple hardcover.
“What’s it called?” you ask.
“Big Sisters Are The Best,” she reads. She curiously opens the page, gazing over the illustrations of a little girl with a baby.
“Thank you,” she says politely. “I’ll tell my friend Kaley about this book. Maybe she can borrow it. She’s a big sister.”
You chuckle, meeting Zach’s eyes. He rubs Ella’s back and tells her, “You’re going to be a big sister, too, honey.”
Ella’s gaze darts up to him, then to you, then back again.
“Really?” she says. Zach’s face brightens with endearment, eyes growing shiny with tears.
“Really?” she repeats, looking at you.
“Really,” you say, putting a hand over your stomach. “That’s why I keep going back for seconds at dinner lately. There’s a baby in here making me extra hungry.”
Ella stands up, unable to contain her happiness, jumping up and down in her spot a few times before wrapping you into a hug. You laugh as she wiggles in your arms.
Zach wipes his eyes, still unsure of what he did to deserve this sort of happiness. It’s like he’s in another world, experiencing a type of joy reserved specifically for him.
“This is the best day ever,” she says. “And you’re the best mommy ever and daddy’s the best daddy ever.”
“He is,” you agree, looking at him with pure love.
────୨ৎ────
“You’re such a girl dad,” you say amusedly when you go into Ella’s bedroom.
Zach’s sitting on the floor as Ella adds what looks like the twentieth clip in his hair, while he holds Olivia, who’s happily ripping up a piece of paper.
He smiles at you gratefully. Your one-year-old is exactly how Ella was at that age. Curious, smiley, and eager to make messes wherever she can. He knows you’re technically a blended family, but it has never felt like that.
“Ella, can you do mine next?” you ask.
“After Olivia,” she says happily. “I told her she’s next and I have to keep my promise.”
“Of course,” you say. “She’s lucky to have such a nice big sister.”
“Ebba,” Olivia babbles.
“Ella,” Ella corrects. You laugh. It feels like yesterday, you’d just met her and Zach, and he was correcting her on how she’d called him the bestest. Now, she’s growing before your eyes, already so mature and well-mannered.
“But Ebba’s okay,” Ella says with a smile. She leans to give her little sister a kiss on the forehead, earning a giggle from her, clapping for more.
You sit on the floor next to Zach, squeezing his knee lovingly as your daughters laugh together. He takes your hand and brings it up to kiss the back of it.
“And to think,” you joke, “we wouldn’t be here if I bombed my interview.”
Zach laughs, shaking his head as he kisses your hand again.
“No,” he says. “This is how life was meant to be. You would have found us, no matter what. I know it.”
You grin at him, nodding in agreement.
Sitting here with his wife and daughters is the definition of destiny. Zach knows deep in his soul that he was always fated to be right here, with his heart split between three beautiful girls.
(the end)
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My name is Dua, and I am from Gaza 🇵🇸. The war has destroyed my life; I have lost my home, my job, and I can't support my family. We live in constant fear amidst the destruction and hunger. 😔
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My name is Salem, I am 26 years old. I am married to Hadeel, she is 25 years old, and we have two beautiful children: Laila (5 years old) and Bakr (five months old). We live in the northern part of Gaza.
Laila and Bakr are my heartbeat, the light of my life, and my everything.
The horrific story of the recent war in Gaza
Since the beginning of the last war in Gaza, our home has been completely destroyed, forcing us to be displaced. We had to move more than 10 times to find safety. During this harrowing journey, we faced extreme hunger and malnutrition that almost claimed the lives of me and my children. In addition, we have been exposed to many serious infectious diseases and epidemics.
Before: This is our homeland, our dream, and our promising future.
Unbearable hardships
Every day I have to travel long distances just to get water, and stand in lines for hours to get food. My children's mental health deteriorated due to the war, their education was interrupted, and they suffered from catastrophic hunger that almost claimed their lives.
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My children deserve to live a peaceful life free of fear and anxiety. I dream of your help to support my family and escape this genocide. Your help means the world to me and my children.
The cost of arranging travel for an adult outside Gaza currently varies
Between $5,000 and $7,000, and $2,500 for each child, in addition to a cost of living of $500 per month.
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Your donations can be a beacon of hope for us. Every dollar can help save my children's lives and give them a chance to live in peace. Your prayers for us to overcome this ordeal and lift the siege are greatly needed
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Background on the Gaza war
The war in Gaza has left hundreds of thousands of victims, destroyed infrastructure, and left many homeless. The humanitarian situation in the region has reached critical levels, with severe shortages of basic necessities such as food, water and health care. Children are the most affected, as they have lost their sense of security, education and normal life.
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A cry for help from Gaza
My name is Salem, I am 26 years old. I am mar… Salem Alanqar needs your support for Save My Family from the War
today's vetted campaigns. please continue to donate if you have the means and share as widely as you can regardless. the individuals on here go through so much every day just to communicate their stories to us - let's uphold that trust by showing them as much support as we can.
july 15th:
Hadeel Mikki (pregnant and needs perinatal care), her husband Waseem, their two young daughters, and Hadeel's mother and two brothers (they are the only survivors of her family) (€5,091/€35,000) - @hadeelmekki, verified by @/90-ghost
Aspiring doctor Malak Dader, her six siblings (they've already lost her teenage brother, and two of her younger brothers need medical treatment), and her parents (one injured, one sick with hepatitis) (€110/€25,000) - @malakabed, verified by @/90-ghost
Mohammed Al-Habil (needs urgent surgery after being shot in the leg), his five siblings (one of whom is immune-compromised and has congenital heart disease), their mother, and his widowed sister-in-law ($5,713 CAD/$70,000 CAD) - @mohammedalhabil2000, verified by @/90-ghost
Hanaa Jad Al-Haq, her husband Muhammad Hammad, and their little son Yousef (£2,675/£20,000) - @henomohammed, @hanaajad123, #246 on @/nabulsi and @/el-shab-hussein's spreadsheet
Salam, her husband Mohammad, and their two little children (€17,365/€40,000) - @save-salam-family, verified by @/90-ghost
Aya Maher, her three younger siblings (two under 18), and their mother (€4,920/€25,000) - @ayamaher444, #216 on @/el-shab-hussein and @/nabulsi's spreadsheet
The AlBalawi family of ten, including several children and two chronically ill members who need treatment (€24,200/€50,000) - @bisanalbalawi18, @elbalawi, @yasminalbalawiigaza, verified by @/90-ghost
The Ayyad family of eight, four of whom are children ($24,842/$35,000) - @aymanayyad82, @mayadayyad81, @aymanayyad1, verified by @/nabulsi
Munna Tashmali and her five children (this is the third time they've lost their home) (£3,269/£30,000) - @monashamali, verified by @/nabulsi
Maha Ibrahim, her husband Ahmed Al-Habil, and their two young children, one who is immune-compromised, and the children's sick grandfather (kr34,626 NOK/kr1,067,200 NOK) - @mahaibrahim12, @ahmedkhabil, #79 on butterfly effect project's spreadsheet
Ahmed Baalousha, his wife Islam, their three children (one a newborn), and Ahmed's parents and sister (€15,802/€50,000) - @5735765, @mahmoudbalousha4, #124 on @/nabulsi and @/el-shab-hussein's spreadsheet
Mohammed Al Manasra (needs treatment for chronic respiratory illness and a leg injury), his wife (also sick, needs chemotherapy), their three little children, and their cat (the family has already lost many extended members) (€26,790/€40,000) - @save-mohamed-family, #192 on @/el-shab-hussein and @/nabulsi's spreadsheet
Hanaa Al-Lulu (needs treatment for a painful foot growth) and her family (€2,628/€40,000) - @enghanalulu, verified by @/90-ghost
Mohammed Hijazi and his elderly parents, including his severely injured father (€2,106/€20,000) - @savemohammedfamily, verified by @/90-ghost
Maysaa Balousha (suffers from pulmonary fibrosis and is deteriorating without treatment), her husband Muhammad, and their four children ($118/$60,000) - @tamer200333, extended family of Mahmoud Balousha (#124 on @/el-shab-hussein and @/nabulsi's spreadsheet)
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Eman, Ahmad, and their two little children (€1,653/€15,000) - @zain-leen1993, @leen-gaza, verified by @/90-ghost
not yet vetted:
Mohammad Taysir, his wife Basma, and their two little children (€0/€50,000) - @yazanfamily
Mahmoud Alkhaldi and his family of five, including his little nephew ($235/$50,000) - @mahmoudalkhaldi
Shimaa, her little daughter Juri, and several members of her husbands family (€331/€50,000) - @shimaashaban22
your help, even if it seems insignificant to you, can bring life and hope to so many people. now is not the time to give in to despair or allow apathy to stifle our actions. here is something you can do. don't pass it by.
My name is Ashraf Alanqar, and I am 30 years old. My wife, Widad Issa, and I have a one-and-a-half-year-old son named Bakr. We used to live peacefully in the Al-Shuja’iya neighborhood, in a house we built just a week before the war began. I worked as a farmer and owned a large chicken farm that provided for my family.
Beloved of my heart (Bakr)
Then the war came and destroyed everything. Our home was reduced to ashes, and our chicken farm was obliterated. We lost our home, our livelihood, and even our basic rights. We've been forced to move from place to place in northern Gaza, simply trying to survive.
My House before...
Me.. while trying to recognize what has happened..
The terror we feel as we flee from heavy bombardment is unbearable. The sound of explosions around us, the constant fear as we navigate through the rubble of destroyed homes searching for safety and food, haunts us every day. My son Bakr is constantly scared and suffers from severe malnutrition and skin diseases due to the lack of food, water, and sanitation.
Our beautiful memories.. :(
We urgently need your help. I am asking for your support to fund this campaign to move my family to a safe place, provide us with a proper home, and ensure we have enough food, water, and medical care.
Baker used to play with his dog.
Your donation, no matter how small, can make a significant difference in our lives. We desperately need your support and solidarity during this difficult time. Together, we can restore hope and safety to Ashraf and his family.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for considering my plea. Your support means more than words can express. Together, we can turn a story of loss into a journey of hope and resilience.
Hello,,
My name is Ashraf Alanqar, and I am 30 years old.… Ashraf Alanqar needs your support for Hope for Gaza: Support Ashraf's Family
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note: my first piece of work on here. just a short & sweet piece but i’d really appreciate any support <3 sending love & kisses
one too many glasses of moët & chandon, lipstick stains on shirt collars and a lingering aroma of your beloved perfume like vanilla and peonies, the skies darkening with a dreamy kind of dusk.
the rhythm of your kitten heels resonates through the corridor as you follow charles back into the hotel suite in a flurry of kisses and laughter, fingertips curling into the tailored edge of his dinner jacket whilst mouths slant together and your back arches against the edge of the oak door.
"you look beautiful tonight, mon cœur," he drawls, kissing down the corner of your lips and down towards the sculpting of your jawbone until he pauses near the shell of your ear for an intimate whisper, one hand working on unlocking the entrance that welcomes you both, "have i told you that?"
smiling coyly, you toy with his loosened tie, "maybe once or twice."
the monégasque chuckles, tucking a stray hair behind the shell of your ear with a final glance around the silent hallway warmed by the chandeliers in the late hour before guiding you inside.
it's only when the door draws shut, a soft click emphasising the shift of the lock, that his mouth returns to yours and his arms circle around the small of your back intimately, sharing a taste of champagne as he walks you backwards.
the both of you pause in the centre of the room, merely gazing at one another for a moment as pale moonlight dapples through the balcony's curtains.
twirling a strand of hair about your finger, you gnaw at your lower-lip, swaying your body into his idly and breathing in the familiarity of his ombré nomade cologne, speaking in a gentle hush, "dance with me."
he arches an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth turning upward slowly in a smirk that accentuates his lovable dimples, "to what, chérie?"
you shrug, draping your arms about his shoulders though the both of you have already begun to shift together in a drawn-out, half-committed fashion, "i don't know, just dance with me. pretty please."
"anything for my girl."
a few moments melt by like that where the both of you move in time to some thought melody, bodies flush, the only sound coming from the streets below. when he draws in, you do not shy away: arching into the press of his mouth to your throat where he breathes in your fragrance, thumbs pressing into your lower back through the little, white dress you wear.
one of your hands drifts over his own, feeling the embellished edge of his wristwatch and tracing the sun-kissed, gentle skin beneath, eyes never quite leaving his own as faces linger inches apart and you watch him smile.
for a little while, you are content like that – wordlessly waltzing, hushed in the comfort of les amoreaux – and you imagine the serene music of the spheres, some internal composition of claire de lune or a similar piano sonata he has performed for you in the past guiding you both now, heart to heart.
he kisses you again, like he can't quite get enough, and his palms settle on the curve of your behind when the both of you come to a content halt.
tasting the alcohol on his tongue, you allow yourself to melt in his easy embrace in the quietude of the suite with its fine decoration of renaissance-esque delights and a flourishing bouquet of white roses on the bedside, curling your nails in the soft, trimmed hairs at the back of his neck.
"thank you for dinner," you whisper after a moment in the warmth of your gratitude, looking at him through the veil of your lashes, thinking of a candlelit dinner of romantics and fine cuisine at the diner opposite l'hôtel de paris.
the corner of his mouth lifts once more, "always."
with a new thought that seems to noticeably glimmer in his beautiful eyes, he dips his head enough to kiss the revealed skin of your shoulder, tracing lips and tongue towards the subtle rise of your fragile collarbones before pausing at the hollow of your throat.
his thumb strokes into the notches of your vertebrae through the fabric of your attire, coaxing a breathless, saccharine sound from you that falls loose, your hold tightening about the fabric of his suit.
"je t'aime, je t'aime, je t'aime," he mumbles, almost fervently, into the sensitivity of your neck, ankles almost nudging together between clumsy footfalls on the birch flooring – the chandelier kissing his skin like amber – until the back of your knees meets the cushioned mattress.
you smile dizzily, for the hundredth time, "i love you more."
"oh, chérie, that is impossible."
you fall against the bed sheets in their ivory linen and cotton, laughing breathlessly and watching him settle onto the bed and above, the weight of him comfortable as he kisses the underside of your jaw, the subtlety of your cleavage before pausing at your décolletage.
"you smell nice," his murmurs, the edge of his fingertips drifting slowly underneath the fabric without rush, "look even better."
your fingers play in the invitation of his brunet hair and the strays fall across his forehead, a sigh leaving the depth of your rib cage contently – eyes meeting, his weight neatly braced by an elbow against the feathered pillows – and one hand entwines with yours.
"i want to marry you someday," he whispers, so earnestly that you can hardly withold the emotion, kissing the knuckle of your ring finger where a band should reside, his eyes glinting, "if that is okay with you."
the rhythm of your heart increases, stomach fluttering where butterflies dance within, and for a moment longer you are quiet, until you laugh shyly, "is this a proposal, leclerc?"
he smirks, kissing the back of your palm and nuzzling it fondly like you are the entire meaning of the word 'love', "not officially. but soon, i think."
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