✨ Life is a soup, I'm a fork✨

At first, Robby tried to ignore it. Who cares if you wanted to flirt with a Quantico suit who looks like he hasn’t smiled in years and has a decent hairlike for his age and doesn’t have crows feet etched around his eyes? Certainly not Robby. But the gossip flourished shortly after Santos overheard the pretty blonde FBI agent whispering to the lanky one with a boyband haircut, “I don’t know the last time I’ve seen Hotch smile.” To which the boyband-haircut FBI agent responded, “Or loosened his shoulders.”

You carefully padded the area around Agent Hotchner’s wound with fresh sterile gauze after tying your last suture, clearing any remnants of blood. “So what does SSA stand for? Super special agent? Secret special agent agent?” You continued light conversation, just for another minute to talk with your tall, dark, and handsome patient.

Hotch chuckled, his eyelids fluttering instinctively when the gauze got too close. Fuck, his eyelashes were pretty, too. “Supervisory special agent.” He replied.

You grinned and pulled out dressing for the stitches. “Oh, that sounds very important.” You hummed.

You knew the man in front of you was an FBI profiler, that if he really didn’t want to play along with your flirty conversation, then he would end it there. But to a man who sold his soul to his job, you were a comfortable break of sunshine through the clouds.

Hotch smiled, not enough for you to call it one, but enough that his nosy team outside had their jaws dropping. Amhad approached them innocently with a pen and notepad, like he was about to interrogate them. “So, what do you think the likelihood of them getting drinks would be?” He asked, like this was definitely not going to influence his wager.

The agent who had already introduced himself as Derek, after Princess conveniently needed something from the top shelf of the supply closet (Jesse was literally standing right next to her), leaned against the high counter of the desk hub. “Honestly? It might happen once we finish up this case.” He admitted.

Amhad scribbled something down on his notepad and nodded. “Does he usually do stuff like that?” He added, hoping to pull more info for his betting board.

Derek laughed, catching the attention of a few nurses and the rest of his team. “‘Stuff like that?’ You mean smiling? Talking?” He questioned, crossing his arms. “We have a pretty strict rule of not profiling each other. But right now…” He trailed off, looking back to the exam room. You were glowing while Hotch commended you for your suture work, holding the mirror just low enough to showcase a rare grin from the man. “I’d say he’s got himself a little crush.”

A little crush.

The words rattled in Robby’s ears as he gripped his iPad so tightly that his thumbs nearly shattered through the screen protector. Dana looked up from her computer monitor just in time to catch the vein threatening to burst across his forehead.

“What’s got ya down, boss?” She asked with feigned ignorance, leaning back in her rolling chair.

Robby peered over his glasses, cutting her an aggravated glance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He grumbled.

Dana smirked and threw her arms behind her to prop up her head. She was too pleased with the situation unraveling in front of her. “Oh yeah? You mean you’re not throwing a hissy fit because someone else is playing with your toys?” She baited.

Robby tossed the iPad on the desk next to her. “She’s not a toy.”

“No? Then why are you treating her like one?” Dana spat back.

That hit him square in the chest. He shook his head, like he was trying to convince himself. “I’m not treating her like-“

Dana took the iPad and stood, ready to walk away from this conversation. “Save your breath, Robby. If the girl wants to flirt with a hot detective and get drinks and, I don’t know, fuck around and move to Quantico, then let her. She’d give you the world, but you’re just using her as a stepping stone to your next seven week itch. Let her be with someone that deserves her.”

Robby stood frozen at the desk hub as Dana headed to the next patient’s room. He knew he didn’t deserve you. He knew this fuckass FBI agent would probably treat you like a princess. He knew that he should still let you down easy tonight.

You came out of the exam room, a giddy smile on your face, that quickly faded when you saw Robby staring at you. “What? What’s wrong?” You asked gently, approaching him slowly.

Robby just smiled, ignoring the ache he felt when your smile vanished just from looking at him, and shook his head. “Nothin’. Thanks for handling that.” He deflected, desperately hoping to see you smile again, but for him this time, not that agent with a sharp jaw that isn’t softening with age and-

“No problem, Doctor Robby.” You fake saluted with the tiniest smile before walking away.

Doctor Robby.

Not Michael.

That dagger sank deep and twisted in his lungs. You were pulling away from him. You were realizing exactly what Robby was trying to protect you from. That he’s no good for you. That he’s only going to drag you down deeper and drown you if he stays.

Robby should be grateful that Agent Hotchner has you checking your hair and straightening your scrub top in the bathroom before returning to his exam room. That would make his plan for tonight flow a lot smoother. But suddenly, the reality of losing you, of giving you up, of handing you to another man, had him sick to his stomach.

He didn’t know how, but Robby was going to win you back. He didn’t have a choice.

Stupid.

That’s the only word you’ve been able to use to describe yourself for two whole days.

So stupid it hurts.

You’re gripping the lip of your bathroom sink hard enough to ache just to ground yourself to some semblance of reality as you try to convince yourself not to call off work. This is a stupid reason to call off work. It’s a stupid thing to be so upset about in the first place. You’re being stupid, stupid, stupid. You wash your face robotically, scrubbing hard enough to roughen your cheeks until they sting, and wipe your skin harshly with an old towel. You’re trying to make your face look alive instead of half-dead like it’s been since Friday night.

Digging through your dirty laundry, you find the most acceptable pair of Figs you can, maroon from last Thursday, and tug them on. You didn’t do your laundry this weekend. Couldn’t. The scrubs barely cover the bruises at the tops of your arms, a fading reminder of when you still had hope for a new dynamic that could give you what you want. Need. If you’re being honest. You imagine in excruciating detail someone at work catching you with bruises. Fuck, is that a hickey above your neckline? Dammit, you told the guy not to do that. Stupid, desperate, useless – and in med school. Good work, Lefty.

Turtleneck it is.

The whole bus ride over – you miss the first one, of course – you’re just trying not to cry. Eyes burning, breaths shallow, little old ladies glancing your way with concern on their faces. You fidget with your sleeves, pick at your hang nails, anything to avoid checking your phone for the billionth time to see if he’s messaged you or returned your calls or done anything but give you the radio silence that’s had you questioning yourself every second of every day since he left you in your bed.

Pushing into the hospital, you take a few deep breaths and try to let the familiar sterile smell steady you. The clock in the locker room nags at you for being half an hour late. The tears nip at your waterline again and you focus on the deep breaths, giving yourself mental orders to keep your head on straight. Open your locker. Put your bag away. Clip on your badge. Head to the nurse’s station. Plaster on an apologetic smile and beg.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” you say as you check in with Dana. “I missed my bus by, like, thirty seconds and-”

“Save it, kid, we need you working ASAP.”

She hands off your clipboard with notes from the day shift and you pore over it as quickly as you can. With embarrassment burning your lungs, you mumble, “Right. Of course. Thank you.”

You turn around – and walk directly into Langdon after not even three steps.

“There’s my favorite fourth year,” he sighs sharply. “Late and careless; strong start to the night as usual, Lefty.”

“Sorry, Dr. Langdon, I just-”

“Can it. We’ve got an MVC five minutes out and I need you to take my patients in six and nine.”

You nod quickly and take a step back from him because you can’t breathe all of a sudden. “No problem. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“From you?” He rolls his eyes. “I’m sure I won’t.”

It cuts you deep. Frank’s been sharp with you for years now and usually it slides right off your back; most nights, you can even match him and reach a point where he borders on respecting you. But not tonight. Tonight, you take the charts from him and walk away, meek as a mouse. Your heart’s pounding and your palms are sweaty just from the way he looked at you. Like you’re stupid.

Because you are.

And everyone knows it.

The universe apparently can’t even give you one second of pity, though, because the next person you walk into – shoulders bumping too hard – is Dr. Abbot. Unlike Langdon, though, he immediately steps back. “Shit, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

Oh god. You can’t look at Dr. Abbot right now. Sweet, intense, gorgeous Dr. Abbot. His eyes are always too sharp, seeing right through you, with that edge of paternal kindness that makes your knees weak. With your eyes anywhere but his face, you grimace and reply, “All good. Don’t worry.”

I always worry about you. He gives your shoulder a soft squeeze and says, “It’s good to see you, ace. Didn’t see your check-in on the shift board earlier.”

Your eyebrows pinch together. You miss the first half of the greeting, of course, brushing past anything nice anyone could have to see about you because it couldn’t be true. Instead, that familiar coil of guilt wraps tighter around your throat. “Fuck, I know, I’m sorry, it was just a really slow start to the day and I was running for the bus and I missed it by like thirty seconds and…”

As your voice trails off into self-conscious awareness, he presses gently, “And?”

He’s the first person so far who hasn’t interrupted you. So you have to stop yourself because what would’ve come tumbling out would be way too much for the workplace and especially for Dr. Abbot specifically. You force a half-smile. “Nothing. Just a hard weekend. But, y’know, Dr. Langdon asked me to take his patients, so I’m getting back on the horse.”

He shakes his head. “Hand those off to Javadi; we’ve got an MVC coming in.”

You hold onto them like a lifeline, though. “Dr. Abbot, I, um, I think I’d like to keep Dr. Langdon’s patients instead. If that’s okay with you, I mean.”

He studies you for the spare few seconds he has. “Are you sure? I’m guessing Langdon was just being a dick. We could use you.”

“No, I- I don’t mind.” Before he can prod, you avert your eyes and stammer out, “I’m, um, I’m kind of still recovering from the weekend. Need to, I dunno, warm up a little, I guess.”

Jack tilts his head at you. Curious. Eyes narrowing. “Alright. I’ll page Javadi.”

Relief floods you.

The last thing you need right now is pressure. A life in your hands.

Precisely why it was stupid of you to take a risk like you did on Friday. You can’t act like this in emergency medicine and you know it. You know it but you still decided to be selfish and desperate and pathetic and-

“I can see you overthinking something from here.” Jack’s hand goes to your shoulder and your eyes snap upwards at the interruption to your derailing train of thought. Suddenly his tone lowers and he takes one small step closer to you. You smell his sharp aftershave. Then he says in that perfectly gravelly voice of his, “You know you can talk to me, right?”

You hear your voice threatening to break as you reply, “Of course. Thank you.”

But he doesn’t move his hand. And he doesn’t drop his eye contact. Your heart rate starts to pick up because you can see the care in his eyes and it’s too much for you to cope with. You need to be small, invisible, a crack in the wall he walks past without paying attention to. But he goes on, “I mean it, ace. Everyone has their off days, especially in this job. Find me if you need someone to talk to.”

His offer is so human it borders on hysterical. You honestly want to laugh. Off days. This isn’t an off day. This isn’t a normal med student having a normal slip in their composure. This is your own fault and you just have to get through it. So you try to muster your courage and assure him, “I’m fine.”

“You don’t always have to be,” he murmurs softly. Then the sound of sirens at the nearest bay takes his attention. You don’t catch him cursing under his breath as if the incoming trauma is nothing more than a distraction from being able to talk to you first and foremost. Finally his hand leaves your arm and he repeats, “Find me if you need me, okay?”

With your heart pounding against your chest, you nod. “Okay, Dr. Abbot. Thanks.”

And, finally, blessedly, you can escape.

For once, you’re thankful that Langdon was being a dick. He’s pawned off two incredibly easy cases to you, which means you can breathe and calm down as you check on them. You definitely give too much attention to the nervous, heavily pregnant patient who has nothing wrong with her but needs reassurance. And you listen to every single concern from the man whose wife took a fall and broke her wrist. She’s healthy as a horse otherwise, as she repeatedly insists, but there’s something soothing about helping him eliminate everything from the mental checklist that’s been driving him crazy with fear for hours on end. You manage to make it all the way to your lunch break without being snatched into any life-or-death situations, hiding in the comfortable shadows of scut and stitches.

Meanwhile, in every quiet moment of supervising the trauma, Jack replays your conversation. Something about your expression felt too familiar to him. The darting of your slightly glassy eyes, stuck on a skipping record going between thoughtlessness and overthinking a million times a second. Too far away but also claustrophobically close. One hand twitching at your side while the other gripped the chart for dear life. Too many contradictions to fit inside your precious, shallow-breathing body.

As soon as both his patients are stabilized and headed up to surgery, Jack’s scanning the ED for your familiar silhouette. He’s done two full laps before deciding concretely that you aren’t with any patients and you aren’t handling any traumas. He finds you in one of the breakrooms, standing with the fridge door open and your brows furrowed.

Just to start the conversation, Jack puts on a soft lilt and tries a joke first. “Whitaker forget his leftovers in there again? You’re mean-mugging the shelves.”

Slowly, robotically, you close the fridge. Still looking at the handle, you reply, “I thought I packed myself a lunch, but I guess I didn’t.”

He doesn’t miss how absent your voice sounds. Like a glass shattered on the kitchen floor that you’re trying to piece back together without nicking your bare hands.

That’s when Jack realizes.

The hesitation in your movements. The foggy way you’re speaking.

You’re dropping.

Well, more accurately, you’ve dropped. You’re in the middle of it now.

Jack’s been a dom since soon after he left the army. He missed the structure, the protocol, the sense of control. In emergency medicine, he’s always putting out fires that someone else started. When he’s with a sub, he gets to break someone down and build them back up, to make the decisions and get the rewards that come from them, to be the center of someone’s universe for even a few moments. More importantly, he has someone to care for. That matters more than he would’ve admitted when he was a cocky 25 at one of the local kink clubs.

He’d had suspicions about you before. How you puff up your chest at the slightest praise, how you crave rules and rewards in equal measure, how you’re always so hesitant to answer questions about your personal life and especially your dating life. All things that he could write off easily – but, now, with your eyes clearly searching for something you can’t find, the details are slotting into place.

With you still frozen in place, Jack takes his own lunchbox from the fridge. Then he touches the small of your back, nods at the nearby table, and tells you firmly,  “Sit with me. Have half my sandwich and we’ll both get something from the vending machine after. The good one on the third floor.”

You stare at him for a second. Gears grind against each other in your mind. Autopilot flicks on. “That’s okay, Dr. Abbot, I can just- It’s alright. I’ll order something to the hospital.”

“You won’t,” he counters. Soft. Certain. You’re lying to him and he knows it. His expression says you won’t be getting away with that. He pulls out a chair at the table and insists, “Sit.”

It’s uncomplicated. Direct. Clear.

Your current haze has turned even the most mundane tasks into foreign mazes, but Jack’s decisive, simple instruction feels like a map to get out.

So you sit.

He sits with you.

You try to argue again when he cuts the sandwich in half on the diagonal, but a single look from him quiets it. He slides it over on a hospital paper plate and asks, “Where’s your water bottle?”

Staring at the objectively delicious-looking sandwich – Jack goes all out with fancy bread and farmer’s market fillings – with no semblance of hunger, you tell him, “I left it in my locker. I’ll go and grab it in a minute.”

He shakes his head and stands. “I’ll get it now. Does your locker have a lock on it?”

The answer settles heavy in your gut. You whisper, ashamed, “I forgot to put it on this morning.”

Christ, he wants to strangle whoever left you alone like this. He doesn’t know what’s going on in your personal life – if this is a breakup, a hookup, a mistake – but he knows a good partner wouldn’t leave someone who looked even a fraction as broken as you look right now. Most of your coworkers are surely assuming this is just ‘one of those days.’ Even Abbot had thought that at first. But now he can see the splinters in your irises. You can’t push through this on your own. You need someone else to put you back together.

Not wanting to overstep or push prematurely, he gently touches the top of your head and says, “Just eat. I’ll be right back.”

Jack swears he’s never made the walk to and from the locker room faster. No matter how fast he goes, though, he can’t outrun your racing thoughts. When he returns, you haven’t touched a bite of the sandwich, just picking apart tiny pieces of the crust. In that moment, he guesses you haven’t had a full meal since…whenever this started. He saw you at work on Friday, so sometime this weekend. He sits down across from you and hands over your water bottle. “Here. Drink some.”

You take a few small sips of water and mutter a thank you.

Jack doesn’t say anything, but the way he looks at the tiny mountain of crumbs you’re creating on your plate bores through your skin. He knows you’re putting off eating. When he lifts his own triangle to his mouth, you do the same, mirroring his movements. You don’t want to disappoint him, too. He swallows, you swallow. He takes a swig of water, you take a swig of water. He doesn’t push you to talk, least of all to interrogate you about your mood, but his presence anchors you.

Before you know it, you’ve actually finished eating. You hadn’t felt hungry, but you somehow notice its absence.

Then Jack smiles at you. Sincere and warm. “Good job. I’m proud of you.”

The words open up a dusty window in your chest. A touch of warmth and light breaks through the mildew and cobwebs. Objectively, you know it’s silly. Proud of you for…eating half his food? For doing the absolute bare minimum to keep yourself alive? But that’s not what your brain’s saying right now. Your mind is begging for more of his soft affirmations. All you can manage is a soft, “Thank you.”

Jack watches you incredibly closely from there. He’s not sure if he should bring it up to you. That he knows. It would seismically shift the dynamic of your relationship. If he plays it wrong – makes you feel embarrassed, ashamed, afraid – then you’re never going to see him as anything but a dom and you as a sub, a permanent power imbalance that goes far deeper than mentor and student ever could. You’ll always feel like a weak, pathetic little thing if he doesn’t handle your drop correctly.

While he decides whether or not to reveal his hand, he resolves to help you in a way he knows only he can. Sure, you could go to Dana the way you often do when you need something. You can vent to Whitaker or lean on Ellis. But there are ways he can support you that are unique. That’s what he tells himself as he scribbles your name in the journal he’s kept for his past subs, writing out his observations about your current state and how he thinks he can address it. He always makes sure to keep himself in order first and foremost. If he brings his best self to you, he’ll inherently help more than if he didn’t dedicate time to it.

He resolves to guide you as much as he reassures you, to praise you twice as often as he corrects you, to watch out for you and shield you. And he’ll make sure you eat, take your breaks, and don’t push yourself too hard. That’s what you need to get through this. Someone to see you. Someone to care for you. If he’s careful, you won’t even notice the role he’s going to step into until you’re sure on your feet again.

He tells himself it doesn’t have to mean anything. That this isn’t an admission of the feelings for you that he’s been shoving deep down for – if his drunken confessions to Robby are anything to go by – years. You’re older than most of the students in your year, more sure, and kinder. Life has made you kind the same way it’s made you vulnerable. He needs that in his life, a compliment to his closed-off brashness. You bring out his ability to be open with patients and softer with his doctors.

So helping you through this certainly isn’t about his feelings. It’s for the good of the night shift and the hospital as a whole, really.

Really.

After another shit day of sleep and half-finished breakfast, you’re more irritated than anything the next night when you clock in. At least you’re on time today, so there aren’t any jabs about your arrival – which is good, considering you’re ready to bite the head off anyone who bothers you. You felt it before you even fell asleep this morning, restless and sweaty. Your racing thoughts have stopped pulling you under and now they’re just pissing you off. You’re fidgety and annoyed with fingers that flutter absently at your side and a jumpy heart rate that leaps when anything catches you off guard.

While you flip through the charts left by the day shift, Jack strolls into the ED with two boxes of donuts from a shop he knows you like. He breezes past, giving you a warm smile, and takes them straight to the breakroom. Unsurprisingly, a row of ducklings follows him to snag their favorite ones. You don’t bother; your stomach still feels more like a twisted fist than something you actually want to put a meal into. You’d made it through half a bowl of cereal before your shift, which is the best you’ve done on your own since Friday.

But, as you start to put together an order of operations for the first half of the shift, Jack approaches you with his hands behind his back. “Morning, ace.”

“Evening, Dr. Abbot,” you reply without looking up.

“Just wanted to make sure I let you know how good of a job you did yesterday with Mrs. Jacobs yesterday. The pregnant patient with anxiety. She filled out a patient satisfaction survey-” which Jack had personally asked her to do “-and you got tens across the board.”

That perks you up slightly. “Really?”

He nods, happy to see you on the verge of smiling, and grabs an iPad from the charging station. You don’t notice him setting down a small box so he can handle it. After tabbing through for a minute, he reads off, “‘When I left, I felt heard, like she actually cared about me as a person. It’s the most validated I’ve felt by a medical professional in a long time.’” Jack’s smile is affectionate. Proud. Like he’s really seeing you for who you are. “Great work. Bedside manner is one of the hardest skills for doctors to master. Keep it up.”

Trying not to let your lip wobble, you near-whisper back, “Thank you for telling me. It means a lot to know I didn’t screw everything up yesterday.”

Moving his large hand to your arm, he corrects, stern in a way that makes you bite your lower lip inadvertently, “You didn’t screw up anything.”

“But I didn’t help with that car crash and-”

He shakes his head. Something in the way he does it – maybe the tiny scoff under his breath, maybe the way his silver hair catches the light, maybe just the fact that he’s slowing down your inner monologue – makes you shut your mouth to listen to whatever he’s going to say. He gives your arm one more gentle squeeze and tells you seriously, “Being a good emergency medicine doctor is about more than scrubbing in for complicated, impressive procedures and saving lives with beating hearts in your hand. Your notes were perfect, you cared about your patients, and you showed up. It’s the beginning of your career; I’d say that’s damn good.”

After biting back tears for a minute, you put on a semi-teasing smile and nudge him. “You’re being awfully nice today, Dr. Abbot. Compliments, donuts.”

“I’m always nice,” he replies, smirking conspiratorially. He nods back towards the breakroom and asks, “What’s your go-to?”

Grimacing, you reply, “I usually get a bear claw, actually.”

“I’m glad I remembered correctly.” Jack takes the smaller box he’d set down and opens it to flourish a big, fluffy, thickly-glazed bear claw like a proud magician, holding it out to you with wax paper. “Got one for you special.”

Your irritation at the day so far breaks. When you look up at Jack, it’s with eyes that are innocent and wide. You take the bear claw from him like it’s an engagement ring or something even more precious. A crown jewel. Your voice goes a little breathless as you ask, “You remembered my favorite pastry?”

He chuckles, “The gray adds ten years; my mind’s not going on me yet. Maybe I should dye it so people stop assuming I’m ancient.”

You giggle, “No, the gray is sexy.”

You only realize you’re saying it when it’s already tumbled out of your mouth. As pink creeps into Jack’s cheeks, you snap your lips shut and avert your eyes. Fuck, you’re so disoriented you actually said it out loud instead of keeping it in that apparently very, very smooth brain of yours. Stupid. The word that’s been haunting you just keeps on knocking around your psyche. You stammer out, “Sorry, Dr. Abbot, that was- I’m sorry. I’m still, um, waking up.”

Then he reaches forward and tilts your chin up with his thumb and forefinger. The gesture is way too intimate for standing in the middle of the ED, but the world has just narrowed in to the two of you and nothing else, so you don’t care in the slightest. God, his hazel eyes. They’re smoldering with warmth. You want to curl up by his feet. To have him hold you. To rest under his protection. When he’s satisfied at your eye contact, he slowly withdraws his hand and says, low and firm, “Don’t apologize. Eat.”

There’s no way out of eating the hearty pastry – it’s not like you can put it in your backpack or trash it right in front of him – so, even though your brain is still screaming that you don’t deserve to eat by not sending hunger cues, you take a bite. If nothing else, the soft sugary flavor is nice. Jack doesn’t move and you can tell it’s a silent order, like when he ate lunch with you yesterday. So you force yourself to take another bite and then another. When you finish it, you lick the sugary glaze from your fingers and Jack prays you don’t notice how his eyes are glued to your pretty lips.

After rolling his shoulders, Jack praises, “Good job. We can get going now. You’re shadowing me today.” Nodding in another direction, he informs you, “We’re starting off rounds in trauma four.”

He didn’t offer you any other options, so you can’t go searching for them. The thousand directions your day could’ve gone in fizzle away into one path: You’re shadowing me today. His clarity is pure relief compared to the chaos of your mind. 

You follow behind him obediently and start the shift.

Things make more sense when you’re under Jack’s direct supervision instead of Langdon’s or even Dana’s. You feel more like yourself, like you can trust your own hands because you know there’s a second pair waiting in case you fail. Any time he lets you take the lead on a minor procedure, even something as simple as sutures, he places a hand on your back or your waist or your arm, never holding you too close or too hard to be suspicious. It doesn’t melt you; it builds you. He’s scaffolding.

You’re just starting to feel like your feet are firm beneath you when all the attendings are pulled into a major trauma, leaving you unmoored without the north star of Jack for you to follow. You’re taking a rare moment to fill your water bottle and drink it when you hear Langdon’s voice a few rooms down.”

“Lefty, get in here!” He sounds seriously urgent, in his gown and gloves, so you jog over right away. He’s tying on your gown before you’ve even gotten a look at the patient. “You’ve done a vaginal delivery before, yeah?”

Gloving up, you nod and confirm, “A handful – supervised.”

He leads you back into the room where a barely-conscious patient with a gnarly head wound is in very, very active labor. There’s a lot of blood around her head and neck; you can’t tell what’s wrong. But Langdon focuses you: “OB’s on the way from her house, but I have to focus on getting mom stabilized up here. She’s nearly crowning; we’ve gotta get the baby out.”

Standard vaginal delivery. You run through the steps mentally, visualizing the ones you’ve both observed and assisted. “How far apart are contractions? Where’s she at?”

“Two and a half minutes. Fully effaced and dilated.” He gives you a pointed look as he resumes his work on the patient. “Should be simple.”

“Got it.” You take your position in front of the stirrups, checking over the equipment that a nurse has prepared for you. After checking the fetal vitals and taking a second to compose yourself, you guide the mother through the next contraction. Despite her obvious exhaustion and pain, she’s able to push and make progress. You smile and praise her louder than Langdon’s gruff grunting, “Head is out. You’re doing great, mama, just stay focused on your breathing, okay? A couple more contractions and we’ll be done and you’ll both be on the road to recovery.”

She gives you a woozy nod and half a smile. No matter how hard she’s fighting it, you can tell she’s tethered to consciousness by thread thin as floss.

You watch the next contraction wash over her – and the baby’s head doesn’t move. His chin tucks forward a little. Shit. His shoulder is stuck behind her pubic bone. Keeping your voice calm, you tell Langdon, “Doctor, I think I’m seeing shoulder dystocia.”

Distracted at her chest, he replies quickly, “You’re going to need to deliver the posterior arm.”

The posterior arm. Right. In this position, you aren’t even sure which one that is. You haven’t done your OB rotation yet. So you offer, “Should I go and get-”

The patient slips out of consciousness before the question’s out. Langdon curses as the monitors go off. He snaps at you, “Just pull!”

“No, that’s-”

He’s not listening to you.

He’s not listening to you and the baby can’t take a breath yet.

I know that’s not the right thing to do. That’s not the right thing to do. But what the fuck is the right thing to do?

You know the situation requires very specific maneuvers that you just can’t do, especially not without someone very heavily guiding and supervising you. “Dr. Langdon, I really think we should switch places at the very least. I can handle stabilizing while we wait for the-”

Sweat on his brow, he shouts back, “Shut up and let me focus.”

You nod. Try to steady yourself. As careful as you can be, one shaky hand slips to your pager on your waist while the other desperately tries to stay in place. Your mind races. The baby’s face is still nice and pink, not yet going dusky, so you know there’s time. But that time is ticking by fast.

You know it’s more dangerous for you to try something you’ve never been trained in than to find someone else to take over, even if it uses up the sixty seconds you have before things get serious. So you look at the baby’s straining face and whisper, “It’s okay. Just hang on, alright? Dr. Abbot’s gonna come and help you. He always comes when I need him.”

After a deep breath, you try again, more firmly this time, “Dr. Langdon, I don’t know how to do the McRoberts maneuver by myself and I can’t move from this spot without someone else stepping in. I really, really think we need to-”

Langdon slams a hand down on the table where his equipment is laid out. “You don’t need to think anything! Just fucking get it done!”

The door shoves open behind you, cold air rushing into the claustrophobic space. Jack storms in, grabbing his gown and gloves and moving superhero comic book fast. “What the hell is going on that I’m getting an emergency page for a vaginal delivery?”

Langdon’s hands keep working over the patient as he starts to admonish, “Seriously, Lefty? You paged our-”

You manage to find the courage to cut him off, informing Jack as clearly as you can with your heart in your throat, “Baby’s presenting with shoulder dystocia. OB is on the way but I- I need help. I can’t do this. I don’t know how.”

Jack rapidly scrubs and assesses the situation. Seeing that Langdon’s doing procedures you could’ve handled while other help came, he barks, “Langdon, why the hell haven’t you switched with her?”

“Because I thought your star pupil could handle one goddamn-”

“She’s a fucking student, Frank!” Jack shouts back and drops down onto his knees next to you. He places his hands over yours, prepping for the maneuver, and says, “You can let go, ace. I’ve got him now in plenty of time.” You collapse backwards from the relief as the nearest nurse moves in to assist Dr. Abbot. Your heart’s pounding and tears bite at your eyes. In the split second before he gets to work, Jack makes determined eye contact and orders, “Go get some air. You did the right thing. I’ll find you after.”

It’s another half hour before Jack’s able to go searching for you. On a normal day, he would’ve expected you to bounce back, take a quick break, and jump to another patient, probably seeking out Shen to get your hands on something interesting from the ambulance bay. But not this week. Definitely not this week. Jack knows a handful of your usual hiding places, so he scouts through them going from the closest to the patient's room out, using his last break of the night for you.

He finds you in a far, seldom-used stairwell, underneath the first set of steps so you’re completely invisible. The only sign of you is quiet sniffling; Jack opens the door quietly so the sound doesn’t startle you. He’s met by your soft, tentative voice carefully peeking out from behind the stairs. “Dr. Abbot?”

Following your voice, he tucks into the dusty corner and sighs. You’re sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes puffy from panicky tears. You haven’t stopped crying since you left the delivery; he’s sure of it. “Hey, ace.”

“You shouldn’t call me that,” you whisper. “Not when I keep fucking up whenever someone needs to rely on me.” Before Jack can contradict the self-hatred, though, you swallow hard and ask, “How are the patients? Did the baby- Did you deliver him okay?”

“Baby’s up to the NICU for monitoring, mom’s in surgery.” Jack sighs – heavier than you’ve ever heard – and tells you, “Langdon shouldn’t have put you in a position like that knowing full well you’re a student and not a doctor yet. He wanted to make the dramatic save, not deliver a baby. Selfish prick could’ve cost both their lives for his own goddamn ego. I’m filing a report.”

You shake your head and pinch your eyes closed. “I should’ve-”

“Should’ve what? Ripped a baby’s arm off trying a complex delivery? Let him go hypoxic? Risk a maternal hemorrhage?" Jack leans down and offers you his hand, hoping that you’ll take it so he can pull you back out of the ocean of doubt. As he helps you off the floor, he urges gently, “You did exactly the right thing. You questioned the doctor who was giving you bad orders. When it was obvious he wasn’t going to listen, you called for help. Langdon’s gonna take it poorly because he’s an ass, but you were perfect. That was a master class in handling yourself well under pressure.” He touches your cheek, just enough to get your attention, and adds, “Makes me even more certain you’re going to be a great doctor.”

You can’t even say thank you. Your throat’s too thick with how badly you needed to hear his sweet and true affirmation after Langdon shouting at you and making you second-guess everything you’ve been taught. The problem, though, is that your brain keeps pushing back against it. Your lungs are hot and tight as you struggle to even breathe. Jack’s eyes are just too warm, too kind, too lovely for you to possibly deserve. You hang your head and try to focus on breathing as your thoughts move too fast for you to even get a look at them.

Seeing you falling apart beneath the praise, Jack touches your chin to make eye contact. There are a thousand questions on his lips, but ultimately he asks the simplest one: “Can I hug you?”

It hangs for just a moment too long. Jack doubts himself for a split second.

Then you nod. It’s tiny, meek, hesitant.

But when he wraps his arms around you, strong and steady, you break. The sobs come hard and fast and frantic as a child lost in a store. You’re weak and small. You ball your fists up in Jack’s shirt and heave out wicked, fast tears so intense they make you want to throw up. Everything shakes like the chase scene in a horror movie. It hurts.

With his arms absolutely locked around you, Jack orders, stern but soft, “Match your breathing with mine for a minute. In and out. You can do it.”

You keep sobbing and shaking against his chest, but he stays steady. His chest rises and falls. His breaths are warm and slow against your ear. And eventually the rhythm pulls you out of the fear and the doubt and the panic. Your breaths are trembling and hiccuping, but you manage to force them to calm down.

As you begin to come down, Jack rubs your back and murmurs, “Good. That’s good.”

“Jesus, this is so stupid.” You sniffle, pulling away from him a bit, and swat at your tears like they’re parasites. He hates how rough you are when you touch your own skin. He’d never show you anything but softness. You ramble on, “Sorry for being so – I don’t know– ridiculous the last few days. This isn’t- I promise I’ll be better. This is- It’s a temporary thing. I promise.”

Jack takes your face between two hands. They’re calloused and experienced but perfectly and completely gentle. He vows, “I’m here for you – even if it isn’t.”

You’re silent for a long time. The only sound is the soft whooshing of the vents in the stairwell, the cinderblock walls insulating all the chaos of the ED. Realizing slowly that Jack is still holding you close, you whimper, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Jack almost scoffs. “Because you deserve it.”

The response is so immediate you have to believe it: “I don’t.”

Sensing that this might be his one opportunity, he asks with nothing but sensitivity on his lips, “Who made you think that? You were fine last week; what happened?”

You drag in one more breath that wavers. Shame is heavy in your gut but you’re spilling it out like vomit, unable to hold it all by yourself anymore. “I- I had this date on Friday night and he- We were having a really good time- What I expected. And then I needed- I needed him to stay but he- he left. And I was alone and I know that doesn’t make sense and it sounds crazy compared to how I’ve been acting but-”

“It doesn’t sound crazy.” He cups your face in one hand. His calloused thumb brushes your cheek so sweetly it makes your throat tighten up. He’s treating you like gossamer. “I understand.”

Biting your lower lip, you reply, sound small and alone, “You don’t. I’m sorry, but you don’t.”

Jack takes a step forward, his body pushing yours, so you’re pressed against the wall.

Placing one hand on the side of your head, he rakes you over with a gaze that burns.

In one look, your whole body turns to melting wax and drifting smoke, burned to the bones by how completely and totally dominant he looks in this moment. It’s not frightening and you can tell he’s not even trying to be as sexy as he is. Which is very, very sexy. His biceps push against his short sleeves and his jawline is tight and you’ve only ever caught flickers of this particular darkness in his eyes. Little moments over the years – protecting one of his doctors, advocating for a patient, taking command of a crash – you’ve seen a flash of how he’s looking at you right now.

But you never realized what it is.

Then he repeats, “I understand.”

And it’s clear as day after a long night shift.

“I’m here for you, ace, because I understand completely.” He wraps his arms around you one more time, tight and fast, and says, “Until you’re through this, I’m here for whatever you need. You can always come find me. Got it?”

The relief that washes through you is nothing short of heavenly. You needed this. Needed someone to know. Even if Jack isn’t your dom, he still sees the truth of what’s happening. That’s enough to matter a hell of a lot. You take a breath – no shaking – and give a tiny smile. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”

“Jack,” he corrects gently. “I want you to call me Jack from now on.”

Dr. Abbot – Jack – wipes your tears, leads you through a few more breaths, and then guides you back to the ED and through the rest of your shift. He makes it perfectly clear that, until you feel back to normal, your job is to stick to him like glue, only leaving his line of sight if absolutely necessary. With that order in your mind, the night ends easily. Your charts are immaculate, your notes clear, your sutures straight as an arrow. All because Jack sees you. Every layer of you.

As you’re collecting your backpack from the locker room – you haven’t been changing at work this week because of the bruises all over your body – Langdon approaches you. Jack, idling a few paces away as he waits to walk you out, stiffens up as soon as Frank’s shadow eclipses your light.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he says quietly. Quickly. Like it’s a shameful secret. “I was in over my head, too, and all the attendings were out, so I just- I snapped. I’m gonna have to do a review and everything so, just, y’know, first steps. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, doctor,” you reply, barely above a whisper. “I understand.”

“Alright, good. We’re cool, then. Great.” He runs a hand through his hair, touches your shoulder, and says, “See you tomorrow, Lefty.”

You sigh and force a smile. “Bye, Dr. Langdon.”

As Langdon heads out, not even able to look at Abbot, Jack nods for you to join him. You fall into step on the way to the staff entrance and he asks, “Why do they call you that anyway? You’re right-handed, yeah? Must’ve started on day shift; I never heard the story.”

The familiar embarrassment of the nickname you can’t shake warms your neck and chest. Trying not to sound affected by it, you begin, “Langdon started it. As a joke, I guess, not that it- I don’t think it’s funny, obviously. Maybe it is and I just- Whatever. At the end of my first handful of shifts with him. I don’t think people even remember why anymore. They just hear a nickname and repeat it. Like Crash.” You shrug a bit, grimace, and explain, “Lefty. Because I can’t do anything right.”

Jack rolls his shoulders and sucks in a sharp breath.

Rage shreds his ribs apart.

He doesn’t exactly need more reasons to loathe Langdon – having him stuck in nights the last month has made him seriously debate his ‘no groveling to Robby’ rule – but he knows one thing for certain: Nobody’s calling you that in his ED again. Nobody’s going to make you feel small. Not while he’s dedicating himself to building you back up.

Out of nowhere, Jack turns on his heel, takes you by the elbow, and says, “Come on, let’s go to the skills lab. I’ll get us food after. I’m gonna teach you the damn McRoberts maneuver.”

You don’t freeze because you’re in Jack’s orbit, once again following your sunshine, but you still ask, “What? Why?”

Jack doesn’t even have to look at you; you can feel the intensity in his words. The protectiveness. This is personal to him. He growls back, “Because you’re not fucking stupid.”

By Sunday night, the last shift of your seven on, you’ve actually gotten a full night’s sleep and eaten a breakfast with real protein and carbs. And honestly? You’re doing it because you know that Jack’s going to glow with pride when you tell him. Stepping off the bus and into the light, you feel most of the way to being a person. Being yourself.

Jack’s waiting at your bus stop.

You hop into his field of vision and laugh. “What are you doing here, Jack?”

“Thought you could use some company for your walk,” he replies effortlessly. He takes your backpack from your hand and slings it over his own shoulder. “Weather’s gorgeous and I thought we could use a minute to check in before the day starts.”

You can’t contain the grin that comes with Jack going out of his way for you. Heading toward the hospital, you ask, “Anything in particular we need to check in about?”

He starts simple: “How’d you sleep?”

“Pretty good, actually. No nightmares for once.”

Jack nods, making a mental note. “What did you have for breakfast?”

“Eggs on toast,” you tell him. The way it feels like you’re reporting back to a teacher about finishing your homework helps your brain get itself in order for the day ahead. Wanting your gold star sticker, you tell him, “And I packed a big lunch with a couple snacks for my breaks.”

“Good job. Really good job.” He gives you a smile that’s nothing short of hunky. “I know you wanted to do laundry last night. Any luck there?”

You shake your head meekly. “I was way too tired. I didn’t shower before my shift, either.”

“Did you brush your teeth?”

“Yeah, and flossed.”

“That’s enough for today,” he assures gently. Pushing through the staff entrance, he asks, “Have any plans for your week off besides R&R?”

“I think I should probably take it easy,” you admit with a sad little sigh. “I want to catch up on cleaning and get back into my self care routines.”

“That sounds like a plan. I’m off, too; we can call when you need accountability.”

You smile and look at your sneakers, thankful that he can’t see your heart stammering for more and more of his attention. “Perfect. Thank you.”

He hands your bag over again before you reach the locker room, not wanting to catch any wayward eyes. “It’s no trouble, ace.”

The way he says it, you believe him. He really doesn’t mind carving out space in his life to help you, even if it feels silly and stupid and frivolous at times. He’s too human to let you fall. The two of you put your bags and lunches away. You fall into step behind him as usual, following him like a puppy to the nurse’s station where he goes through handoff with Robby. You listen intently as he gives orders to everyone, catching up on patients and procedures that need to be tended to.

Once the ED starts churning for the night shift, you go to check on one of your patients from yesterday who’s still admitted. At the same time, Langdon’s approaching you with a fresh chart, his step peppy. “Evening, Lefty, ready to-”

Jack’s bark – from more than ten feet away at the nurse’s station – interrupts him: “Langdon, c’mere a second.” Despite cutting him a suspicious look, Frank walks over to Jack at the nurse’s station. You follow slightly behind, curious. Jack was listening to Langdon with borderline military skill, trained in on a conversation far on the periphery just because you were in it. When Langdon’s close, Jack says, short and direct, “I don’t want to hear any of that nickname shit anymore. No Crash, no Lefty. No more putting each other down. Job’s hard enough as it is.”

Langdon laughs and puts on his puppy dog eyes, gazing over at you as if that could help him get off Jack’s shit list when he’s already deep in it. “Aw, but Lefty doesn’t mind, do you?”

Jack slams his hand on the counter and snaps, “If I hear you call her that one more time, we’re going to have a serious problem.”

You try to squeak out, “It’s okay.”

When he turns to you, all the anger leaves his face. There’s nothing but softness, that desire to help you right at the surface. “It’s not. It’s really, really not okay with me. Give us a second, ace.” After you scamper away, headed back to your intended patient (suppressing a smile because you know Jack is about to ream Langdon on your behalf), Jack tugs Langdon close by his scrub top. Frank’s never seen his eyes so dark. “Don’t say it again. Or you’re gonna be ‘Righty.’”

Langdon rolls his eyes to hide his nerves. “And what’s that mean, gramps?”

“You’ll have nothing left when I’m done with you.” Jack lets go of Langdon’s shirt and shoves the center of his chest. “Better yet? Stay away from her. Until HR’s reviewed your case from yesterday, I don’t want you within six feet of her.”

“I think that’s a little bit of an overreaction to-”

“You don’t want to see me overreacting,” Jack bites back. His words are gravel to be picked out of an open wound. “Do your job. That’s it.”

The shift is a killer. The kind you’ve been dreading all week. It’s non-stop energy. As a med student, you spend the whole night running around from doctor to doctor, nurse to nurse, jumping in wherever they need you and clearing up paperwork and doing all kinds of scut. The flow is intoxicating and stressful at once, both rejuvenating and draining. You feel your adrenaline spike every time the exhaustion threatens.

But, every step of the way, there’s Jack. He’s a whirlwind, but he’s always there. A touch to your waist, a quick word of affirmation, maybe just a brief moment of eye contact to ground you. Even when he’s not actually by your side, you hear his voice in your head. Great work, ace. Smooth and steady. You know this. You’ve got this. Somewhere amid the chaos, that voice mingles with your own. You start to actually believe in yourself again. Jack’s been the scaffolding, but you’re still the structure he’s been repairing. Your breaks have been mended, your scars patched. And in the surfing wake of Jack’s healing, you’ve remembered that you’re worth something on your own. Even when you lose sight of it, that can’t truly be taken from you.

You’re so deep in the rhythm of the shift that you barely notice the night passing. By the time Dana taps your shoulder to remind you to take your last break, you’re practically glowing because you’re so proud of yourself for getting through emergency after emergency without breaking down. With your Gatorade and granola bar in hand, you peek around for Jack and frown when he isn’t in any of the usual spots. Because it’s become commonplace, you shoot him a text: i cant find you anywhere :(

His text back is almost instant. Just enough time to take his phone from his pocket and type. Roof.

You’re in the elevator within seconds. The ride up feels ten times as long as usual and the final set of stairs to the roof access is even worse.

Jack’s right where you expect. Where he often is this time of night. Watching the sunrise over the city. His silver hair is illuminated by glowing pink and orange, making him positively radiant as he smiles at you. “Good morning, ace.”

You join him by the railing, taking in the sunshine and opening up your granola bar with a smile stained to your lips. “Morning, Jack.”

His eyes trace every line of your face. A tiny smirk plays with his lips as he notices, “You’re smiling again.”

“I’m happy,” you hum in return. “I did a thoracostomy all by myself. Shen said I was perfect.”

Jack has to bite his cheek to resist the urge to scoop you up and spin you around. He’s been fighting all week to see that self-assured smile he loves so much. “I’m sure you were. That’s my girl.”

Those two words reverberate around your chest, warm and cozy. The two of you stand in comfortable silence for a minute, you finishing off your granola bar and him admiring either you or the city depending on if you’re at risk of catching him staring or not. As you tuck your trash in your pocket, you nibble your lip a moment and then tell him, “It’s been really nice working so closely with you this week, Jack.”

Eyes linked with yours, he assures, “The feeling’s mutual.”

You want to ask if that’s the only feeling that’s mutual.

But you can’t bring yourself to. The fear of his rejection is too heavy. After days of coming to rely on his strength, you can’t imagine blowing it and losing the foundation you’ve built. Anxious all of a sudden, you ask him softly, “You really don’t think it’s kind of, I don’t know, pathetic to be so affected by some shitty one-off dom ditching me?”

Jack scoffs and turns toward you properly. “Pathetic?” He gives your hand a quick squeeze, shakes his head, and explains, “When you open yourself up like that to a partner, it’s sacred. It means everything. You’re saying, ‘hey, here’s all of me,’ even if it’s new. For someone – anyone – to take that trust and use it up and then leave without building it back up…” He swallows hard and runs a hand through his curls. You can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “Honestly, that makes me fucking sick. You’re not pathetic in the slightest. He is. If you were my- I would never treat my sub like that. Never.”

You wrinkle your nose like a bunny. “Sounds like I might need to raise my standards.”

“If the standard is basic aftercare and courtesy, I’d definitely agree.” He leans against the railing, tries not to imagine you as his, and asks, “Where do you even meet a chucklefuck like that?”

“FetLife.”

“Figures.” Jack takes a long pull from his water bottle like it’s a beer. “He block you on everything right after?”

You cringe and confirm, “Mhmm.”

“What a dirtbag.” 

“Mostly I’m just mad at myself,” you admit sheepishly. “I was being-” at his challenging eyes, you quickly adjust your wording “-irresponsible. I skipped steps that I usually follow. I wasn’t as thorough as I’ve been in the past. All just because I really need to be-”

You close your mouth and laugh at yourself. Yeah, as close as you and Jack have gotten this week, he definitely doesn’t need to know how that sentence was going to end.

It still goes straight to his cock.

Because he knows.

I really need to be hurt.

I really need to be punished.

I really need to be worshiped.

I really need to be dominated.

Spanked, slapped, bruised, beaten, adored, ordered around, tied up, kissed, devoured, owned.

Jack takes a deep breath and sighs it out. No matter what you need from a dom, he knows exactly how he’d give it to you. But this isn’t the time nor the place to broach the possibility of that. He just tells you, “We’ve all done shit like that when times are tough. The important thing is bouncing back and learning.”

You giggle at the idea. “You’ve made some reckless kinky decisions?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he laughs. “Last one? Summer 2021. Post-pandemic munchies, if you will.”

Your eyes widen. Jack’s being playful with you. It’s…everything. “Seriously?”

“Ended up hogtied suspended from the ceiling.” He shakes his head at himself again. The way he chuckles is worth drinking down. “I had to use my Alexa to call Robby to get me out. Never gonna live that one down.”

Your brain’s positively tingling. “You’re a switch?”

“No,” he confirms, saying it like the idea’s ridiculous, “but I like to try things out myself before I have a sub do them. Call it a safety obsession. I don’t screw around with unnecessary risk. Submission is a gift; I protect that gift. Treasure it.”

Fuck, that’s hot.

You want to drop to your knees.

He can taste it in the air.

Into the way-too-thick silence, Jack urges, “So stop punishing yourself. We all crave that connection and sometimes it gets the better of us. Just keep yourself safe; that’s all you can do.” Then he opens up his arms and offers, “C’mere.”

It’s impossible not to slide into the embrace. The morning air nips at your ears but Jack’s warmth counteracts everything. Your hands settle just below his ribs; you can feel the taut muscles beneath his shirt where you fist your fingers in the fabric. He sighs into the hug, deepening it with his breath, and you just breathe together like that for a minute. Maybe two. Maybe five. In, out. Jack, you.

“You’ve done such a good job this week. It’s so hard to put yourself back together when someone takes advantage of you,” he murmurs against your ear. “I’m so proud of you.”

Sweet and placid as soothing chemicals bristle through your body, a mix of lightness and laughing and desire, you coo against his impossibly broad chest, “Thank you, daddy.”

The moment you hear the word tumble from your lips, you stagger away from him like you’ve been shot. Anxiety strangles you. All of the calm, earned confidence of the previous moment sloughs off and sheds at your feet, leaving you raw and exposed. “Oh god- Oh god I- I’m so sorry. That wasn’t- I don’t know why I said that. I was just feeling so safe and- I promise that- Fuck fuck fuck I’m so-”

“Don’t you dare,” he almost snarls, the sudden flare not directed at you but at anything that’s ever made you believe it. The low rumble of his voice is downright possessive. “Don’t you dare call yourself stupid again after all the progress you’ve made this week.”

Jack takes your hand and tugs you back to face him. Close. No disgust in his eyes like you’d feared. Tears flood your cheeks and land on your chest, darkening your shirt. You’re on the verge of hyperventilating now. You can’t bear to look at him, the shame too hot and too alive, so he bends down, catches your eyes, wipes your tears. He pulls you into an embrace and kisses your hair, over and over, until you realize he’s not shutting you down but letting you in.

When he feels you shaking from the intensity of your vulnerability, he rests his chin on your head, creating a cocoon with his body, and breathes, “My sweet, sensitive girl. I hate that you’ve had to be so scared and so brave when all you need to thrive is someone to take care of you.” Touching his forehead to yours, he pleads tenderly, “Would you let me take care of you?”

Your heart’s fast-beating in your throat.

The sun’s risen now and the sky is blue.

The sky is blue.

Jack’s pager goes off and he sighs, checking it with furrowed brows. The bubble of the moment pops. Still, he doesn’t move. He holds you. Lets the intensity fade naturally. He urges, “I need to get back onto the floor, sweetheart. Would you come home with me so we can talk?”

“I think-” You swallow hard and try to tamp down the butterflies whirling around inside of you at a thousand miles a minute. Deep breath. You bite your lower lip a minute, then smile, then nod. “I think I’d like that, Jack.”

He kisses your forehead. It lingers a moment. Like he’s breathing you in to fortify himself for the rest of the shift. “Wait by my car at the end of your shift.”

It’s actually Jack who ends up waiting for you, but he doesn’t seem to mind as you jog up to his truck with a bashful smile. Sweat clings to your hairline from the last few tasks of the night and your scrubs are rumpled and you know you look like hell, but Jack’s gazing at you like a damn princess on a throne. He wraps you in a quick hug and confirms, “You still okay with this?”

“Completely and totally,” you confirm – but your voice shakes a bit. It’s a mix of nerves and excitement and adoration and so many more things you don’t even have words for.

Jack notices. Of course he does. He makes sure nobody can see the two of you around his truck and then leans in, hand going gingerly to the side of your face. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m nervous,” you admit, biting your lip for a moment.

Jack touches his thumb to the place where your teeth connect. “We need to work on that habit.”

Your cheeks warm, especially hot where his hand lingers. “We?”

He gives you a cute, sly smirk. “I have a funny feeling that I’m going to be holding you accountable very soon.” Dropping his hand, he walks you around to the passenger’s side, opens the door for you, and then goes back to slide in next to you on the bench seat. Turning over the engine and heading out of the parking lot with his arm slung behind your shoulders, he urges, “Tell me what you’re nervous about.”

It takes a minute to recover from the feeling of Jack’s arm hair tickling the back of your neck, so simple and so sexy it’s hard to think straight. When you’ve finally accepted that Jack is comfortable with touching you so easily now, you glance at him sideways and reply, “I just like you, honestly. A lot. And I feel like maybe this could be, y’know, something big. Something good and important and- and real.”

His eyes flick over to yours. His expression manages to be both teasing and warm. “And that makes you nervous.”

“Yeah.” You stifle the corresponding laugh that threatens. “Really nervous.”

His hand slides from the back of your neck, down your arm, and to your thigh. Even through your scrubs, the touch sparks with electricity. “I’m sure I can fix that in no time.”

Your breath catches in your throat and a nervous laugh makes its way out. “Touching my thigh certainly isn’t helping with the nerves.”

“Your nerves aren’t a bad thing,” he replies simply. His hand slides toward your inner thigh, pinky brushing the seam. “That just means you care about how this goes. You’ll feel better the more comfortable you get and you’ll get more comfortable when you realize I’m not going anywhere.” Then, as he pulls off into a lush neighborhood full of old, cozy family homes surrounded by spring blooms, he tells you, almost whispering, “I’m nervous too, if that helps.”

You scoff, torn between wondering which of these expensive houses belongs to Jack and actually paying attention to him. “What could you possibly be nervous about? You’re the hot salt-and-pepper doctor who always swoops in to save the day. I’ve seen enough Grey’s to know where that gets you.”

He eyes you and chuckles. “Brain dead due to a delayed CT scan?”

“I meant more ‘able to fuck any med student you want,’ but I’m absolutely thrilled to know you’ve seen the show.”

As he parks the truck in the driveway of perhaps the cutest storybook house you’ve ever seen, he replies modestly, “Well, I’ve never wanted to fuck a student before.”

Giggling so that you don’t have to acknowledge the butterflies once again launching into your chest, you tease, “I don’t believe you for a second.”

Jack snickers; the idea is so ridiculous to him. “Cross my heart.”

He gets out of the truck and then opens your door, offering a hand to help you down the step. When you’re on your feet, he grabs your backpack and shoulders it along with his own. Then he leads you inside the front door, which opens into a living room outfitted in soft fabrics and neutral tones. You’d pegged Jack for being modern and industrial, lots of leathers and woods, but the reality is far more intimate and endearing.

Like he can read your mind, Jack mutters, “Don’t be too impressed; I hired some lady who wore too much turquoise to pick all the stuff out when I bought the place.”

“It’s nice,” you say, really only speaking so that you don’t retreat back into your nerves.

He nods toward the nearby couch – plush boucle like a cloud – and says, “Sit down; I’ll bring you something to eat and then you can shower.”

“I don’t have a change of clothes.”

He sets both your bags on the floor and says, “I’ll grab you something of mine to wear.”

Once you’re sitting on the couch, your posture a little too stiff, Jack kneels in front of you. He methodically unties each of your shoes and then slides them off your feet to set by the door where he’s abandoned his. Your heart stutters. He’s so fucking gentle with you. After pressing a kiss to each of your knees, he stretches himself upwards and instructs, “Just relax for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

As he leaves the living room for the adjacent kitchen, you try to get comfortable. You imagine Jack curled up here with a book or his laptop, walking up the nearby stairs to his bedroom, which has a lofted split-level balcony overlooking the living room. Fuck, his bedroom. You’re going to find out what Jack Abbot’s bedroom looks like. Does he have a soft mattress or a firm one? Does he sleep on one side or in the center? Does he make his bed before work? Shit, of course he does. That’s obvious from, well, everything  about him.

Jack returns with two steaming plates of fried rice and orange chicken, already apologizing as he sits by your side. “Not the sexiest meal I could’ve offered, but I didn’t think we’d be doing this tonight.”

“Leftover takeout is fucking perfect after tonight,” you assure him, digging in right away. After you’re satisfied by a few bites, you nudge his knee with your own and ask, “Didn’t think we’d be doing it tonight or didn’t think we’d be doing it at all?”

“Tonight,” he replies. Blunt. Immediate. “I didn’t want to push you. Or do things too soon. Be too much. But I wasn’t going to let you go home thinking you’d made a mistake by calling me-”

“Don’t say it,” you blurt out. “It’s too embarrassing.”

“I’m not allowed to say it?” Mischief lights up his eyes and he turns his body properly towards you, setting his plate on the coffee table. Then he says, way too sexy for his own good when he’s being torturously cutesy, “Daddy, daddy, daddy. Thank you, daddy. Hi, daddy. Yes, daddy. I need it, daddy.”

You shriek, hands flying over your face. “Jack, please!”

“Oooh, I love that one,” he purrs, pouncing on you like a leopard. You lean onto your back as he cages you between his arms. A grin splits your lips open even if you’re way too exposed to meet his eyes. His knee slots between your legs, right against your core, and delight bubbles up in your core. He nips up your neck and teases mercilessly, “Please, daddy, stop it, daddy, I’m so embarrassed, daddy, it’s too much, daddy.”

Your face is absolutely burning and you squirm in your skin, covering your silly grin because Jack’s lightness is so delicious you can hardly stand it. “Fine, fine! It’s not embarrassing, you win!”

Finally he relents, letting you breathe in the laughing quiet, and says, “I liked when you called me daddy. A lot. I hope it wasn’t for the last time.”

And then you’re kissing him.

You physically can’t stop yourself from pulling him down by his scrub top, letting him bracket you with his weight, and crashing your lips into his. You’ll forever remember the way he laughs into that first kiss, bright and vibrant, not shying away from being as silly with you as he is sweet and stern. When you pull back, a little breathless, you insist, “It definitely wasn’t the last time.”

He kisses you again. Slower this time. Tongue gentle but insistent. Hand on your waist, over your stomach, in your hair. Against your lips, he murmurs, “Good girl.”

And you know you’re done for. You’re soaking wet from thirty seconds of teasing and your mind is a serene summer lake. He’s got you. Hook. Line. Sinker.

Jack maneuvers himself off of you, shaking his head and laughing under his breath one more time.

The two of you finish eating in a charged but comfortable silence, legs brushing, smiles threatening, everything becoming easy. Your nerves are still beyond present but they’re hotter now, sharper, more exciting. You don’t dread; you want.

After clearing your plates – he insists that you don’t need to do anything – Jack offers you his hand and says, “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s go upstairs.”

You take his hand eagerly. Outside of the hospital, you don’t have to worry about anything when it comes to Jack. Neither of you ever mentions this being an out-of-bounds relationship, whether because of age or status, because it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but Jack’s hand around yours, leading you up the stairs toward his bedroom suite.

It’s perfectly neat, which you’d expected, but there are undeniably more signs of Jack here. It’s his sanctuary. The books on his shelves downstairs are neat and new; the ones in here are dog-eared and leafed through time and time again. Elbow crutches lean against the wall next to the bed. On the nightstand, there’s a pair of reading glasses, a folded plug-in heating pad, a small black Moleskine notebook, and an old-school analog alarm clock.

Jack opens up the door to the spacious en suite bathroom and the closet before telling you, “Have a shower. I’ll use one of the guest bathrooms.” He throws a wink at you and adds, “Figured you’d like a chance to snoop uninterrupted.”

You scrunch up your face. “Okay, you’re not wrong, and I hate you for that, but what about your shower chair? Pull bars? Don’t make things harder for yourself for me.”

“You’re so considerate,” he sighs affectionately. A little quieter, he adds, “You’re so fucking special; you have no idea.” After another beat, he goes on, “All the showers in the house are accessible, though, so don't worry. Lots of other stuff around the place, too – lower table and counters so I can use my chair while I cook, pull-down shelves so I don’t have to strain, voice-activated lights so I don’t have to move. New construction perks.”

“That’s awesome,” you say, sounding almost drunk, very distracted by the fact that he’s stripping off his shirt and tossing it in his hamper. Absently, you add, “I’ll have to think about what I can do in my apartment to make things easier.”

He smiles to himself again. Considerate. He loves loves loves that about you. Even though he wants to say ‘just stay here with me whenever you want,’ he’s grateful for your thoughtfulness. You’ll make the perfect little plaything for him, always eager to please. If it were any other day, he’d tease you unrelentingly for how you’re ogling his bare chest, make you list off every pathetic thought you’re having when you see him, but this morning, he has other goals. So he just repeats, “Shower. The towels on the rack are clean. Take whatever you want to wear from the closet. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

You nod obediently, feeling yourself slipping into a soft headspace with Jack watching out for you every step of the way. He gives you one more soft kiss before leaving you alone. Since he invited you to, you decide to do just a little snooping. The bathroom is categorically boring. There’s supplies for caring for his residual limb, a perfectly organized skincare routine that impresses you, and a medicine cabinet that screams of order. Medication labels facing out – an antidepressant and a blood pressure pill, not particularly surprising – next to a pill case that’s clearly never experienced a missed dose. Naturally, Jack Abbot is a religious floss pick and mouth wash user.

Showering with Jack’s products is weirdly and wonderfully intimate. You’re wrapped up in his scent, all woodsy and sharp and masculine, as steam curls around your body like a lover’s touch. The water pressure is amazingly harsh and there are shower heads on both far walls. It’s built for showering together. God, you’ve never met someone who manages to be so hot when he isn’t even in the room.

After your shower, it’s time for snooping in the closet. The surface level is boring – how could one man own so many white, gray, black, and navy clothes? – but you find some hidden gems. For example, most of his boxer briefs are patterned. Red hearts, peaches, bumble bees, dinosaurs. There’s so many you wonder if he has one of those subscription services for new cute ones every month or something. He’s also got a collection of old band tour tees. If these are all from concerts, he must’ve spent a few years dirtbagging following bands around. Green Day, Nirvana, Oasis, Blink-182. You tug on a Rage Against the Machine one, worn and soft, and some heather gray boxer briefs.

Once you’re dressed, you discover an entire dresser in his closet dedicated to kink gear, neatly organized and methodically maintained. Ropes in different colors and materials, sets of restraints from cuffs to straps, implements you only recognize from the couple of clubs you’ve visited where more experienced people did scenes for everyone. Crops in more than one size, a bamboo paddle full of holes, a many-tailed flogger, a fiberglass cane. An entire range of sensations waiting to be inflicted. A ball gag, a bone bit gag, a ring gag with a large opening. The toy collection is particularly impressive. Dizzying almost. A flight of butt plugs in different sizes alongside small and large beads, different clit-sucking toys, vibrating wands from pocket-sized to plug-in beasts. Your nightstand drawer pales in comparison, even with your blindfold and bunny tail plug at the ready.

Your whole body’s tingling with anticipation.

Suddenly Jack’s voice behind you snaps you back into reality. “Snoop to your heart’s content?”

You turn to him, eyes widening when you see him still shirtless, gray sweats slung low, the outline of his soft cock mouthwatering. You give a sheepish smile and admit, “I absolutely did.”

He takes a step closer. Predator to prey. “Find anything you like?”

“Mhmm.”

“Want to share with the class?”

You shake your head and giggle, “Uh-uh.”

“Keeping your cards close to your chest I see.” He smirks and closes the distance between you, hands going to your waist. Discovering the slope of your hips. His thumbs rub circles along yours sides. His eyes devour you. He runs his fingers lightly beneath the hem of the tee, checking to see which one you’re wearing, and praises, “You look good in my clothes.”

“You look good. Period.” Finally, you let yourself touch him. Careful. Your fingertips on his stomach. You can feel the strength of his stomach beneath a soft layer of comfy middle age fat. His chest hair is wispy and silver. Freckles dust his shoulders, sparkling down his chest and arms. You dip down and kiss a few particularly enticing clusters, just needing to taste his skin, clean and yielding. He hisses in a breath when your lips make contact with his collarbones. You feel his abs flex beneath your hands like he’s holding himself back from demolishing you. Lifting your eyes again, you tell him, “You’re really beautiful, Jack.”

“And you’re exceptionally sweet,” he replies. Studying your expression like only he can, Jack checks in, “How are you feeling? Tired? Nervous?”

You shake your head and nudge up onto your toes so your lips are even with each other. You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, give him a soft kiss, and murmur, “Horny.”

As he chuckles – you’re getting addicted to his low raspy laugh – you deepen the kiss and press yourself against him. The warmth of his chest, the safety of his arms. His hands go to your waist and then they part, one going to loop around to your lower back and the other cradling the back of your head. Embracing you. Cradling you. Cherishing you.

You feel his cock hardening against your hip and try not to smile too self-satisfactorially. Honestly, it boosts your ego a bit to know you get him as worked up as he gets you. You reach down to palm him through the sweats with a hungry little moan when you feel how thick he is.

Then Jack’s hand covers yours. When your eyes open in surprise, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your fingers, telling you, “Not today, baby.”

Your eyes water immediately. Your headspace is so vulnerable that rejection feels unbearably heavy, especially from Jack. Blinking back the tears that make you feel pathetic, you manage to whimper out, “You don’t want me?”

Jack shakes his head ardently, seriously, and assures, “I want you, sweetheart. I want you more than anything.” Touch as soft as if he were handling a Fabergé egg, his thumb traces your cheek and his eyes stay on your face. He explains, low, slow, serious, “But I’m not going to fuck you today. Right now, you don’t need my dick; you need someone to take care of you. I want to be that someone for you from now on.”

Hope and gratitude pools inside you. “From now on?”

He smiles at you, so warm it’s like a home-cooked meal in the dead of winter. “This week I’ve realized I can’t go on pretending I don’t want you to be mine – and only mine.”

You repeat gently, “Yours.”

“Mine.” His first finger drags along your jawline. Inspecting. Discovering. “If you’ll have me.”

You give a tiny nod and gently whisper, “I need you. I want you.”

“Then I make the decisions today. I decide what you need from me and when – because you obviously need me to tell you what to do, you silly little thing.”

As you start melting beneath his intense, owning gaze, he positions you in the center of the room. Trying not to squirm under his gaze, you ask, “If you’re not going to fuck me, what are you going to do?”

Jack’s lips trace the tendons of your neck. The only contact between you. He places feather-soft kisses that make your toes curl. When his lips reach your pulse point, just beneath your ear, he breathes out, “I’m going to worship you.”

“Jack, I-” You swallow hard and let out a deeply pathetic high-pitched whine as his breath tickles your rising goosebumps. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” he replies easily. You can tell he’s being so sincere and so wanting as he insists, “Let me do all the thinking. Just let go for me. Let me take everything for you. Can you do that?”

Despite your shaking breath, you tell him, “I’ll try.”

“That’ll do for now,” he assures, pressing another soft kiss to your forehead. Then he steps back and informs you, “I’m going to take a good long look at you now. I want to learn every inch of my new favorite toy. Is that okay?”

“Very okay,” you confirm breathily. The word ‘toy’ has sent you through the stratosphere and into the stars. “And you don’t have to ask permission.”

“I do,” he corrects, eyes roving along your limbs instead of meeting yours. Though you can see the lust plain as day in the pink of his cheeks and the quickening of his breath, his gaze is more scrutinizing than desiring. Clinical. Doctor Jack Abbot. “Until we establish your safewords and I learn to read you, I’m always going to ask when I start something new. You’re in charge here.”

Even though you nod, you definitely don’t feel in charge when he starts to examine you like a piece of furniture he’s thinking about buying. First, he takes your shirt off. It’s borderline unceremonious; the fabric is nothing more than a distraction between him and his possession. That’s what you feel like. A possession. His hand-selected treasure to keep and cherish and know. When the air conditioning perks up your nipples, your breaths get heavier and you squirm, shifting your weight eagerly from foot to foot just to get some friction against your clit.

In that gravelly voice of his, he orders,“Be good.”

God, he’s reading your mind.

Then he lifts one of your arms, turning your hand over to expose your pulse, where he places a kiss that embeds itself into your veins and pumps straight to your heart. Then he lifts your arm with one hand and drags the other down your side, tracing the entire length of you from fingertip to hip, stopping only at the waistband of your underwear. When he grazes the side of your breast, not paying attention to the sensitive skin but just skating by, you can literally feel wetness pooling between your legs. Which is new. You usually have to use lube or a hell of a lot of foreplay with a new partner, but you have a feeling that getting you wet isn’t going to be an issue for Jack.

And he’s noticed.

Of course he has.

On his way to the other side of your body, he taps your inner thigh and orders, “Widen your stance.”

Once you do, his fingers drag up the damp center of his own gray boxer briefs, darkened with your wetness, eyes locked to your face to memorize every reaction. He bends down to kiss your stomach and then over your hip, tongue writing in cursive along the stretch marks you’ve had since puberty. He runs his index finger underneath the waistband of the underwear, still refusing to touch you anywhere that you really crave. He smiles, almost to himself, and coos, “You’re already being so good for me, baby. I’m going to have so much fun with you.”

Breathily, you moan, “Jack, if you’re not gonna fuck me, you should probably stop turning me on so much.”

His movements still and he gazes back up at you with challenging eyes. “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to get you off.”

You whimper. Literally whimper.

Jack tugs down the underwear, carefully sliding them down your legs and then helping you step out of them. His hands roam all along your legs, bristling every single hair follicle and goosebump and nerve, the whole time he’s talking. Unrelenting touch. “Look, baby, sometime soon – very fucking soon if I have anything to do with it – we’re going to sit down and have a good long talk. I’m going to write down all of your limits and commit them to memory and tell you mine. You’re going to tell me all about your history with doms and vice versa. You’ll tell me every single thing your brain and that pretty little pussy of yours want – no matter how embarrassed that makes you. And I’m going to use all that information to be the best fucking dom you’ve ever had. The kind you actually deserve.”

With your breaths speeding up and shallowing, Jack finally touches your nipples. One thumb on each. So gentle. So fucking stupidly awfully gentle. Barely more than a ghosting breath. Somehow that’s way sexier than if he shoved you onto the bed and took you as hard and as fast as you know he’s craving. His self control is honey.

Standing up again, Jack rests his hands on your waist, kisses you, and says, “Until then – until I know everything I need to know – you have to be good and take what I’ll give you. No brattines or begging. Because the most important thing to me is always going to be keeping you safe, princess. You’re still coming out of some really nasty sub drop; I’m not going to do anything intense to you right now that might send you back under. And I’m always intense when I’m fucking.” His eyes own yours and he goes on, “I’m just gonna get you off enough times to know you’ll sleep well in your new daddy’s bed. That sound good to you, sweet girl?”

You nod eagerly, chest rising and falling with lust as he plays with you.

Jack tuts, the sort of sound you’d make at a puppy having an accident. With his dominant fingers teasing gently through your pubic hair, he instructs, “You have to use your words with me. You’re gonna figure it out soon enough on your own, but I’m big on talking. Wanna hear that sweet voice say the filthiest things. Tell me what you want.”

You bite your lower lip until his eyes catch you red-handed. You’re so desperate for him that you’re stupid all of a sudden – stupid in the best way. Not the ‘stupid’ you’ve been weaponizing against yourself. No, this thoughtlessness is safe and breezy. It’s anticipation and toes curling and trust. You’ve never had a dom place so much focus on you. Not just tossing you around and calling you names but getting inside of your head and making you viscerally present in the moment. It has you tongue-tied and wide-eyed.

Jack crosses his arms over his chest and insists, “I’ll wait as long as it takes. Deep breaths.”

You match your breathing with his for a minute, one thing that always makes you calm down. He notices, slowing his breaths, guiding you without saying a word. When you can finally come up with the words, they’re so wanting and breathless it honestly surprises you even in your current state: “Touch me, daddy.”

Pure want blows Jack’s pupils wide and dark and all-consuming.

“There’s my good girl,” he purrs, closing the small distance between your bodies. “On the bed. Spread your legs and get comfortable. And I mean actually comfortable – don’t try to pose yourself for me. I promise you’re always going to look sexiest when you’re not overthinking it. Understood?”

With lust filling your every nook and pore, you sit back on the large, comfortable bed’s silky soft linens and tell him, mustering the confidence you know he wants, “Understood.”

He gives you an approving nod – so you get comfortable. You move his many pillows around until you’re fully supported and relaxed. Legs spread. His eyes are locked onto your glistening pussy, so inviting to him it might as well be his drug of choice. He sits in front of you on the bed and breathes, “Jesus, your body is…fucking perfect. No other way to say it. I’ve imagined this so many times I can’t believe you’re even more gorgeous than I pictured.”

“You’ve pictured me naked?”

Unashamed, he grabs rough handfuls of your inner thighs just to watch you gasp and writhe as he answers, “Absolutely. I’ve spent hours and hours on these thighs alone.”

Jack bends down and drags his teeth over your sensitive flesh. His canines dig in just slightly, clearly testing the waters, learning your sensitivity. He lets up only when you let out a sharp cry, nowhere near your personal limit but enough to discover your first pain threshold.

“And your hips,” he croons, kissing one as he grips the other. His hands are so strong and commanding; you can’t help imagining how good that exact grip would feel wrapped around your neck while he pounds into you. As his thumbs rub circles into your waist, he sighs, “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined bending you over just so I can grab these perfect fucking hips. Look so good even in your damn scrubs.”

Then he finally lets himself gaze at your tits. He’s looking at your body like you’re a piece of meat. You never understood that phrase until now; Jack Abbot looks like he wants to devour you. Stone-cold serious, he nods and remarks, “These may be the prettiest nipples I’ve ever seen in my twenty years as a doctor.”

You let out a self-conscious laugh. “That’s your medical opinion?”

“Purely objective, I assure you,” he replies, wearing that sexy smirk of his. Then he bends down, one palm by your head, and wraps his lips around one of your nipples. The way his eyes flutter shut spikes your confidence like little else ever has. He’s positively rapturous. He really has been envisioning this moment longer than you would’ve let yourself dare believe. When he sucks hard, he pinches and rolls the other side between his thumb and forefinger. Instinctively, your legs snap up to wrap around his hips as you gasp. With a satisfied groan, he lets up and confirms, “Yup, the best. Objectively the best.”

Then he gives you a slow, unhurried kiss. His index finger tilts your chin upward and he tells you, voice like a lullaby, “Only thing better is this pretty face of yours.” His thumb parts your lips, gently brushing the tender places where you bite your lower lip. “I’m going to take the best care of you, princess. Treat you better than you even thought possible.”

You believe him.

You believe him.

In response, you open your lips further and take his thumb into your mouth. When you swirl your tongue around the digit, he fights to suppress a moan. You see it in the flex of his stomach and the setting of his jaw. He admires the shape of your lips wrapped around him, imagining how lovely it’ll be to watch them stretch around his cock. Soon, he reminds himself so that he can stay calm. As he withdraws his thumb slowly, he poses, “Fuck, you’re gonna take care of me, too, aren’t you?”

You nod, all mischievous and coy. “I’m gonna be your new favorite hobby.”

“I don’t have a single doubt about it,” he chuckles. Drawing his hand down once more – your neck, your chest, your stomach, your pubic hair – he orders, “Now look me in the eye while I fuck you with my fingers for the first time.”

He knows you’re fucking soaked, so there’s no question of whether or not you can happily and comfortable take his two fingers sliding into your entrance. As he gradually pushes them inside, you let out a sound that starts as a moan and turns into a squeaky, pathetic little thing that lights Jack’s brain on fire with need. Your eyes start to roll back from finally getting the attention you need, but Jack grabs your jaw with his free hand and forces your face to center. “I said look at me.”

Your doe eyes lock onto his.

He curls his fingers back toward himself, right against your g-spot, and your mouth falls open with pleasure and need. His thumb moves upward to find your clit effortlessly, adding firm pressure. You nearly weep out, “Thank you, daddy.”

Jack smiles in earnest. “You’re welcome, baby. You can relax now. Just enjoy yourself for a while.”

You half-giggle/half-moan, “Yes, sir.”

Jack snickers. “Mmm. That’s what I like to hear, pretty girl.”

Then the time for talking and flirting is over. Jack shifts his weight so he can focus completely on getting you off. He twists his wrist so that you feel the full thickness of his two middle fingers as he works them in and out of you, not so much thrusting as massaging. At the same time, the fingers of his other hand replace his thumb, adding more precise pressure around your clit in methodical circles. You go between watching Jack’s rapt face, locked on your swollen pussy, and closing your eyes, lost in the way his fingers stretch you and please you.

You feel the orgasm building for a hell of a long time before Jack finally lets you fall over the precipice into pleasure. It’s slow and controlled, the way he works you up, like carefully turning a corkscrew. So when he does finally decide you’re ready to cum – you’re grinding against his hand, moaning and whining, babbling out cute little pleas – it’s champagne. You burst into a million bubbles that run down Jack’s greedy hand and wrist.

The whole time, there’s his voice. Insistent and low. Good girl, that’s it, right there, huh? Joining you all the way through. Never letting you get lost. When you open your eyes at the peak, you find his hazels staring back at you. His tousled hair. His freckles. His everything.

When you’ve finally simmered through all the aftershocks, you expect Jack to pull back and put you to sleep. But he doesn’t. He leans forward and replaces one of his hands with his mouth, tongue effervescent on your over-sensitive clit. You whine out his name and he just grunts into your pussy, making it perfectly clear that he won’t be letting up any time soon. Not until he’s satisfied with how totally blissed out he can get you using nothing but his mouth and hands. It’s an ego high like no other to have you losing yourself all over his tongue. His high-strung, deeply competent student turned into nothing but babbles and whines like a needy toddler.

With you falling – no, leaping – into that perfectly simple headspace where nothing exists but the bliss between your legs, Jack lets himself get drunk on your taste. Bitter and sweet, creamy and sharp, like a custom cocktail of summertime and holidays. He’s finding himself dipping in deeper, nose on your clit, tongue deep in your cunt, just chasing the high  of you.

He feels a fresh wave of wetness and your pussy fluttering around his fingers and he knows you’re close again. Your moans get deeper and slower. You’re relaxing into him now – no hiding, no acting, just pure admission of need. He can feel you becoming his as surely as he can feel the muscles of your thighs tightening around his ears and neck. No better accessory than a woman getting off. Jack focuses his tongue’s attention on your clit, staying firm and strong against it, while his fingers speed up and grow more intense. Curling. Insistent. Fuck, his forearms look so good when he’s pumping his hand like this. When he adds a third finger to your hungry cunt, your whole body shudders, back arching, thighs clamping, fingers in Jack’s hair, moans rolling out of your mouth and down your body and straight into Jack’s ears.

You cum again and think that has to be it – you’ve never even been together before, for Christ’s sake – but Jack doesn’t let up. Not completely. His turns his touches slow and light, caressing instead of consuming, but you’re the exact opposite – bucking like a bronco from the overstimulation of him latching onto your swollen, sensitive clit. You whimper out, “Too much, Jack. I- I can’t-”

Because it’s new and you’re at where you’re at, Jack listens. He carefully withdraws his fingers from inside of you, licks them clean, and moves up the bed. On top of you not, propped on his hands, he plants blooming kisses over your face, your warm cheeks and your sweat-sheen forehead. In between gentle kisses, he asks you, “Think you can do one more for me, baby girl?”

Eyes wide and hazy, you reply, “I- I dunno, daddy. Dunno anything.”

He smirks and runs his thumb across your lower lip, all swollen and cute from biting while you got off. He checks, “The good kind of ‘dunno anything’ or the bad kind?”

“Good kind,” you giggle back, all bashful and sweet as you nudge up to catch another kiss. Then you nuzzle into his shoulder, pulling him down to embrace you and breathing in his scent. “Feel really good, Jackie.”

“Jackie,” he repeats with a chuckle. “Been a hell of a long time since anyone called me that.”

You pull back and look at him with eyes on the verge of watering. “Is that okay?”

He places a firm kiss on your forehead and assures, “Honey, you can call me whatever the hell you want as long as you’re mine. You’re too good and too cute for me to deny you anything.”

You give him a silly grin. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.” He turns you both onto your sides and asks, “Now, do you want more or do you want to get ready for bed?”

You shake your head, still buried in the crook of Jack’s shoulder, and murmur, “You pick.”

“Uh-uh,” he tuts. After kissing your temple, he insists, “Not this time. We’re not skipping any steps here; I can’t learn what you need when you need it if you don’t know and tell me first.”

You go still for a minute and then look at him with something close to anxiety in your eyes. Jack clocks it: Fear of rejection. “I think I’m ready to be done and go to bed. Is that okay?”

Jack feels that familiar flicker of protectiveness in his gut. He holds your chin and his expression turns serious. “You are always allowed to be done. Even when we reach the point where I’m making all the decisions and you’re just my dumb little slut following orders, you’re safe to tell me whatever you need whenever you need it.”

You poke him in the chest and giggle again, “You’re whipped already, Dr. Abbot.”

“Yeah, I am,” he admits freely. “All I want is to be yours.”

Jack stands up next to the bed, loops his arms beneath your body, and lifts you like it’s no big deal. You squeal out of a laugh and he smiles back, the perfect mix of silly and strong. 

He takes you into the en suite bathroom, sits you on the low countertop next to the sink, and orders, “Open your mouth, sweetheart.” You do so without question and get met with another lovely ‘good girl’ that makes your heart dance, more of a waltz than a tango now that you’re coming down. Jack’s brow furrows in concentration like he’s performing a complex procedure as he brushes your teeth, covering each quadrant with military precision. His free hand holds your chin carefully so he can tilt your head based on the teeth he’s cleaning.

Once he’s satisfied with his work, he lifts a cup of water to your lips and says, “Swish and spit.”

Again, you follow his orders. Folding into Jack’s guidance is so natural for you. It’s easy. And in a life where so many things are so fucking hard, that’s worth everything. Then he winds floss around his fingers and you sleepily offer, “You don’t have to do all that.”

“I’m going to,” he responds plainly. Opening up your mouth again and getting to work, he says, “I take care of what’s mine. When you’re with me, you don’t have to do anything for yourself unless you want to.” He throws the floss out and kisses the tip of your nose. “I always tend to my pet.”

You make a low, remorseful sound and turn your head into your elbow. “I didn’t get anything done.” 

“Well, that’s a relief. That’d be like doing work even though you’ve asked for the week off.” 

“I’m gonna be so behind.” Your voice is mumbly, too quiet for Sirius to hear without leaning his head down close to yours. “I wanted to do more, but I fell asleep.” 

Sirius rests his cheek on your shoulder and winds his arms around your middle. He can hear the rattle in your chest when you inhale. “Let’s go to bed, sweetheart.” 

You allow him to stand you up and puppet you to the bedroom. A small pile of tissues has accumulated on Sirius’ side of the bed since he left for work this morning; he sweeps them off in a show of feigned indignation and gets in with you. 

You lay an arm over your eyes as Sirius rolls on top of you, finding the place where your shirt has ridden up over your stomach and kissing your navel reverently. 

“Do you want some soup?” 

“I want to go back to work.” 

“Fuck me, capitalism really is taking our most gorgeous girls.” He kisses you again. “I know you don’t really mean that, darling. Say it isn’t so.” 

“I’m gonna have so much to do when I get back,” you sigh. “It’s making me nervous thinking about it all piling up. I just wanted to try and get a head start.” 

Sirius sighs. He rests his cheek on your tummy, your feverish skin like a heated pillow. “You’re burning up,” he tells you, earnest now. “This is no state to be doing work in. I wish you would work on getting better instead.” 

Your arm lowers so you can look down at him. You sniff pitiably. “I thought I was getting better earlier.” 

He pouts. “I know, baby. I hoped you were, too.” 

The corners of your mouth lift. “Sorry, is my flu inconvenient for you?” 

“Yes, actually. I’m on a kiss ban, if you recall,” says Sirius, only half faking his huffiness. He thinks it’s a foregone conclusion that he’ll catch your flu anyway, but you still refuse to let him near your face. He kisses your stomach again to console himself. “If you were healthy enough to crawl across the bed, you’d see where I’ve been tallying the days on the wall like a prison inmate.” 

“Sorry to deprive you.” 

“Thank you. It’s nice to receive at least some compassion for my suffering through all of this.” Sirius grins. 

Instead of retorting, you bring a hand to his hair, carding your fingers through so that your nails scratch lightly against his scalp. The poor underside of your nose is chapped, Sirius notes. You look tuckered out just from this conversation. 

“Sure you don’t want some more of your soup?” he asks softly. 

You shake your head. “Just lay here with me?” 

Just ahead, in the wide expanse of asphalt between the impossibly sleek, futuristic structures of the McLaren and Red Bull motorhomes, are Oscar Piastri and Lando Norris. The tension of the impending qualifying session seems to have bypassed them entirely. They’re in their full race kits, minus the helmets, their hair damp with a pre-race sweat. A simple black and white football bounces between them.

It's a lazy, fluid rhythm. The ball arcs from Lando’s knee to Oscar’s chest, where he cushions it dead before volleying it back with the inside of his foot. They aren't speaking, just moving in the easy, comfortable silence of longtime teammates and friends. It's so disarmingly normal, so achingly human, that it makes your breath catch in your throat. This isn’t something you see on a broadcast. This is a stolen moment, and you’re a thief for watching it.

“Oh my god,” Beth breathes, fumbling with her phone. “Get a picture.”

“No, don’t,” you hiss, grabbing her arm. “Let them have their space. We’re not supposed to …”

Your words are swallowed by the scene. Lando laughs, a bright, familiar sound that makes your stomach flutter, as he attempts an overly ambitious flick. The ball spins wide, and Oscar jogs a few steps to intercept it, his movements economical and precise. He stops it with his right foot, a picture of calm concentration.

He looks up, just for a second, and his eyes — cool and impossibly focused — sweep over the area. They don't linger on you. You're just part of the scenery, another face in the blur. He gives Lando a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

“Getting sloppy, mate,” Oscar calls out, his voice a low, calm murmur that barely carries over the ambient noise. The Australian lilt is subtle, but it’s there.

Lando grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Just lulling you into a false sense of security. Show me what you’ve got, then.”

Oscar juggles the ball once, twice, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips. It’s the smile you’ve seen in a hundred post-race interviews — reserved, a little shy, but genuine. He shifts his weight, positioning himself for a clean pass back to Lando, who’s now standing a good twenty feet away, near the entrance to the Red Bull hospitality suite.

This is the moment the universe decides to stop glitching and start actively conspiring against you.

From Oscar’s point of view, it’s a simple calculation. A routine he’s performed thousands of times. He sees Lando, sees the space, gauges the power. His mind is already halfway to the garage, running through the qualifying plan, sector by sector. This is just muscle memory. A final, mindless release of nervous energy before being strapped into a carbon fibre rocket ship.

He draws his right foot back. The motion is clean, fluid, athletic. It should be a perfect, low chip that lands right at Lando’s feet.

But a mechanic from another team, his arms laden with a stack of tires, cuts directly through Oscar’s intended flight path. A sudden, unexpected obstacle. Oscar’s brain registers it a millisecond too late. He tries to adjust, to pull back, but the command is already halfway to his foot. He overcompensates. Instead of a soft chip, he connects with the ball with the full force of his instep. The connection is too clean, too powerful.

The ball doesn't arc. It shoots. A black and white missile.

It rockets past the mechanic, past a startled-looking influencer who ducks instinctively, past the spot where Lando was standing.

And it flies directly towards the two girls who had stopped to watch, the ones who were trying to look like they belonged. The ones with the wide, starstruck eyes.

From your perspective, time slows to a thick, syrupy crawl. One second, you’re admiring the effortless grace of a world-class athlete. The next, a sphere of stitched leather is expanding in your vision at an impossible, terrifying speed.

There is no time to react. No time to raise your hands, to turn your head, to even flinch.

There is only the ball.

And then, a concussive, explosive thump.

A universe of white-hot, blinding pain erupts from the bridge of your nose, radiating outwards through your sinuses, your teeth, your skull. The sound is less of a crack and more of a wet, sickening crunch that you feel deep in your bones. Stars, genuine and cartoonishly bright, burst behind your eyelids. The world tilts on its axis, the vibrant colours of the paddock smearing into a nauseating blur.

Your hands fly to your face, a useless, reflexive gesture. You feel a gush of warmth spill over your fingers, slick and hot.

“Oh, God!” Beth shrieks beside you.

Your knees give out. The meticulously clean asphalt of the paddock rushes up to meet you, and you land hard, the impact jarring your already screaming head. You’re on all fours, head bowed, the world a dizzying, spinning mess. A low moan escapes your throat, a sound you don’t even recognize as your own.

The world outside your personal bubble of agony is a sudden explosion of chaos.

“Oh, bloody hell!”

The voice is Oscar’s, sharp with a kind of strangled panic that is utterly alien to his public persona. The calm is gone. The focus is shattered.

Footsteps pound against the pavement, frantic and fast.

“Oscar! Mate, what did you—Oh my God.” That’s Lando, his voice an octave higher than usual.

Two pairs of race-booted feet skid to a halt in front of you. You can’t look up. Your entire consciousness has shrunk to the throbbing, shattered epicentre of your face. You can feel the blood dripping from your chin now, spattering onto the pristine ground.

“Are you alright? Oh God, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” Oscar is kneeling in front of you, his voice urgent, laced with pure, undiluted horror. He’s reaching out, his hands hovering uselessly in the air, terrified to touch you.

You try to answer, to say “I’m fine” out of some deeply ingrained, polite instinct, but the only thing that comes out is a choked, wet sob. The taste of salt and iron floods your mouth.

“Is she okay?” Lando asks, his voice tight with alarm. He’s addressing Beth, who is now kneeling beside you, her own face pale with shock.

“I-I don’t know! You hit her in the face! With the ball!” Beth’s voice is shaky, accusatory.

“I know! I know, I didn’t mean to!” Oscar sounds desperate. “It was … I was aiming for Lando. Someone walked in the way. I’m so, so sorry.”

He shifts his weight, getting closer. You can smell the faint, clean scent of his fireproofs, a strange counterpoint to the coppery smell of your own blood.

“Can you look at me?” He asks, his voice softer now, but no less panicked. “Please? We need to see how bad it is.”

You shake your head, which is a colossal mistake. A fresh wave of agony and nausea washes over you. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to hold the world together.

“Don’t move your head,” he says quickly. “Okay, okay, don’t move.”

“Her nose,” Beth says, her voice trembling. “I think … I think it’s broken.”

A heavy silence hangs in the air for a beat, thick with the unsaid. Oscar lets out a low curse under his breath.

“Right. Okay. Medic. We need a medic,” he says, his voice taking on a new urgency. He turns his head. “Zak! Arthur! Can we get a medic over here? Now!”

His voice, usually so measured, cracks with the strain. He’s yelling now, and you can feel the vibrations of it in your chest. You’re dimly aware of more people approaching, of the circle around you tightening. The low murmur of the paddock has been replaced by a focused, localized clamor. Your personal, humiliating clamor.

“What’s going on here?” A new voice, this one with an American accent. Sharp, authoritative.

“I hit her with the ball, Zak,” Oscar says, his voice strained. “It was an accident. I think her nose is broken. We need a doctor.”

“Jesus Christ, Oscar.”

You risk a glance, cracking one eye open. Through a watery, blood-tinged haze, you see the concerned face of Zak Brown looking down at you. Behind him, more McLaren personnel are gathering, their faces a mixture of alarm and professional concern.

This is a nightmare. This is a fever dream. You’re bleeding all over the ground in front of the McLaren motorhome, with half the team, including both drivers, staring at you like you’re a car crash. Which, you suppose, you sort of are.

“It’s okay, we’re getting someone,” Lando says, trying to be reassuring, but he just sounds as freaked out as everyone else. “They’re coming. Just stay still.”

“I am so, so sorry,” Oscar repeats. It seems to be the only thing he can say. He’s still kneeling there, a few feet away, looking utterly helpless. His face, usually a mask of calm composure, is etched with guilt and raw panic. He looks younger than he does on TV. He just looks like a kid who has made a terrible mistake and has no idea how to fix it.

“You’re bleeding a lot,” Beth says quietly, her hand resting gently on your back. “Can you try to tilt your head forward a little? Not back.”

You follow her instructions numbly, letting your head hang as more blood drips onto the asphalt. Each drop feels like a confession of your own mortification.

A woman in a McLaren polo shirt with a radio pressed to her ear arrives. “Medical team is on their way. They’ll take her to the care centre.”

“Oscar, Lando, we need you in the garage,” Zak says, his voice firm but not unkind. “Qualifying starts in twelve minutes.”

“No,” Oscar says immediately, shaking his head. “No, I’m not leaving. I did this.”

“You are,” Zak insists. “There’s nothing you can do here now. The medics will handle it. We have a session to prepare for. Let’s go.”

“Zak, I just broke a girl’s nose,” Oscar argues, his voice rising in disbelief. He gestures wildly at you, a crumpled, bleeding heap on the ground. “I can’t just walk away and go drive a race car.”

“You absolutely can, and you absolutely will,” another voice cuts in, this one belonging to a man with a clipboard and a stern expression. Your brain vaguely supplies the name Andrea Stella. “Let the medical professionals do their job. Your job is in that car. Now.”

He puts a firm hand on Oscar’s shoulder. Lando is already being herded away by another team member, casting a worried look back over his shoulder.

“Go on, Lando. Get your head in the game.”

“Is she gonna be okay?” Lando asks, his eyes wide.

“She’ll be fine. Go.”

Oscar doesn’t move. He’s still looking at you, his expression a chaotic storm of regret and frustration. “I can’t just go.”

“Oscar.” Stella’s voice is iron. “Now.”

He gives Oscar’s shoulder a gentle but insistent tug. The finality in the gesture is clear. Oscar knows he’s lost the argument. His shoulders slump in defeat. He looks utterly wrecked.

As Stella begins to pull him to his feet, Oscar leans forward, his eyes locking with yours for the first time. You’re still looking at him through a curtain of pain and tears, but you see the raw apology in his gaze. It’s so intense it almost hurts as much as your nose.

“Wait,” he says, resisting the pull for one last second. He addresses you directly, his voice low and rushed. “Please, don’t leave. After qualifying, I’ll … I’ll find you. The medical tent, okay? I’ll find you there. I promise.”

He searches your face, desperate for some kind of acknowledgement, some sign of forgiveness you are in no condition to give.

“I am so unbelievably sorry,” he says again, his voice cracking on the last word. “I’ll make this up to you. I promise.”

And then he’s gone. Pulled away into the current of the team, swallowed by the urgency of the sport, leaving you on the cold, hard ground with the smell of his fireproofs, the echo of his panicked promise, and a face full of shattered bone and blood.

Two uniformed medics arrive, their movements calm and efficient in the wake of the storm. They begin asking you questions, their voices a soothing drone that you can’t quite process. Beth is answering for you, her voice still shaky but getting stronger, more assertive.

They help you sit up, pressing a wad of gauze to your nose that you immediately soak through. The world is still spinning, but the sharp edges of the pain are beginning to dull into a deep, throbbing ache that seems to have taken up residence in your entire skull.

As they gently help you to your feet, preparing to walk you to the medical centre, your gaze drifts towards the McLaren garage. For a fleeting second, you think you see him, a flash of papaya orange standing by the entrance, looking back towards you before being pushed inside.

Then the garage door rolls down, a final, definitive curtain on the most surreal and painful ten minutes of your life. And you’re left with only one thought, circling endlessly in your concussed, throbbing head.

Oscar Piastri broke your nose. And he promised he would find you.

***

The world inside the McLaren garage is a pressure cooker of sound and motion. The moment Oscar’s MCL39 rolls into its bay, it’s swarmed. Fans whir, laptops are flipped open, and a dozen sets of hands descend on the car. He kills the engine, the sudden silence in his ears a deafening roar. For the last hour, his universe has been nothing but the scream of the engine, the voice of his race engineer, and the laser-focused task of wrestling two-tenths of a second from a strip of asphalt.

But the bubble has burst. And the first thought that crashes into his brain, more potent than the G-force he just endured, is your face. Crumpled. Bleeding.

He unbuckles his harness with frantic, clumsy fingers and rips his helmet off. The cool air of the garage hits his sweat-soaked hair. His trainer, Kim, is there instantly, holding a water bottle and a towel. Oscar ignores them both. His eyes find Lando, who is already clambering out of his car a few feet away, being mobbed by ecstatic engineers. P1. Lando got pole. The garage is electric with it.

“YES, LANDO! GET IN!”

“MEGA JOB, MATE! MEGA!”

Lando is grinning, a wide, euphoric smile as he’s pulled into a series of back-slapping hugs. He’s earned it. He was flawless.

Oscar feels a pang of something that isn’t jealousy. It’s a hollow, churning guilt. He finished P2. It feels like ash in his mouth. He knows, with a certainty that settles deep in his gut, that the pole position was lost in the twenty feet between his foot and your face. He was distracted. He drove angry. Angry at himself, at the stupid football, at the entire godforsaken situation. He’d left a girl bleeding on the ground. How could he possibly find the last few thousandths of a second after that?

“Good job, Oscar! P2, fantastic result for the team,” his engineer, Tom, says, clapping him on the shoulder.

Oscar just nods, his eyes still fixed on Lando, who is now being handed the black P1 cap for the post-qualifying interviews. An idea — a terrible, frantic, brilliant idea — sparks in Oscar’s mind.

“I need that hat,” he mutters.

“What?” Tom asks, leaning in closer over the din. “Need a what?”

But Oscar is already moving. He pushes past Kim, past Tom, and stalks towards the celebratory huddle around Lando. He’s a man possessed. Lando sees him coming, his grin faltering slightly at the wild, haunted look in Oscar’s eyes.

“Osc, mate, we did it! Front row!” Lando shouts, ready for a hug.

Oscar doesn’t hug him. He reaches out and snatches the P1 cap right off Lando’s head.

“Hey!” Lando yelps, his hand flying to his now-bare head. “What the hell?”

“I need this,” Oscar says, his voice tight. He turns, his eyes scanning the garage like a hawk. He spots a PR officer, a young woman named Annie, who is holding a clipboard and a black Sharpie. He strides over to her.

“Annie, give me your marker.” It’s not a request.

She blinks, startled. “Uh … Oscar, the media pen is waiting for …”

“The marker,” he repeats, holding out his hand, his expression bordering on unhinged. She wordlessly hands him the Sharpie. He clicks it open and shoves it, along with the cap, back into Lando’s chest.

“Sign it,” he commands.

Lando stares at him, utterly bewildered. He’s surrounded by cheering mechanics, Zak is beaming, and his teammate looks like he’s in the middle of a nervous breakdown. “Sign … my own hat?”

“Yes. Sign it. Now.”

“Why?” Lando asks, his voice a mix of amusement and genuine concern. “Are you okay? You look a bit … traumatized.”

“I am traumatized!” Oscar hisses, his voice low and intense. “I am responsible for a traumatic event that has caused trauma. For which I need to atone. Sign the hat, Lando.”

Lando, deciding it’s easier to just go along with whatever strange ritual this is, takes the pen and scribbles his signature across the brim of the cap. “There. Happy?”

Oscar snatches the signed cap back. “No.”

He looks down at his own feet, at the custom-fit, fire-retardant race boots. Another piece of the puzzle clicks into place in his frantic mind. It’s weird. It’s definitely weird. But he’s committed now. He leans against the workbench, unzips the boots, and pulls them off, his sweaty socks steaming in the cool garage air.

“What are you doing?” Tom asks, his face a perfect mask of professional confusion. “Oscar, we have debrief in twenty.”

“I can’t.” Oscar is holding the signed cap in one hand and his race boots, which smell faintly of rubber and foot, in the other. He looks around, his eyes landing on the head of hospitality, a perpetually unflappable man named Bradley. Oscar makes a beeline for him, his socks sliding on the smooth concrete floor.

“Bradley!”

Bradley turns, one eyebrow raised at the sight of his driver in his socks, clutching a bizarre assortment of items. “Oscar. Congratulations. Shall we arrange the usual for your family?”

“No. Yes. I mean, later. I need something else,” Oscar says, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I need two VIP passes. The full experience. Paddock Club, garage tour, the works.”

“Of course. For which race?” Bradley asks, pulling out his tablet.

“I don’t know yet,” Oscar says, shaking his head. “She gets to pick. The girl. The one I hit with the ball. She gets to pick any race on the calendar, and she and a friend get the best tickets you can possibly imagine. Money is no object. Bill it to me, I don’t care. Can you do that? Just have the vouchers or whatever ready. I’ll let you know the names and the race later.”

Bradley looks from Oscar’s wild eyes to the boots in his hand and seems to make a swift calculation that arguing is futile. “Consider it done, Oscar. I’ll have a confirmation packet drawn up.”

“Thank you,” Oscar breathes, a fraction of the tension leaving his shoulders. He turns to leave.

“Oscar!” It’s Zak, his arm outstretched to stop him. “Media pen. Let’s go. Great day for the team.”

Oscar sidesteps him. “Can’t. Sorry, Zak.”

“What do you mean, you can’t? It’s mandatory.”

“I have to go find her,” Oscar says, as if this is the most logical explanation in the world. He waves the boots and cap. “I have to apologize.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He pushes through the throng of people at the back of the garage, ignoring the calls of his name from his engineers, his PR team, his trainer.

“Oscar, your cool-down!”

“Oscar, Sky Sports is waiting!”

“Oscar, for God’s sake, put some shoes on!”

He’s a blur of papaya and white, a man on a holy mission, sock-footing his way through the most exclusive square kilometer in sports. He strides past the other motorhomes, earning more than a few strange looks. He doesn’t care. He has a singular destination. The medical tent.

***

The medical tent is an oasis of calm, antiseptic silence. The contrast to the paddock is so jarring it makes your head ache, or maybe that’s just the broken nose. You’re sitting on the edge of a narrow bed covered in crinkly paper, a large, intimidatingly white bandage taped across your face. Underneath it, your nose is packed with what feels like a metric ton of cotton. You can’t breathe through it, so you’re forced to take shallow, open-mouthed breaths that make your throat feel dry and scratchy.

The doctor, a kind woman with gentle hands and a calm voice, has just finished explaining that yes, it’s definitely broken. A clean break, she’d called it, as if that were some sort of consolation. She’d given you a dose of a powerful painkiller that has wrapped your brain in a thick, soupy fog, dulling the sharp, stabbing pain into a distant throb. Two magnificent black eyes are beginning to bloom across your cheekbones, a colorful testament to your terrible luck.

“Well,” Beth says, trying for a light tone and failing miserably. She’s perched on a plastic chair beside you, scrolling nervously through her phone. “On the bright side, you met Oscar Piastri.”

You shoot her a glare that you hope conveys your deep and profound unimpressedness. “He tried to decapitate me with a soccer ball, Beth. That’s not ‘meeting’. That’s an assault.”

“A very apologetic assault,” she counters. “He seemed genuinely horrified. And, you have to admit, it’s a way better story than just getting a selfie.”

“I’d rather have the selfie and an intact nasal cavity,” you mumble, your voice nasally and thick.

You look down at your shirt. It’s spattered with blood. Your favourite shirt. You feel a fresh wave of misery wash over you. You just want to go back to your hotel room, order a disgusting amount of room service, and sleep for a week.

The flap of the medical tent is thrust open so violently it makes you jump. And there he is.

Oscar Piastri, in the flesh. He’s still in his race suit, though it’s unzipped to the waist, revealing the sweat-damp base layer underneath. His hair is a mess, his face is flushed with exertion and something else — anxiety. His eyes, clear and startlingly intense, immediately find yours. He’s holding a hat, a pair of racing boots, and he isn’t wearing any shoes.

He just stands there for a second, panting slightly, taking in the scene: you, looking like you just went ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer; the sterile white walls, Beth, whose jaw has dropped.

“Hi,” he says, his voice breathy. He takes a hesitant step inside. “They said you were in here. I am … God, I am so sorry.”

He walks towards you, his socked feet silent on the linoleum floor. He stops a few feet from the bed, looking utterly lost.

“Your face,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. He winces, as if looking at you is causing him physical pain. “It’s … is it broken?”

You nod slowly, the motion sending a dull throb through your skull. “Clean break,” you manage to say, the words thick and foreign in your mouth.

“Bloody hell,” he breathes, running a hand through his already chaotic hair. “I knew it. I am so, so, so sorry. There is nothing I can say to tell you how sorry I am. This is entirely my fault. I’m an idiot. I was just messing around and I wasn’t paying attention and … I’m so sorry.”

He’s rambling, his usual calm, measured speech pattern completely gone, replaced by a torrent of panicked apology. He seems to remember the items in his hands, thrusting them forward like a bizarre peace offering.

“Here,” he says. “This is for you.”

He holds out the cap. You stare at it. It’s the P1 hat. Lando Norris’s signature is scrawled across the brim.

“Lando got pole,” he explains, as if this makes perfect sense. “So this is his hat. I made him sign it for you.”

You take the hat from him, your fingers brushing his. His hand is warm and slightly calloused. The gesture is so surreal, so utterly insane, that a small, hysterical laugh bubbles up in your throat. It hurts your nose, so you cut it off with a wince.

“And these,” he says, crouching down and placing his race boots carefully on the floor beside the bed. They look impossibly light, crafted from some space-age material, and are caked with dust and grime from the track. “They’re my boots. From today. I finished P2 in them.” He pauses, looking at the boots, then back up at you. A flicker of self-awareness dawns in his eyes. “That’s … that’s a bit weird, isn’t it? Giving you my sweaty shoes. I don’t know what I was thinking. I just felt like I had to give you something. Something from today. As an apology. It was a stupid idea. You can throw them away if you want. Or sell them. I don’t know.”

You and Beth just stare at him. Oscar Piastri is on the floor of the medical tent, having a minor existential crisis over the appropriateness of giving you his shoes. The painkillers, the broken nose, the sheer strangeness of the last hour — it all combines into a feeling of complete and utter detachment from reality.

Beth finds her voice first. “You … you ran here in your socks?”

Oscar looks down at his feet as if just noticing them. “Oh. Yeah. I guess I did. I was in a bit of a hurry.”

He stands up, looking deeply uncomfortable and out of place. He’s a finely tuned athlete, a man who operates with millimeter precision at 200 miles per hour, and right now he looks like a teenage boy who just accidentally crashed his dad’s car.

“That’s not the real apology,” he says quickly, trying to recover. “The real apology is … I spoke to our hospitality manager. And I have arranged for you and your friend,” he glances at Beth, “to be my personal guests at any race for the rest of the season. Or next season. Whichever you want.”

You blink. The fog in your brain parts for a moment. “What?”

“Any race,” he repeats, his earnestness radiating off him in waves. “Monza, Singapore, Vegas, Abu Dhabi … your choice. We’ll fly you out, put you up in a hotel, give you the full VIP Paddock Club experience. Garage tours, pit lane walks, everything. The best tickets money can buy. Which is good, because I’m buying them.” He swallows, his gaze fixed on you. “I know it doesn’t fix … this,” he gestures vaguely at your bandaged face. “But it’s the only thing I could think of to even begin to make up for it. For ruining your day. Your face.”

He trails off, looking miserable.

The silence in the tent stretches. Beth looks at you, her eyes wider than you’ve ever seen them. This is a grand gesture of epic, romcom-finale proportions. It’s ludicrous. It’s insane. It’s also … incredibly, unbelievably sweet.

“You’d really do that?” You ask, your voice small.

“Of course,” he says without a moment’s hesitation. “You can pick tomorrow. Or next week. Whenever you’re feeling up to it. Just let my team know. They’ll handle everything.”

You look down at the P1 cap in your hands, then at the race-worn boots on the floor. He broke your nose, and in a fit of panicked guilt, he’s offering you the world on a silver platter. He blew off his media duties, ran across the paddock in his socks, and is offering an apology so extravagant it’s almost comical. And all you can see is the genuine, gut-wrenching remorse in his eyes.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say.

A visible wave of relief washes over him. His shoulders, which had been tensed up to his ears, drop an inch. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, a little firmer this time. You’re still in pain, you’re still miserable, and you have a long, painful week of recovery ahead of you. But in this strange, quiet, antiseptic-smelling tent, something has shifted.

The story of the day you went to the Grand Prix is no longer just about how you got your nose broken by a stray football. It’s suddenly about something else entirely.

***

The Abu Dhabi air is a thick, humid blanket, clinging to Oscar’s skin as he walks from the driver’s room to the garage. The sun has begun its slow, spectacular descent, painting the sky in fiery strokes of orange and purple that reflect off the glass facades of the Yas Marina circuit. It’s beautiful. He doesn’t notice.

His world has shrunk to the size of a pinhead. All that exists is the next few hours. The start sequence, the tire strategy, the delicate, brutal dance of managing a Formula 1 car on the absolute ragged edge for fifty-eight laps. The weight of the World Drivers’ Championship presses down on his shoulders, a physical, tangible thing. It’s all come down to this. Him and Lando. Teammates. Friends. And for the next two hours, his only rival.

“Hydration good?” Arthur, his trainer, asks, falling into step beside him. “Energy levels?”

“Fine, Arthur. I’m fine,” Oscar says, his voice flat. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, a deliberate tunnel vision designed to block out the swarm of media, the sea of faces, the sheer, overwhelming scale of the moment.

He’s been in this bubble all weekend. He’s barely spoken to anyone outside his core engineering team. He eats, sleeps, and breathes data, telemetry, and strategy. He’s built a fortress in his mind, and the walls are a thousand feet thick. Nothing gets in.

But as they round the corner, cutting past the sprawling McLaren hospitality suite, a crack appears in the wall.

It’s just a flash. A flicker of movement on the terrace, a woman turning her head, her laughter catching the light. For a single, crystal-clear moment that seems to exist outside of time, his eyes lock on her. She’s wearing a simple black dress, her hair is down, and she’s smiling a smile so bright it seems to generate its own light. There’s a faint, silvery scar on the bridge of her nose, almost invisible unless you were the one who put it there.

His heart stutters. A jolt, sharp and electric, shoots through him.

It’s you. The girl with the broken nose. The girl from that qualifying session months ago, the one whose face has been a recurring, guilt-ridden image in the back of his mind. He hasn’t heard a word since his team’s legal department confirmed you had accepted the VIP package. He’d asked Bradley a few times which race she’d chosen, but Bradley had been evasively professional. “We’re handling it, Oscar. All sorted.” He’d eventually dropped it, figuring you’d chosen a race earlier in the season and he’d simply missed you.

But there you are. Here. Now. On the most important day of his professional life. And you look … whole. Healthy. The bruises are gone, the swelling is a distant memory. He’d only ever seen your face contorted in pain, and now, seeing it relaxed and happy, is a revelation. You’re beautiful. The thought is so clear and intrusive it knocks the breath out of him.

“Oscar, let’s go. Andrea’s waiting.” Arthur’s hand is on his arm, gently but firmly steering him forward.

Oscar tries to look back, to get a second glance, to confirm that his pressure-addled brain isn’t just conjuring ghosts. But the angle is wrong, and a throng of guests blocks his view. You’re gone.

“Did you see …” He starts, but trails off.

“See what?” Arthur asks, his eyes scanning the area for a potential threat or distraction.

Oscar shakes his head. “Nothing. Thought I saw someone I knew.”

It couldn’t have been her. It’s too much of a coincidence. His mind is playing tricks on him, manifesting his lingering guilt at the worst possible moment. He dismisses it, shoves the image down, and rebuilds the wall in his mind, brick by painstaking brick. He can’t afford the distraction. Not today.

By the time he straps into the car, the ghost is gone. All that remains is the pinhead. The start lights. The engine. The championship.

***

The race is a fever dream. A relentless, high-speed chess match where every move is made at 200 miles per hour. Lando gets a better start, nosing ahead into Turn 1. Oscar’s heart is in his throat, but he holds his nerve, slotting in behind him. The gap between them for the next forty laps is never more than two seconds. They are perfectly, brutally matched.

He lives through the radio, Tom’s voice a calm, steady anchor in the screaming chaos.

“Okay, Oscar, Lando is pitting. It’s go-time. We need everything you’ve got.”

He pushes. He drives with a controlled fury, his hands a blur on the wheel, his inputs impossibly smooth. The tires scream, the car slides, but he holds it, wringing every last millisecond out of the machine. The pit stop is a symphony of motion, over and out in 2.1 seconds. He emerges from the pit lane just as Lando’s papaya car flashes past. Still P2.

The laps wind down. Ten to go. Five. Three. The gap is 0.8 seconds. Lando’s tires are beginning to fade. Oscar’s are, too, but he can feel he has more left. He can see Lando sliding in the low-speed corners, fighting the car. The opportunity is coming.

Two laps to go. He gets a massive exit out of the chicane, the DRS on his rear wing snaps open, and he’s a rocket ship down the back straight. He pulls alongside Lando, wheels inches apart. For a moment, they are perfectly level, two friends, two teammates, fighting for the ultimate prize. Oscar brakes later, deeper, forcing his car up the inside into the hairpin. He makes it stick. He’s in the lead.

The final lap is the longest of his life. He doesn’t breathe. He just drives, his focus absolute. He crosses the finish line, and the world explodes.

“YES! YES, OSCAR! YOU’VE DONE IT! YOU ARE THE WORLD CHAMPION! YOU ARE THE WORLD CHAMPION!” Tom’s voice is raw, shredded with emotion.

A sound rips from Oscar’s throat, a strangled, guttural sob of pure relief. He’s screaming, crying, laughing all at once. The weight that has been sitting on him for months, for years, for his entire life, simply evaporates. He is floating.

“Thank you, guys,” he chokes out, his voice thick. “Thank you, everyone. Unbelievable. Just … unbelievable.”

The cool-down lap is a blur of waving flags and cheering fans. He pulls into parc fermé, right under the P1 sign. He sits in the car for a long moment, head bowed, hands still gripping the wheel, trying to absorb the impossible reality of what he has just achieved. 2025 Formula 1 World Drivers' Champion.

The hours that follow are a chaotic whirlwind of joy. He’s mobbed by his team, lifted onto their shoulders. He hugs his parents until his ribs ache. The podium ceremony is a champagne-soaked dream. He stands on the top step, the Australian anthem playing, and searches the crowd, a sea of celebrating faces. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for.

He finds Lando in the hallway before the media pen. There are no cameras, just the two of them. Lando is sitting on a bench, staring at the floor, the P2 cap in his hands. The fierce joy of Oscar’s victory is immediately tempered by the quiet pain of his friend’s defeat.

“Mate,” Oscar says softly, sitting down next to him.

Lando looks up. The disappointment in his eyes is vast, but there’s no anger. Just a deep, weary sadness. He manages a small smile.

“World Champion, huh?” He says, his voice quiet. “Sounds good.”

“I’m sorry,” Oscar says, and he means it.

Lando shakes his head. “Don’t be. You drove a mega race. A mega season. You earned it.” He bumps his shoulder against Oscar’s. “Just … do me a favour and get slower now you’ve won one.”

Oscar laughs, a real, genuine laugh. “No promises.”

The team celebration in the garage is pure pandemonium. Music blasts, corks fly, and Oscar is passed from one champagne-drenched hug to another. He celebrates with every mechanic, every engineer, every member of the hospitality staff who helped get him here. It’s a roaring, joyous, exhausting blur.

Hours later, the official team party at a beachside hotel is in full swing. The adrenaline has long since worn off, leaving Oscar with a profound, bone-deep exhaustion and a strange, floating sense of peace. He’s done it. The goal that has consumed his entire life has been achieved. He feels a quiet sense of what now?

He’s nursing a beer, having switched from champagne hours ago, leaning against a pillar and just watching his team celebrate. Zak is telling a story, gesticulating wildly. Andrea is smiling, a rare and genuine sight. Lando is in the middle of a dance circle, looking like he’s put the day’s disappointment behind him for the night.

“You’re not celebrating,” a voice says beside him. It’s Tom.

“I am,” Oscar says with a smile. “Just quietly. Soaking it in.”

“Well, soak faster. A few of us are heading to W. Some of the other teams are there. It’s the unofficial end-of-season party. You should come.”

Oscar hesitates. All he wants is his bed. But he’s the World Champion. He can’t very well go to sleep before midnight.

“Yeah, alright,” he says. “For a bit.”

***

The club is a different world. It’s dark, sleek, and cavernous, the bass of the music a physical vibration in his chest. The air is cool and smells of expensive perfume and cocktails. It’s packed with the familiar faces of the F1 paddock, all letting their hair down now that the season is finally over. He gets a fresh drink — just a sparkling water, he’s had enough alcohol to last a month — and finds a quieter corner, a leather booth overlooking the chaos of the dance floor.

He watches the pulsing lights, the shifting bodies. He feels strangely detached from it all, an observer in his own victory party. He’s happy. He’s ecstatic. But he’s also just … tired.

And then he sees you.

It’s not a fleeting glimpse this time. You’re standing near the bar with your friend, Beth. You’re talking to one of the Williams mechanics, your head tilted back as you laugh at something he’s said. The strobe lights catch the silver of the scar on your nose. It was you. He wasn’t hallucinating.

His breath catches in his throat. The exhaustion, the detachment, the quiet haze in his mind — it all vanishes, replaced by a sharp, sudden focus. It’s you. You’re here.

He watches you for a long moment, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way it didn't on the final lap. You look incredible. The simple black dress clings to you in all the right ways, and your smile is just as dazzling as it was from a distance. The memory of you, crumpled and bleeding on the asphalt, feels like a scene from another lifetime, a different reality. It’s hard to reconcile that girl with the confident, radiant woman across the room.

He has to go over there. He has to say something. But what? Hi, thanks for coming. Sorry again about the horrific facial injury I inflicted upon you.

He takes a deep breath, pushing himself out of the booth. He feels more nervous now than he did on the starting grid. He weaves his way through the crowd, his eyes never leaving you. As he gets closer, you turn your head, your gaze sweeping across the room.

Your eyes meet his.

The recognition is instant. Your smile falters for a fraction of a second, your eyes widening slightly. The world seems to slow down, the thumping music fading to a dull, distant hum. There is only the crowded space between you and the sudden, undeniable charge in the air.

He stops a few feet away from you. The mechanic you were talking to says something, but you don’t seem to hear him. Beth notices his approach and her jaw drops for the second time in your shared F1 experience.

“Hi,” he says, his voice coming out a little hoarser than he intended.

“Hi,” you reply, your voice a low murmur that he has to strain to hear over the music.

A small, hesitant smile touches your lips. “Congratulations, World Champion.”

The two words hang in the air between you, a fragile bridge across the noisy chasm of the club. Your voice is calm, a little wry, and it cuts through the fog of victory and exhaustion in his head like a searchlight.

“Thanks,” Oscar manages to say, his own voice sounding distant to his ears. He takes a step closer, a magnetic pull he has no intention of fighting. “I, uh … I didn't know you were here. I thought I saw you earlier, before the race, but I figured I was just …”

“Hallucinating?” You finish for him, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “Under the circumstances, I wouldn't have blamed you.”

“Something like that,” he admits, a faint blush rising on his neck. “I asked my team which race you’d picked. They never told me. I guess they didn't want the man responsible for your facial reconstruction getting distracted on the biggest day of his life.”

The joke is clumsy, landing with a thud, and he immediately regrets it. He winces, waiting for your reaction. But you just laugh, a genuine, warm sound that makes the knot in his stomach loosen just a little.

“Probably a smart move on their part,” you say. “Though you should know, my nose was reconstructed with titanium. It’s stronger than ever. You could probably hit it with another football and it would be fine.” You pause, your eyes twinkling. “Please don’t test that theory.”

“I will never, ever go near a football again,” he says, his voice so serious it’s almost a vow. “I swear. I’ve been having nightmares about it.”

“Really?”

“Not really,” he confesses. “But the guilt has been … significant.” He looks at you, properly looks at you, taking in the reality of you standing in front of him. “How is it? Your nose, I mean. Honestly.”

You reach up and touch the bridge of your nose, a light, unconscious gesture. “It’s fine. It aches when it’s about to rain, which makes me feel like I’m eighty years old. And I have this scar.” You lean in a little, tilting your head into the light. “See? The doctor called it a ‘character-building imperfection’.”

He leans in too, his gaze dropping to the faint, silvery line. It’s barely visible, delicate and fine. To him, it looks less like an imperfection and more like a brand, a permanent reminder of his own catastrophic clumsiness.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “For that. For all of it.”

“You gave me a VIP tour of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix and Lando Norris’s sweaty P1 hat,” you counter, your tone light. “I’d say we’re almost even.” You glance down at his feet, then back up at him with a mischievous glint in your eye. “I did end up selling the boots, by the way. Paid my rent for five months with a tidy profit left over. So, really, thank you.”

A surprised laugh escapes him. It’s the first time he’s laughed freely all night, a real, unburdened sound. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” you say with a perfectly straight face, which then breaks into a wide grin. “Of course I’m kidding. They’re sitting in a box in my closet. Beth wants me to build a shrine.”

The easy back-and-forth feels shockingly natural, as if you’ve known each other for years, not just two bizarre, traumatic encounters. The noise of the club, the press of the crowd, the weight of his new title — it all fades into the background. There is only this bubble of space around the two of you.

“So,” he says, searching for a way to keep the conversation going, to keep you here. “Did you enjoy the race? Apart from the constant, looming threat of airborne sporting equipment.”

“It was incredible,” you say, your eyes lighting up. “Watching it from the garage, hearing the comms … it’s a completely different world. And that last-lap overtake was …” You shake your head, at a loss for words. “I think my heart stopped.”

“Mine too,” he admits.

An electric silence falls between you. The music swells, a wave of bass washing over the room. He sees Beth make eye contact with you, raising her eyebrows in a silent, questioning gesture. You give her a subtle shake of the head, a silent command to stay put. You don’t want to leave. He doesn’t want you to leave.

Maybe it’s the six glasses of champagne he had since the podium. Maybe it’s the dizzying, surreal euphoria of achieving his life’s dream. Or maybe it’s just the simple, undeniable fact that he feels more drawn to you than anyone he has ever met. But the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

Your eyebrows shoot up. The playful smile on your face is instantly replaced by a look of amused surprise. “Get out of here? Mr. World Champion, are you asking me back to your room?”

His face flames. Hearing it said so bluntly makes it sound impossibly forward, ridiculously arrogant. “I … yes?” He stammers. “Is that too much? I’m sorry. I’m not usually … I mean, I’m not good at this. The talking. The … this.”

You watch him, a slow, appraising smile returning to your face. You see the confident, untouchable athlete dissolve into a flustered, awkward guy who looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. It’s surprisingly, disarmingly endearing.

“You win the biggest prize in motorsport,” you say, tilting your head. “And the first thing you want to do is go home with the girl whose nose you broke. That’s either incredibly romantic or you have a very specific fetish.”

He chokes on air. “It is absolutely not a fetish.”

“Good to know,” you say, your smile widening. You take a small step closer, closing the remaining space between you. The scent of your perfume, something light and floral, cuts through the stale air of the club. “My hotel is on the other side of the island.” You pause, letting the statement hang in the air. “I assume yours is closer.”

Relief, potent and dizzying, floods his system. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Much closer.”

“Alright then, champion,” you say, your voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. “Lead the way.”

***

The walk back to his hotel is a blur. You slip out a side door, escaping the party unnoticed. The night air is warm and still. You don’t talk much. You don’t need to. The space between you crackles with a nervous, excited energy. His hand keeps brushing yours, sending little jolts up his arm. In the elevator, he finally gives in and takes it, his fingers lacing through yours. Your hand is warm and fits perfectly in his.

His suite is vast and impersonal, a generic landscape of beige furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering marina. The remnants of his race day are scattered around — his helmet on the coffee table, his champagne-soaked race suit slung over a chair.

He closes the door behind you, and the silence is suddenly immense. He feels that same awkwardness creeping back in. He’s a world champion in his own territory, and yet he feels like a teenager on a first date.

“So,” he says, breaking the silence. “This is … the room.”

You turn to face him, a soft smile on your face. You slowly walk towards him, your eyes never leaving his. “It’s a very nice room, Oscar.”

You stop directly in front of him, so close he can feel the warmth radiating from your skin. You reach up, your fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw. His breath hitches.

“For the record,” you whisper. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

And that’s all it takes. The last of his reservations dissolves. He closes the distance, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that is both hesitant and hungry. It’s a kiss that tastes of champagne and victory and a strange, shared history of accidental violence. It’s messy and desperate and absolutely perfect.

His hands go to your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your arms snake around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. The kiss deepens, a silent communication of all the things left unsaid. It’s a release of months of tension — his guilt, your pain, the bizarre, undeniable pull that has existed between you from the moment a football left his foot at the wrong velocity.

Clothes become an inconvenience. The zipper of your dress is cool against his fingertips. The buttons on his shirt give way under your impatient hands. A trail of discarded fabric marks your path from the door to the bedroom. You tumble onto the enormous bed, a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter.

The world outside, the championship, the parties, the press — it all ceases to exist. There is only the soft light from the window, the cool cotton of the sheets, and the intoxicating feeling of your skin against his. His confidence returns, not the arrogance of an athlete, but the quiet certainty of a man who knows he is exactly where he is supposed to be.

Every touch is electric, every kiss a discovery. He feels the delicate, raised line of the scar on your nose under his thumb and a fresh wave of tenderness washes over him. He wants to erase the memory of the pain, to replace it with nothing but this.

Things escalate, the pace quickening. The soft, tender exploration gives way to a deeper, more urgent need. He’s on top of you, propped up on his elbows, his body caging yours. You look up at him, your eyes dark with desire, a small, trusting smile on your lips. The sight of it, of you looking at him like that, makes his head spin.

He leans down to kiss you again, wanting to devour you, to pour every ounce of his victory, his relief, his sheer, overwhelming joy into that single point of contact. He’s lost in the moment, a universe of sensation.

He shifts his weight, wanting to pull you closer, to deepen the kiss, to feel every inch of you against him. It’s a sudden movement, fueled by passion and adrenaline. A clumsy, uncoordinated shift.

His right elbow, moving faster than he intended, slips.

There is a sound. A wet, sickening crunch.

It’s a sound he knows. A sound that is seared into his memory. It’s the sound of bone breaking. It’s the sound of your nose.

For a split second, neither of you moves. The world freezes. The passionate, heavy breathing in the room is replaced by a stunned, absolute silence.

Then, a sharp, ragged gasp escapes your lips. Your hands fly to your face, just as they did that day in the paddock.

Oscar’s blood runs cold. A wave of ice-water horror crashes over him, extinguishing the fire of passion in an instant. He scrambles back, his limbs trembling.

“No,” he whispers, the word a strangled, pathetic sound. “No, no, no, no, no.”

You’re sitting up now, hunched over, your hands cupped over your face. You’re completely still.

“Are you …” He can’t even finish the sentence. The question is too horrifying, too absurd. His mind is short-circuiting. This isn’t happening. This is a stress dream. A nightmare brought on by too much champagne and not enough sleep. It cannot be real.

Then you lower your hands.

A single, perfect drop of crimson blood falls from your nostril, landing starkly against the pristine white of the hotel bedsheet. Another follows, and then another.

You stare down at the spreading red stain on the sheets, your expression not one of pain or anger, but of something far stranger. It’s a look of cosmic disbelief.

You slowly lift your gaze to meet his. He looks absolutely shattered, his face pale with a terror so consuming it seems to have aged him ten years in ten seconds.

A long, heavy moment passes. You take a slow, shaky breath.

And then you speak, your voice eerily calm, laced with a thread of galactic-level exasperation.

“Oscar,” you say, looking from the blood on the sheets to his horrified face. “You really need to stop making a habit out of this.”

Oscar’s brain ceases to function. The words you speak — so calm, so absurd, so utterly unexpected — are a foreign language he cannot process. He just stares at you, at your face, at the blood on the sheets, and his entire world, which just moments ago had been a triumphant, glittering pinnacle, collapses into a black hole of pure, unadulterated horror.

“I … what?” He says, his voice a choked whisper.

“A habit,” you repeat, your voice still unnervingly steady. You press the corner of the duvet to your nose, wincing as the fabric makes contact. “You know, something you do regularly. Like brushing your teeth. Or, in your case, shattering my nasal cartilage.”

The clinical, detached way you say it finally snaps him out of his paralysis. He lurches into motion, a frantic, chaotic scramble.

“Oh my God,” he says, stumbling out of the bed and frantically looking around the room as if the solution to this nightmare is hiding behind a lamp. “Oh my God, not again. I can’t—this isn’t—I am the worst person on Earth.”

“You’re not the worst person on Earth, Oscar,” you say, your voice muffled by the duvet. “But your spatial awareness in moments of passion could use some work.”

“Ice!” He exclaims, a single, brilliant thought piercing the fog of his panic. “We need ice.” He runs to the minibar, yanks it open, and starts pulling out tiny bottles of vodka and overpriced chocolate bars, searching for the microscopic ice tray. “And a doctor. I’m calling Dr. Hughes. He’s the team physician. He’ll know what to do.”

He finds his phone on the nightstand, his fingers shaking so badly it takes him three tries to unlock it.

“Oscar,” you say, your voice firm, cutting through his rising tide of panic. He freezes, phone halfway to his ear, and looks at you. You’ve lowered the duvet. The bleeding is worse now, a steady drip. But your eyes are clear and focused. “Do not call the McLaren team doctor at three o’clock in the morning on the night you won the World Championship to tell him you broke my nose. Again. During …” You wave a hand, searching for the right word. “… an intimate moment.”

He stares at you, the logic of your words slowly penetrating his thick skull. You’re right. The PR fallout from that phone call would be apocalyptic.

“Right,” he says, lowering the phone. “No team doctor. Okay. Right. So, a hospital. We’ll go to a hospital. I’ll get the car.” He starts pulling on his trousers, which are inside out. He doesn’t notice.

“Okay,” you agree.

“I am so sorry,” he says, the words a desperate, repeating mantra. He finally gets his trousers on the right way and shoves his feet into his shoes without socks. “I don’t know how this happened. My elbow just … slipped. I wasn’t—I would never—I swear to God, I’m not normally this … hazardous.”

“I believe you,” you say, and the strange thing is, you do. This wasn’t malice. It was just a freak accident of physics and passion. A one-in-a-billion recurrence.

He finds one of his McLaren hoodies, still smelling faintly of champagne and sweat, and gently helps you put it on over your head. The gesture is so tender, so careful, it’s a stark contrast to the accidental violence of moments before. He helps you off the bed, his arm securely around your waist, treating you as if you’re made of spun glass.

The journey through the silent, opulent hotel and down to the underground car park is a surreal pantomime of stealth and urgency. He has you tucked under his arm, your face hidden in the hood, while he scans every corridor for potential witnesses. They make it to his McLaren, and he settles you into the passenger seat with the care of a bomb disposal expert.

The drive to the hospital is silent for the first five minutes, the only sound the hum of the tires on the immaculate Abu Dhabi asphalt and Oscar’s frantic, shallow breathing. He’s gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white.

“This is, without a doubt, the weirdest night of my life,” you say, finally breaking the silence. Your voice is thick and nasally. You’re holding a wad of tissues he grabbed from the hotel room to your face.

He flinches as if you’d slapped him. “I am so, so, so sorry, Y/N.” He uses your first name, and the sound of it in his mouth, so earnest and broken, makes something in your chest ache.

“I know,” you say softly. “You keep saying that.”

“It’s all I can say,” he replies, his voice cracking. “What else is there? ‘Oops’?”

A small, painful laugh escapes you. “Probably not ‘oops’.”

“I just,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “I win the World Championship. My lifelong dream. And hours later, I’m in a rental car, driving the beautiful girl I was in bed with to the emergency room for the second face-breaking incident I have personally caused her. How is this my life?”

“Maybe you’re cursed,” you suggest. “Maybe you made a deal with the devil. He gives you a world title, but you’re doomed to be a menace to my specific nose for all eternity.”

He glances at you, a flicker of a smile touching his lips before being immediately extinguished by a fresh wave of guilt. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little bit funny,” you insist. “The universe has a strange sense of humor.”

The emergency room at 3:41 AM is the same in Abu Dhabi as it is anywhere else in the world. The lighting is a harsh, unforgiving fluorescent. The air smells of disinfectant and quiet desperation. A handful of other people are scattered around the waiting room, nursing their own late-night maladies.

The check-in process is a masterpiece of awkwardness. Oscar tries to handle it, but he’s so flustered he can barely remember his own name, let alone yours. You end up taking over, calmly explaining to the triage nurse that you had a … fall. And that yes, you think your nose is broken again.

You sit in the uncomfortable plastic chairs, a strange island of high drama in a sea of mundane misery. Oscar doesn’t sit. He paces. He walks back and forth in a three-foot space in front of you, a caged, miserable animal. Every few laps, he stops, looks at you, and opens his mouth as if to apologize again, but you just give him a look, and he resumes his pacing.

A man with a dislocated shoulder, his arm in a makeshift sling, squints at Oscar. “Hey, are you …”

Oscar freezes, his face paling. “No,” he says quickly. “I’m not.”

The man shrugs and goes back to staring at the wall.

After what feels like an eternity, a nurse calls your name. Oscar is on his feet instantly, his hand on the small of your back as he guides you into the examination area.

The doctor is a young, efficient man with tired eyes. He listens patiently to your story about “falling” and then gently probes your face. Oscar hovers by the door, radiating an aura of guilt so powerful it feels like it’s sucking the oxygen out of the room.

“Well,” the doctor says, shining a light up your nostrils. “It seems you have a talent for this. It’s broken. Again. Same place.”

“A talent is one word for it,” you mumble.

“We’ll need to set it,” the doctor says calmly. “It will be unpleasant, but it’s better to do it now. A local anesthetic to numb the area, and then a quick, firm … reset.”

Oscar makes a small, strangled sound from the doorway.

“Would your … friend like to wait outside?” The doctor asks, glancing at the pale, sweating World Champion.

“No,” Oscar says immediately, his voice stronger than you expected. “I’m staying.”

He walks over and stands beside you, taking your hand. His palm is clammy, but his grip is firm and steady.

The anesthetic shots are sharp and stinging, but soon a welcome numbness spreads across your face. The doctor picks up a tool that looks like something from a medieval torture chamber.

“Okay,” he says. “A deep breath. This will be quick.”

Oscar’s grip on your hand tightens. The doctor places the tool inside your nostril, and with a swift, brutal movement, there is a deep, resonant CRACK that you feel all the way down to your teeth.

Your entire body convulses, a strangled cry escaping your throat. But it’s Oscar who flinches harder. His eyes are screwed shut, his face a mask of pure, empathetic agony, as if he felt the bone grate back into place himself.

And then it’s over. The doctor is taping a fresh, clean bandage across your nose. The sharp, blinding pain is already receding, replaced by the familiar, deep, throbbing ache.

They leave you in the room to wait for discharge papers. Oscar pulls a stool over and sits in front of you, still holding your hand. He looks utterly defeated. The euphoria of his championship victory is a distant memory, replaced by this quiet, sterile, self-inflicted nightmare.

“I felt that,” he says, his voice a raw whisper. “When he … set it. I felt it. And seeing you … the look on your face …” He shakes his head, unable to finish. “This is all my fault.”

“We’ve established that,” you say, your voice gentle. You squeeze his hand. “Oscar. It was an accident. A ridiculous, statistically impossible, cosmically stupid accident. But it was an accident.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, looking up at you, his eyes swimming with a vulnerability you’ve never seen. “It happened. Twice. I hurt you. Twice. The first time was bad luck. The second time is a pattern. I am officially a health hazard.”

He lets go of your hand and stands up, resuming his pacing in the small room.

“I shouldn’t be around you. Clearly. I’m dangerous. I’m like a walking cartoon anvil.” He stops and faces you, a look of grim resolution on his face. “After I take you back to your hotel, I’ll arrange a flight for you and your friend. First class, anywhere you want to go. A vacation to make up for the ruined vacation. And I’ll cover every medical bill, now and forever. And then … I’ll stay away from you. For your own safety.”

He says it with such finality, such certainty, that it feels like a punch to the gut. An ache, far deeper than the one in your nose, spreads through your chest. The thought of him just disappearing from your life, of this bizarre, chaotic, and strangely wonderful connection just ending here, in this sterile room, is unbearable.

He thinks he’s doing the noble thing. The right thing. And it’s the last thing in the world you want.

He’s waiting for you to agree, to accept his terms of surrender. The silence stretches, thick and heavy.

He looks so lost, so convinced that he’s poison. All the confidence of the champion has been stripped away, leaving only the awkward, earnest, and catastrophically clumsy man underneath. He turns to look out the small window at the slowly lightening Abu Dhabi sky. He’s given up.

It’s your turn to be brave. Or stupid.

“Oscar,” you say. He turns back to you, his expression guarded. “Before you banish yourself to a remote island for my protection, can I ask you a question?”

“Anything,” he says.

“That night at the club … before all this,” you gesture to your face, the room. “When you asked me to come back to your room. Why did you?”

He looks confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what was the reason? Was it because you felt guilty and you were just trying to complete the apology tour? Was it because you’d just won the biggest race of your life and you were drunk on champagne and adrenaline and I was just … there?”

He stares at you, processing the question. He walks back to the stool and sits down, his eyes locked on yours.

“No,” he says, his voice low and firm. “No. It wasn’t guilt. The guilt was there, it’s always going to be there. And it wasn’t the win. That was … that was all just noise.” He leans forward, his hands clasped between his knees. “From the moment I first saw you — I mean, really saw you, at the club, smiling — I couldn’t think about anything else. I haven’t been able to. I felt … I don’t know. I’m not good with words. It was just a feeling. That I had to talk to you. That I wanted to be near you. It had nothing to do with your nose or the championship. It was just … you.”

The sincerity in his voice is a palpable thing. It fills the small room, pushing back against the smell of antiseptic and the hum of the hospital.

He takes a deep breath, like a driver on the grid waiting for the lights to go out. It’s a moment of bravery. Or stupidity.

“Y/N,” he says, your name a quiet prayer. “When we get out of here, and after you’ve had time to heal, and after you’re sure you don’t want to file a restraining order … will you go on a date with me? A real date. In public. During the daytime. With no beds or footballs anywhere in the vicinity.”

The question hangs in the air, audacious and hopeful and completely insane.

You look at him — this brilliant, talented, disastrous man who has twice broken your face and is now, against all logic, asking to see you again. A slow smile spreads across your lips, pulling at the tender skin around your mouth.

You tilt your head, your expression a perfect mix of amusement and affection.

“Is that because you’re trying to break my nose for a third time?” You ask. “Going for the hat-trick?”

The anxiety on his face vanishes, replaced by a sudden, startled laugh. It’s a beautiful sound. He shakes his head, a look of relief washing over him.

“God, no,” he says, his smile reaching his eyes for the first time in hours. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure nothing ever touches that nose again. I’ll wrap you in bubble wrap if I have to.”

“Okay then, champion,” you say softly, reaching out and taking his hand again. “It’s a date.”

***

The late afternoon sun is low and golden, filtering through the sprawling branches of the oak trees in Melbourne Park. A gentle breeze, a welcome respite from the Australian heat, rustles the leaves. It’s quiet, peaceful. You’re walking along a gravel path, your hand loosely held in Oscar’s. The familiar, comfortable weight of it is an anchor in your world.

A year has passed since the Abu Dhabi emergency room. A year of tentative first dates — each one meticulously planned by Oscar to be as low-risk and hazard-free as possible — followed by a second date, and a third, until neither of you were counting anymore. A year of falling in love, a slow and steady process that felt as inevitable as it was unlikely.

His life is still a whirlwind of carbon fiber and continents, of qualifying laps and sponsor commitments. But your life is the quiet space he returns to. Your small apartment, which is now cluttered with his belongings, has become his home. The man who was once a face on a television screen now leaves his slippers by your front door and argues with you about who has to unload the dishwasher.

“I’m just saying,” you say, giving his hand a squeeze, “that for a man who can calculate braking points to the millimeter while traveling at the speed of sound, your ability to judge the correct amount of pasta to cook is shockingly poor.”

He feigns a look of deep offense. “It’s called being prepared. What if we have unexpected guests? What if there’s a pasta-related apocalypse? We’re set for a week. You should be thanking me.”

“My thank you is not having to cook for three days,” you concede. “But my Tupperware collection is filing a formal grievance.”

He laughs, a deep, easy sound that you feel more than you hear. He stops walking and turns to face you, pulling you in by your hand. The sun catches the flecks of gold in his eyes. The shy, awkward boy from the medical tent is gone, replaced by a man who looks at you with a quiet certainty that still makes your breath catch.

“Is my subpar pasta-cooking a deal-breaker, then?” He asks, a playful smirk on his lips.

“I’m considering my options,” you say, rising on your toes to kiss him. “But for now, you’re safe.”

He leans in to kiss you back, his other hand coming up to gently cup your cheek. And in that moment, in that split-second of blissful, mundane peace, the universe decides to test you one last time.

From the corner of your eye, you see a flash of neon green.

A frisbee, thrown with more enthusiasm than skill by a teenager on the nearby lawn, wobbles violently through the air. It arcs, dips, and then makes a sharp, unnatural turn, as if guided by the hand of some mischievous god of chaos.

It is heading directly for your face.

Time slows. It’s happening again. The world narrows to a single, incoming projectile. You see the ridges on the plastic, the way it spins, the inexorable physics of its trajectory. You brace for the impact, a phantom ache already blooming in your nose.

But Oscar’s world speeds up.

His kiss hasn’t even ended when his senses scream DANGER. His racer’s reflexes, honed by a thousand start-lights and a million micro-corrections, take over his body. There is no thought. There is only action.

His hand drops from your cheek. In a single, fluid motion that is impossibly fast, he moves. He doesn't just block it. He doesn't just bat it away. His arm extends, his fingers splay, and with the pinpoint precision of a man who lives in a world of milliseconds, he plucks the neon green disc out of the air.

It comes to a dead stop, hovering silently, less than an inch from the bridge of your nose.

A stunned silence hangs between you. The teenagers on the lawn have frozen, their hands over their mouths. The breeze rustles the leaves.

Oscar is panting slightly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looks from the frisbee in his hand to your wide, shocked eyes. He’s holding the plastic disc like it’s a venomous snake he’s just subdued.

You slowly reach up and touch your nose. It’s there. It’s intact. It’s not bleeding.

A slow, bubbling laugh escapes your lips. It starts as a giggle and grows into a full, breathless peal of laughter. You lean your forehead against his chest, shaking with the sheer, cosmic absurdity of it all.

“Oh my god,” you manage to get out between gasps.

“Are you okay?” He asks, his voice tight with a familiar, post-traumatic panic.

You look up at him, your eyes shining with tears of laughter. “Better than okay. My hero.” You tap the frisbee still clutched in his hand. “Look at you. Finally putting those ridiculously fast hands to good use.”

A slow grin spreads across his face, a wave of relief washing over him. He looks down at the frisbee, then back at you, a look of mock-seriousness in his eyes.

“All of it,” he says, his voice a low, dramatic vow. “The go-karting since I was a kid, the years in the junior formulas, the hours in the simulator, winning the World Championship … it has all been a training montage for this exact moment.” He tosses the frisbee dismissively onto the grass. “My life’s purpose is complete. I have saved your nose.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to you. “My nose and I are eternally grateful,” you whisper against his lips.

“Good,” he murmurs, his smile softening into something tender and real. “Because I plan on keeping it safe for a very, very long time.”

Sirius tsks, giving your middle a pinch of admonishment. It’s not like you to antagonize Remus—not like either of you to squabble much at all, usually—but it’s especially strange that you’re doing it while he’s making your dinner right in front of you. 

Sirius taps your jaw, directing you to face him. “What did you do?” he asks quietly. 

You lour. “It’s silly.” 

“I could use a laugh.” 

Your gaze moves to Remus. He’s directing his attention pointedly at the cutting board. “He wanted to know what I ate today, and then he got fussy about it not being enough.” 

“Because the answer was nothing,” says Remus. 

“It wasn’t nothing! And you shouldn’t have asked if you didn’t want to know.” 

“Doll. Look at me.” Sirius taps your jaw again. When you do, he does his best to look non-accusatory. “What did you eat today?” 

You shrink a bit, as though you suspect the answer won’t go over much better the second time around. “I had coffee this morning, and then a couple cups of tea at work…” 

Slowly, Sirius retracts his arms from around you. Your lips part with betrayal. 

“So, you do understand that coffee and tea are liquids, don’t you?” 

“But they still—” 

“Which means that when Rem says you ate nothing, he’s not wrong, because you didn’t actually eat anything.” 

Remus still hasn’t looked up, but his expression has taken on a smug hue. 

“It wasn’t on purpose. I just haven’t felt like having anything.” You look at Sirius with big, sad eyes. “I haven’t been feeling very well all day.” 

“I’ve got an idea as to why,” Remus hums.

Sirius has to tuck his lips in to keep from smiling. Your expression sours. 

“You guys are pricks,” you decide. “Fine, I won’t complain to you about feeling sick anymore. Sorry to burden you.” 

“Darling,” Remus sighs, softening a tad, “it’s not that I don’t want you to talk to me. I just wish you didn’t have anything to complain about, which I don’t think you would if you’d looked after yourself better today.” 

Sirius keeps his mouth shut, watching you digest this. You gnaw on your lip. Neither you nor Remus are particularly argumentative by nature, but this is where you occasionally butt heads; Remus, who has to be right and thinks he knows what’s best for everyone (he often does), and you, who also has to be right and chafes against being told what to do. 

“You’re supposed to feel bad for me,” you say, sulking still, but now with the slightest bit of humor. “You’re supposed to curse the skies and shout ‘she doesn’t deserve this!’” 

Remus’ lips quirk. “Maybe next time.” 

You relax a bit more. Sirius reaches for your hand, tangling his fingers with yours. When you look at him, he brings your knuckles close for a kiss. “You don’t deserve this, our lovely girl,” he says, slow and saccharine enough to bring a bit of bashfulness to your expression. “You know how you can make it up to us?” 

You hum. 

“Eat all of whatever Remus is making for you.” 

You roll your eyes. “I was always going to eat it,” you mutter. 

Sirius kisses your knuckles again happily before moving onto his next partner in need of consoling. 

“Poor love,” he murmurs, squeezing himself in between Remus and his cutting board to steal a kiss. “She had you all twisted up, didn’t she?” 

Much like you had, Remus rolls his eyes, but there’s fondness curled up in the corner of his mouth. He palms Sirius’ face to kiss him back, and his fingers smell like herbs. 

“Next time you’ll have your script,” Sirius promises. 

Remus’ eyebrows lift. “Will I?” Sirius nods. “And what’s that?” 

It’s easy not to feel miserable when you wake up before him on a slow Saturday morning. There’s a line of sunlight reaching across the room from the crack in your curtains, Remus’ face lovely even in shadow. He could use a haircut, you think fondly. It’s starting to cover the tops of his ears, which you think is a rather endearing look on him even if you have to agree when he says it’s not very professional. 

Eventually his eyes blink open. He smiles when he finds you watching him, the stretch of his lips sleepy and content. You draw a finger lightly down the bridge of his nose. 

“I think,” you say, “that we should stay here all day long.” 

Remus’ smile widens, and it takes half a second after his mouth begins moving for you to realize you can’t hear him properly. You pick your good ear up off the pillow as subtly as you can, propping your chin on your hand. You ignore the wave of dizziness that follows. 

“...what you really want? You’ve been home nearly all week,” says Remus. “What if we went on a walk today? We could go to that park you like, the one with the lake.” 

You shove down the dread that rises in your chest. This is what you want. You want to get over being poorly and get back to your life. 

“You’re right,” you say brightly. “That sounds great.” 

Remus peers over you to check the time. “Oh. God, we slept in, didn’t we? We may have to go soon if we want it to still be nice out.” 

“That’s alright,” you say easily. “I’ll be right after you, I just have to pick out what I’m going to wear.” 

Remus leans forward to peck you on the forehead, getting out of bed with a sleepy groan. He stretches his neck this way and that, movements sluggish as he goes toward the bathroom. 

Your movements are sluggish for different reasons. You sit up slowly, fighting through the vertigo that sloshes the room about you in protest. It wasn’t this bad yesterday. 

You discover a series of new miseries as you get dressed with cautious, snail-like movements. Your ear hurts something awful. More than that, the pain has spread to most of your head. The constant dizziness quickly results in a low nausea. You’re genuinely uncertain whether the ringing in your ears is a symptom of your ear infection or a warning bell of your impending insanity. 

Putting on your trousers is an ordeal. By the time you sit down on the bed to pull on socks, your resolve has spiderweb cracks spreading and threatening to unleash a meltdown. 

But you’re stubborn. You can do this, you think. If you’re only walking on even ground in the park, and Remus’ hand is in yours, you’re sure you can manage. The internet said your symptoms wouldn’t last long anyway—maybe they’ll clear up as the day goes on. 

“...ove? Dove?” 

You look up as Remus comes to stand in front of you, swallowing when the world spins. In the center of the swirl, you think he’s smiling. His hand cups your face. 

“You seemed off in your own world there,” he says fondly. 

You smile and hum, keeping your head perfectly still so that the spinning slows. Remus’ eyebrows twitch towards each other. 

“You alright?” 

“Mhm, yeah.” You cup your hand over his, holding onto it as you stand. “Let’s go.” 

“You’re ready?” he asks while you pull him towards the door. You sway a bit in your effort to walk at a normal pace, reaching for the doorframe. 

The hallway in front of you looks like a funhouse horror. You put one foot in front of the other as surely as you can. “Yeah,” you say. “Aren’t you?”

Remus’ hand tightens on yours. You don’t understand why for a moment, but then you’re falling sideways, his hands catching you around the waist. 

“Dove.” His stern voice is slightly alarmed and largely disembodied, your eyes unable to find his face in the whirling mass in front of you. “What’s going on?” 

Like an overinflated balloon popping, you burst into tears. 

Remus collects you to his chest, holding your head securely against him as he half carries you back to the bed. It doesn’t prevent your dizziness entirely, but it helps. 

“What’s happening?” he asks more gently as you sniff and whimper. “I can’t fix it if I don’t know.” 

“I think it’s an ear infection,” you say in a small voice. “It hurts, and my head hurts, and I’m so—” You take in a short breath. “—so dizzy I feel sick.” 

“Okay. Okay, it’s alright.” Remus pets the back of your head, shushing you until you calm some. 

“Sorry,” you whimper. 

“What are you sorry for, love? For crying?” 

Your sniffly silence is answer enough. 

Remus sighs. “Why did you try to act like nothing was wrong?” 

“Because,” you say thinly, “I’m tired of things being wrong. I just want—” You pause, pressing your lips together to avoid crying again. “I want to feel normal.” 

“Oh, sweetheart.” Your boyfriend’s mix of disappointment and sympathy only brings you closer to tears. “You can’t will it, my love. And you can’t pretend this away. These are the sorts of things I need to know about.” 

You blink away the blur of tears, grateful that your world has finally straightened out. You press your head closer to Remus’ chest. “I wanted to give you a break, too,” you admit. “The internet said it would go away in a couple of days, so I figured I’d just ride it out.” 

“Mm, a middle ear infection would.” 

You stiffen. “What does that mean?” 

The kiss Remus drops to your head is heavy with compassion. “Vertigo like this comes with an inner ear infection, dove. They take longer to go away, sometimes weeks, but the process can be sped up with antibiotics.” 

He pauses while you process this. 

“You know, the sort prescribed by a doctor.” 

“Oh.” 

He chuckles fondly, kissing your head again. “This is why you tell me things. Understand?” 

“Yeah.” You wrap your arms around his middle, clinging pathetically. “I’m sorry. Help me.” 

“I will, sweetheart. Think you can lay down and be still while I nip to work and the pharmacy?” 

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you drop to your knees, and the way his breath stutters is its own reward. His fingers tighten in your hair, not pulling—yet—but holding on like he’s already fighting the urge to fuck into your mouth. His free hand braces against the wall, muscles taut under sweat-slick skin as you take him deep, his hips jerking forward on instinct.

“Shit— just like that—” His voice is ragged, head thudding back against the wall. “Keep goin’ and I swear I’ll—”

Then, the blare of his mission alert slices through the room like a particularly sadistic punchline.

“Priority one. Latverian drones spotted in Manhattan. Suit up.”

Johnny doesn’t just groan—he growls, a sound so genuinely feral you’d laugh if not for the way his grip on your hair gentles, his forehead dropping to yours in sheer, agonized frustration.

“No. No. Absolutely not,” he hisses, yanking you up to kiss you again, sloppy and desperate, his hips grinding against you in a way that makes your thighs tremble. “Ignore it. Five minutes. Four. I’ll be fast—”

You can feel the way his body wars with itself—the tension in his muscles, the way his fingers flex against your scalp. But then the alert blares again, more insistent this time, and he lets out a noise that’s half-snarl, half-whine.

“I hate Doom,” he grits out, pressing one last searing kiss to your mouth before wrenching himself away. His hands linger on you, though—trailing down your arms, squeezing your hips like he can’t bear to let go, and you’re left slumped against the wall, flushed and frustrated, watching as he yanks his suit on with aggravated precision.. “This isn’t over,” he promises, voice dark with intent. “The second I get back, you’re mine.”

You arch a brow, still breathless, still aching. “Better make it quick, hotshot.”

Then he’s gone in a blaze of fire—leaving you aching, unsatisfied, and absolutely counting down the minutes until he returns.

The second he’s got you beneath him again, Johnny’s hands map every inch of you like he’s trying to prove a point—like he’s spent every second since the last time relearning you, rehearsing the exact ways you fall apart for him. His mouth is relentless, tongue dragging slow, filthy circles that leave you gasping, your thighs trembling around his head as if they might never remember how to close again.

And the bastard savors it.

His grip on your hips is ironclad, fingers pressing into your skin, holding you down as you writhe. His own arousal strains against the confines of his pants, every stifled groan against your skin betraying just how much he’s aching too. But he won’t rush—not when he’s spent weeks starving, not when the taste of you is finally on his tongue again.

“Johnny—” Your voice cracks, fingers twisting in his hair as he hums against you, the vibrations shooting straight to your core, sparking white-hot behind your eyelids.

He grins, sharp and smug, flicking his tongue just to hear you moan louder. “Yeah?” he rasps, breath hot and uneven against your soaked skin. “Missed this, didn’t you? Missed me.” His teeth graze your thigh—not quite a bite, but a promise—before his mouth is on you again, licking into you like he’s chasing the last embers of a fire.

You tug at his hair, hips jerking, but he doesn’t let up. If anything, he doubles down, fingers digging in harder, his free hand sliding up to palm your breast, thumb circling your nipple just to feel you arch off the bed.

“Fuck— Johnny, please—”

"Yeah, that’s it," he murmurs, lips brushing your clit in a way that makes you scream out his name again, your nails scraping down his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. His grin is pure sin against your skin. "Gonna make you cum so hard you forget your own name—"

Bzzzt.

The comm unit on his nightstand crackles to life, Sue’s voice slicing through the haze of pleasure.

"Johnny, the charity gala started twenty minutes ago!"

He groans—deep, guttural—and the sound vibrates against your core, sending a jolt of white-hot need straight to your already throbbing cunt. You whine, hips jerking helplessly, torn between grinding down on his tongue and launching the damn comm unit into the nearest wall.

"Tell them I’m dead," Johnny shoots back, voice wrecked, before diving back in with renewed determination. His tongue flattens against you in one long, lewd stroke, and you choke on a sob, thighs shaking as he sucks your clit between his lips, just right—

But Sue is unrelenting. "Ben’s already covering for you, and he’s running out of excuses. Get. Down. Here."

Johnny pulls away with a filthy curse, resting his forehead against your thigh as his breath comes in ragged bursts. His fingers dig into your hips like he’s physically restraining himself from saying screw it and finishing what he started.

"Fuck," he mutters, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh—one last promise—before dragging himself up. His pupils are blown wide, lips slick with you, and the sight alone makes your stomach clench, your core pulsing with need.

"This isn’t over," he growls, voice low and dangerous as he grabs his jacket, throwing a glare at the comm unit like it’s personally betrayed him.

You collapse back onto the bed, still trembling, still aching, and watch as he stalks toward the door—every inch of him radiating frustration and unspent want.

"Better not be," you call after him, breathless.

Johnny pauses, glances back at you over his shoulder, and the smirk he shoots you is pure, wicked temptation.

"Oh, sweetheart," he says, voice dripping with intent. "I was just getting started."

By the time he finally stumbles back into the room, the gala’s champagne-bright chatter still ringing in his ears, the space is bathed in the amber glow of the bedside lamp you’d left on for him. The light spills like honey across the sheets, gilding the curve of your shoulder, the loose strands of your hair fanned out over his pillow.

His side of the bed.

Not that he minds. Not when the sight of you—curled into the space he usually occupies, cheek smushed against the fabric like you’d tried (and failed) to wait up for him—steals the breath from his lungs. The faintest impression of your face lingers on the pillowcase, and something in his chest twists, too big and too fragile to name.

For a heartbeat, he hesitates. The part of him that’s spent all night itching to get back here, to pick up exactly where you left off, wars with the exhaustion dragging at his limbs. He could wake you. Should wake you, maybe—press his mouth to the sleep-soft slope of your shoulder, murmur half-drunk apologies into your skin, let his hands relearn every inch of you until you’re both gasping.

But then you sigh in your sleep, nuzzling deeper into the pillow, and the fight drains out of him all at once.

So he moves quietly, toeing off his shoes, shrugging out of his suit jacket with none of his usual dramatic flair. The mattress dips under his weight as he eases onto the bed, careful not to jostle you—

—he shouldn’t have bothered.

The second the sheets shift, you turn toward him instinctively, drawn to his warmth like a magnet. Your arm drapes over his waist, fingers curling into the rumpled fabric of his dress shirt with a quiet, possessive urgency, even in sleep. A sigh escapes you, warm against his collarbone, your body molding against his like it was made to fit there.

Johnny huffs a laugh, soft and wondering, and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Missed you too,” he murmurs, though you’re too far under to hear it.

It doesn’t take long for the rhythm of your breathing to lull him under, his own limbs going heavy.

After three more agonizing days of obligations—press conferences, team briefings, and a fundraiser where Johnny spent half the night staring at you from across the room like he wanted to devour you whole—you finally manage to slip away.

The Baxter Building’s rarely used guest bathroom is a sanctuary of marble and muted gold, all cool surfaces and pristine lighting—thank you, Sue, for insisting on “luxury accommodations”—but Johnny doesn’t give you any time to appreciate it.

The door locks behind you with a click, and then his mouth is on yours, hot and insistent, swallowing your gasp as he spins you toward the counter. His kiss is all teeth and tongue, the kind that leaves your lips throbbing and your head spinning.

His fingers dig into your hips, pressing hard enough to leave bruises, and the thought alone has you shuddering—yes, let me remember this tomorrow.

Then he’s gripping your ass, hiking your skirt up in one impatient tug, and the noise he makes when he sees you’re already desperate for him is downright feral.

“Christ, you’re killin’ me,” he growls against your neck, lips dragging over your pulse as his fingers tease the soaked lace clinging to you. A rough jerk—rip—fabric tearing (he’s never been patient), and then his palm slaps against your bare skin, the sharp crack of it echoing off the tiles before the sting blooms, making you cry out.

His free hand fists in your hair, tipping your head back as he nips at your jaw, his other hand working you open with filthy, slick strokes. “Love you so fucking much,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, before sinking into you in one slow, devastating thrust.

The stretch burns, perfect, and you choke on a moan, fingers scrambling against the marble counter for purchase. Johnny groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he stills, trembling with the effort not to lose it right then and there.

“Fuck, fuck—shoulda known you’d feel this good,” he grits out, hips rolling just to hear you whine. His hands tighten on you, possessive, like he’s trying to fuse you together. 

And then he moves—no patience, no finesse, just raw, relentless need—each snap of his hips driving you harder against the counter, the mirror rattling. Every ragged breath, every bitten-off curse, every time his grip on you tightens like he’s afraid you’ll vanish—it all coils tighter and tighter until you’re both hurtling toward the edge, too far gone to care who hears.

“What do you want, baby?” he teases, lips brushing your ear as he drags his cock out agonizingly slow, just to watch you squirm. His breath is ragged, his voice all rough-edged amusement—like he’s savoring every second of your desperation. “Use your words.”

You’re right there—teetering on the edge, ready to beg, demand, scream if that’s what it takes to push you both over—when—

BWEEEEEEEEEEP.

The alarm doesn’t just sound—it attacks, a deafening, soul-crushing shriek that rattles the walls and the very foundation of your patience. The Baxter Building’s safety system cuts in with infuriating serenity:

“Alert: Unauthorized thermal activity detected in residential wing. Please evacuate immediately.”

Johnny goes statue-still behind you for one glorious, suspended second—silence.

Then—

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

His voice is a frayed wire, sparking with barely restrained fury. When he lifts his head, his eyes are molten, his entire body radiating enough heat that the air shimmers around him. He looks like he’s about to burn a hole straight through the floor.

With a snarl, he wrenches himself away, hands raking through his hair like he might actually light himself on fire out of sheer frustration. “It was one time!” he roars at the ceiling, as if the universe itself is conspiring against him. “One time I got a little carried away and maybe set the couch on fire—”

The alarm blares louder, as if in protest.

Down the hall, Ben’s thunderous laughter shakes the walls, followed by Reed’s long-suffering sigh. “Johnny, we talked about this.”

Johnny whirls toward the door, finger jabbing at it like he’s about to shoot a flare straight through the wood. “I hate this family.”

You can’t help it—you’re laughing, breathless and giddy, even as your body still thrums with unfinished need. Johnny turns back to you, and the look on his face—all wild-eyed desperation and hunger—sends a fresh pulse of heat between your legs.

“Oh, you think this is funny?” His voice drops, rough and dangerous, his hands caging you in before you can so much as squeak. “You’re laughing while I’m out here suffering?”

He leans in, his mouth hovering just above yours, his body burning against you. “You know what this means, right?” His grin is pure, unrepentant mischief. “Now I owe you. And I always pay my debts.”

The alarm wails again.

Johnny exhales, long-suffering, and presses his forehead to yours. “...After we evacuate.”

Right now is apparently his last straw.

You’re stretched out beneath him on the living room couch, his mouth searing a path down your neck, his hips grinding against yours in a rhythm that’s just shy of mean. Your nails scrape red lines down his back, and he hisses in gratitude, like he’s been starving for the sting.

You’ve both been too patient for too long, and now? Now, there’s no room left for restraint—just skin and heat and the desperate, aching need that’s been building for too long. His teeth catch your pulse point, and you arch into him with a whimper that goes straight to his dick, your thighs tightening around his hips in a silent plea for more, faster, now—

Then the door whooshes open.

"Johnny, have you seen the—oh."

Reed’s voice slides into the room like an unwelcome algorithm, smooth and utterly oblivious.

Johnny doesn’t even look up. His entire body locks tight—not with embarrassment, not with shame, but with sheer, unbridled rage.

"No," he snaps, voice lethally calm. "Nope. Absolutely not. Get the fuck out."

His hand flings toward the door in a wild, dismissive gesture, like he’s banishing Reed from the planet.

A beat of silence.

Then, Reed—because he’s Reed—clears his throat. "Right. Well, if you do find the quantum stabilizer—"

"REED." Johnny’s voice cracks like a whip. "I swear to God, if you finish that sentence, I’m setting all your lab notes on fire."

Another pause. The door starts to slide shut—then stops. Reed’s head pokes back in. "Actually, you do realize this is a common area, right? If you two wanted privacy—"

Johnny moves.

One second, he’s pinning you to the couch. The next, he’s halfway across the room, fingers sparking, eyes literally glowing with fury. "OUT. NOW."

Reed finally—finally—gets the hint. The door shuts.

Johnny exhales, long and slow, like he’s counting to ten in his head. Then he turns back to you, his expression shifting from murderous to hungry in half a second flat.

"Now," he growls, stalking toward you like a man on a mission, "where were we?"

The epiphany wasn’t groundbreaking or jaw-dropping or a moment straight out of a fairytale. It was actually, all things considered, quite mundane. It was summer break, the two of you were in his kitchen attempting to cook dinner—emphasis on attempting since Max had been struggling to open a bottle of red wine because you couldn’t stop making him laugh. And somewhere between the spilled wine and bubbling pots, you found yourself staring at your best friend with only one thought in mind.

Fuck, I want this for the rest of my life. 

So yeah, maybe you were a little late to the party but you knew now, and that’s what was important. And with so many people reassuring you that your feelings for Max were certainly, absolutely, positively reciprocated, you really thought you would be going into the second half of the season exploring a whole new side to your relationship with Max.

Except for one tiny problem. 

For the fucking life of him, Max Verstappen didn’t seem to understand you were flirting with him. 

He treated you no differently to how he always treated you, just now you were noticing the softer expressions and lingering touches and unnecessary acts of affection (that were actually very necessary to your happiness, thank you very much). He was acting as lovesick and caring as he usually did, you were just more aware of the underlying intentions behind each act. 

Yet, in an ironic turn of events, it seemed like Max was the oblivious one now. 

It would be comical if it hadn’t been weeks of you trying to make a move on your best friend, just for him to be unaware of every single attempt.

Or at least, it was comical to the people around you.

“Can you at least pretend to not find joy in my misery?” You grumbled, pressing your phone closer to your ear as you made your way around your apartment, halfheartedly tidying as you went. But your mind was elsewhere—as it usually was these days.

“Oh, c’mon! It’s funny! I’m allowed to find this funny!”

“Alex,” you whined, hissing a little when your foot snubbed the edge of your coffee table. “Shit.” 

The laughing had stopped, but you could still hear the amusement in his voice. “Hey now, I had to watch him pine after you for years. I had to endure young, pining Max for half a season. I have been telling you for ages that you two belong together. I’m allowed to take a little enjoyment in how hopeless you both are.”

You rolled your eyes, even if he couldn’t see you. “Yeah, yeah, we are stupid and hopeless and perfect for each other. Now, can you please help me? I’m running out of ideas here. I don’t know what more I can do!” 

“Tell him how you feel directly?” 

“I tried that already,” you grumbled, your cheeks heating up as the memory replayed in your head. 

You had spent all week perfecting your speech and building up the courage to tell him you loved him, that you loved having him in your life and wanted a future with him. Unfortunately, the point went right over his head and Max just smiled as he repeated the words you had said to each other throughout your friendship. 

So yeah, not quite the romcom level confession scene you were expecting. 

“I can’t believe he has put himself this far into the friendzone. It’s honestly impressive.” 

You snorted. 

“Maybe you have to do it the old-fashioned way.”

You paused, considering his words for a few moments as you slowly nodded your head. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“I am? I mean, duh!”

“I don’t know how I didn’t think of it sooner.”

“See, I can help!” There was a small pause before he continued. “Uh, how did I actually help? Because I was thinking—”

“I’m going to seduce him.” 

There was another pause. “Come again?” 

“Well—”

“EW! DO NOT FINISH THAT SENTENCE!” An exaggerated gagging noise was heard on the other side of the phone that made you snort. “This is not what I meant when I said old-fashioned—” 

“It’s what your idea made me think of!”

“Do not say this was my idea!”

You pressed your lips together to hold back your laughter. “Thanks for the inspiration, Albono!” 

“I’m going to throw up.”

…

With the Singapore Grand Prix around the corner, the celebrations around Max’s birthday were small and casual—just a dinner amongst some of his closest friends who could make it. 

He had picked one of his favourite restaurants, a local Italian one in Monaco where the pasta was amazing and the wine was even better. They had pushed a few tables together so there were enough seats for everyone, the music was a background track for the conversations and laughter and, all things considered, Max couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate his birthday. 

And like every dinner, the two of you were sat together on the big table, squished close and knocking elbows the whole night. But every time he caught your eye, he smiled. And even when the two of you were caught up in conversations with other people, you could feel his foot playfully knocking against yours. And by the end of the night, Max’s arm around the back of your chair felt like a permanent fixture. 

If anything, the dinner was the perfect prelude to your plan. 

After paying the bill (despite everyone at the dinner arguing otherwise and trying to battle for the card machine), Max insisted on walking you home like he always does—-another one of those things that you looked back on and realised how fucking obvious it was that the two of you were more than friends. 

“Did you enjoy the night?” 

Max smiled as you knocked your shoulder against his, letting his body sway to the side slightly before he righted himself. “Yeah, it was perfect.”

“Perfect?” You repeated, brows raised. “Wow, that’s a strong word, Verstappen.”

“I know,” he shrugged. “And it fits.” 

“Still riding high on that GT3 win?” You teased, enjoying the way the skin around his eyes crinkled as he laughed. 

“It gave me an ego,” he joked, knocking his shoulder against yours in retaliation. Except, his arm was already reaching out to wind around your shoulders before you could sway too far away from him. 

You wondered how many times over the years you had ignored the flips in your stomach.

The walk from the restaurant to your place wasn’t long. The sun was long gone, the streets were illuminated by street lights and there was something about the sight of Max—cheeks flushed from the wine, smile spread across his face, eyes shining with happiness—under those lights that made you want to kiss him there and then. 

Instead, you found yourself blurting, “do you want a house tour?” 

Max blinked, some of that happiness melting away into confusion as he flashed you an amused look. “What?” 

“A house tour,” you repeated, your cheeks burning but you had made your bed, you may as well lie in it too. It was like one smile from him was enough to disarm any coherent thought you had, to wipe away all your planning and scheming and seducing. 

“But I’ve seen your place before,” Max retorted, but he didn’t sound against the idea. More so confused, maybe a little caught off-guard. 

You lightly shoved him. “So you don’t want to see the fancy wine I got for your birthday?” 

Max’s grin widened. “Well, if there’s wine—-”

You tried not to think too much about the way your hand fit in his as you headed up to your apartment, neither one eager to let the other go as you made your way inside. 

“Meet you on the couch? It’s comfy.” 

Max gave you a weird look at your comment but didn’t disagree, instead slipping his shoes off and shrugging off his jacket to hang up by the door before he made his way towards the living room to collapse on the couch. 

You followed shortly after, holding two glasses and the bottle of wine you bought a few weeks ago when you were with the team in Italy, falling for whatever tourist-bullshit the shopkeeper had given you about the deep and sultry flavour profiles that made it the perfect date night wine. 

It wasn’t half bad, all things considered. A little too bold for your liking, if you were honest. And judging by the look on Max’s face, you could tell he agreed.

“I think I might’ve ruined that perfect birthday,” you joked, leaning forward to place your wine glass back on the coffee table before you turned to face him on the couch with your legs tucked underneath you. 

“You could never ruin anything perfect,” Max replied, the words said so simple like it were a fact. It made your chest tighten. “Plus, all wine is shit. It’s the company that matters.”

You laughed, tilting your head to the side. “And my company?” 

“The best,” Max replied without hesitation. 

“You’re going to give me an ego.”

“You deserve it.” 

For a moment, the two of you were just staring at each other. It was late, there were hardly any cars on the road outside and you were sure if you turned your head to look at the clock, it was probably past midnight. But that didn’t matter and you didn’t care because you were curled up on the couch with Max so close, and you thought that maybe this would finally be the moment where he—

“Plus,” Max cleared his throat, turning to look down at his wine glass. “You also need good snacks—”

“Are you hungry?” You asked, something else in your voice as you watched him closely. 

Max swallowed, turning to look at you again. “Hm?”

“Are you hungry?” You asked again, your hand was on the back of the couch, so close to where his head was. “Because I have—”

“Oh no, I’m stuffed,” he laughed, shaking his head before he leaned further back on the couch. His head was so close to your hand, you could probably reach out to run your hands through his hair. “I was just saying because it reminded me of this wine GP got when we were in Belgium and—” 

Later on, you would feel bad for zoning his story out. But at that moment, you were just completely gobsmacked by your best friend’s obliviousness to the whole situation. 

You thought the plan was foolproof. You had invited him up to your apartment, you had dimmed the lights to keep the mood, you had given him some fancy romantic wine. You hadn’t changed like you usually did after coming back from dinner, still in the same dress and heels you wore out because you had seen the way his eyes lingered on your legs. There was even the perfect opportunity for him to kiss you and instead the boy started yapping about wines and Belgium and racing and—

Your patience only went so far.

“Do you want to fuck me or not?” 

Max was grateful he had put his glass down somewhere amongst his rambles because he was sure he would’ve dropped a glass full of red wine all over your carpet otherwise. He choked on his own spit, staring at you like you had grown another head—like he had fully hallucinated the words that left your mouth.

“What?” He managed to choke out, his cheeks burning for more reasons than the wine. 

“Do you want to fuck me or not?” You repeated, slightly exasperated. “Because I have been trying all night and I don’t think I’m being subtle anymore but you are just giving me…nothing. And I don’t really know if you want to, if I’m being honest.”

“I didn’t know fucking you was an option,” Max replied honestly because he was pretty sure he bumped his head somewhere between the restaurant and your apartment, and now he was hallucinating the whole conversation. 

“Well, it is. It’s my preferred option, if I’m being honest,” you retorted.

Max’s lips parted but no words came out. And for some reason, your brain took that as a sign to keep talking, to keep embarrassing yourself, to dig yourself a deeper hole.

“Because everyone keeps telling me you’re obsessed with me and I have recently discovered I am equally obsessed with you, so this should be easy, right? But I’ve been trying for the last few weeks and everything I do—” You cut yourself off with a laugh. “Like, at this point, I don’t know if I have to act out a bad porno movie to seduce you by, like, showing up to your driver room naked with just a coat on.” You paused for a moment, snorting a little before shaking your head. “I just don’t know if I’m just seeing what I want to see or if maybe everyone else was mistaken and you don’t feel the same or—” 

It took a few seconds for your brain to catch up with the fact the reason you were no longer talking was because Max was kissing you. 

Max Verstappen—your best friend and the boy you recently realised you were head over heels in love with—was kissing you.

“Wait—” you murmured as he pulled away, one hand on the back of your head and the other resting on the back of the couch. 

“Everyone was right,” he panted, his eyes dark and pupils blown as he stared down at you. “I’m obsessed with you. So fucking obsessed with you. And I would like to fuck you, if that is still an option.”

A smile slowly spread across your face. “Still very much an option.”

“Perfect,” he murmured with a grin before he leaned back down, kissing you senseless like he could steal the air from your lungs there and then. He probably could. 

Somewhere between the frantic kisses and wandering hands, you had managed to kick off your heels and loop your fingers through the belt loops in his trousers as you led him towards your bedroom. Max had only laughed, crowding you up against a wall in the corridor as he muttered about knowing this place better than you, about how he didn’t need any instructions. You had wanted to retaliate but the boy lifted you in his arms with ease and proceeded to walk straight towards your bedroom without breaking the kiss and—

Well, yeah. You couldn’t really complain about that. 

“Fuck,” Max groaned as his head ducked down, lips brushing against the length of your neck as his hands worked to unzip your dress from behind. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“M’all yours now,” you murmured, your hands gripping his shoulders as you stepped out the dress and kicked it off to the side. 

“God, you can’t say shit like that,” he laughed breathlessly, his forehead pressed against your shoulder and his hands gripping your waist as he tried to ground himself. “Or this is going to be an embarrassingly short few minutes.”

“Shy about your stamina?” You teased, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth when you noticed the challenge in his eyes as he lifted his head. “Have we finally found something Max Verstappen isn’t good at?”

He raised a brow. “Oh, yeah? You wanna play that game?”

You grinned in response. “What you gonna do about it?”

It took less than thirty minutes for you to find out what he planned to do. And honestly, it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Max Verstappen was hot. It wasn’t fair that he was ridiculously talented at all and any racing he competed in. It wasn’t fair that he was kind and generous and had a heart bigger than this world would ever know.

And it wasn’t fair that he ate you out like a man starving, that he was fucking good at it, that he had been there for so many years with his hands and tongue and mouth and—

It wasn’t fucking fair. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” you panted, back arching off the bed as you reached to hold onto him or the sheets or something. “Max, I—”

But the words died on your tongue. 

He looked fucking unreal between your legs with his cheeks flushed and hair dishvelled, arms locked around your thighs so he could keep you spread open as he pleased. You could see the way his lips and chin glistened, even in the dim lighting in your room. You could see the way his eyes fell shut as his tongue lapped at your cunt, up and down like he was losing himself in the taste of you. You could see the way his hips were moving, grinding against the edge of the mattress like just hearing you get off and moaning his name was enough for him to come too.

It was fucking pornographic and insane and the hottest thing you think you have ever seen.

“Could stay here all night,” he murmured between your legs, placing one, two, three kisses below your bellybutton as he looked up at you. “See if I can make you scream. Maybe see how many times I can make you come before it’s too much for you.”

“That—” You swallowed, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. “Sounds exhausting.” 

“Sounds perfect to me,” Max retorted, pressing another kiss just above your cunt. “I’ve thought about this, thought about having you laid out like this f’me and—”

“It’s not the only night you’re getting,” you murmured, shifting a little until you were leaning back on your elbows. “This isn’t a one time deal, Max. This is it for me. I want you. I want to be with you. Not just for tonight, but many nights after this.”

Max didn’t say anything at first, just looking up at you from between your legs with an unreadable expression written across his face.

“We have time,” you whispered. 

Max stayed silent as he pushed himself up, ignoring his aching cock in his boxers or the fact he could still taste you on his tongue. Instead, he made his way up until he was able to lean down and hold your face with one hand and keep himself up with the other. 

“I love you,” he murmured, soft and sweet and raw and genuine, before he kissed you again. 

It was a little slower this time. As if everything had stopped and the two of you knew you had all the time in the world, knew that you could just enjoy the little gasps between kisses and tongues brushing against each other. That there was no need for wandering hands when you could enjoy the way Max slowly caressed every inch he could as he lowered himself on top of you. 

There was no frantic tugging or pulling as he slowly kicked his boxers off, as he lined himself up and pushed himself inside you. There was no rush to pound into you when he could just relax, just enjoy the feeling of your warmth wrapped around him, squeezing him as you looked up at him like you loved him.

And you did. You did love him. And you told him as much as he intertwined your hands, as he leaned down to kiss you and muttered a choked out “fuck” under his breath after he finally slid into you. 

“We have time,” you whispered again, your nails digging into his back as he fucked you in the dim lights of your bedroom, as the rest of the world slept whilst the two of you finally confronted the same goddamn feelings you had been tiptoeing around for years. 

There would be time for rushed quickies and frantic makeout sessions. There would be time for quick handjobs and secret rendezvous in cramped spaces. There would be time for Max to have his way with you, to bend you over every surface in both yours and his apartments. There would be time for you to kneel between his legs, to tease and taunt him with your mouth around his cock until he was begging you to come. 

There would be time for all that, but it doesn’t have to be right now. 

His name was the only thing on your lips when you finally came, when you wrapped your legs around his waist and dug your nails into his skin as the feeling of pure ecstasy washed over you. You clung onto him, whispering all sorts in his ear until he finally came inside you, until he was too exhausted to do much more than slump himself on top of you and nuzzle his face against the crook of your neck.

In the back of your mind, you knew the two of you should get up and clean yourselves before you both fell asleep. But it was a passing thought, one that didn’t seem as appealing as enjoying the weight of your best friend pining you down on the mattress with his cock still inside you. 

“Shit,” Max murmured. “I still have to pack for Singapore.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” 

“Actually,” Max corrected, lifting his head so he could look down at you. His hair was even messier than before, his lips a little red and swollen and his cheeks even more flushed. “I was thinking about how I could convince you to come to Singapore with me if I offered to help you pack. And then just so happened to remember I haven’t packed either.”

Your face softened. “You want me in Singapore?”

“I want you by my side everywhere, all the time,” Max said, in that simple tone like it was a fact he was reading out. “But yeah, I want you in Singapore.” 

Your smile widened. “I think I can work some things out.”

Max’s face lit up. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you laughed, nodding. 

“Good,” Max mused, leaning down to press one, two, three more kisses on your lips before pulling back. “I have great wine on the private jet.”

You rolled your eyes, fond. “Well, then I just have to go if there’s wine.”

“I can promise great company,” Max added with a grin.

“And the sex?”

“I’ve always wanted to join the Mile High Club.” 

And yeah, lying in bed and laughing with you really was the cherry on top of Max’s perfect birthday celebration.

“I’m seventy percent sure he just gets an allowance every week because no one trusts him with money,” you commented, glancing over Yuki’s shoulder at the boxes piled up on the table. You had tried to reach for one earlier but the boy had smacked your hand away, claiming that a list needed to be made on who gifted what so proper thank you notes could be sent.

You had never seen the boy so serious.

“Just open it,” Yuki said, impatiently waving his hand at the box in Max’s hand. “We all know it’s going to be shit—”

“Harsh,” Logan murmured. 

“—might as well get it over with!” 

“Maybe Lando will surprise us,” you said, ignoring the incredulous look the American to your left was giving you. 

“Uh—”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?” 

“Well—”

“MY EYES!” 

“Charles, mate, you—”

“IT’S NOTHING AND EVERYTHING ALL AT ONCE!” 

Yuki hummed, tilting his head as he stared at the scraps of fabric Max was currently holding. “Minus ten points for the colour and the overall lack of taste. It’s quite ugly.”

Charles let out a dramatic wail. “THIS IS THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE!” 

“Has he never seen lingerie before?” Logan frowned.

“BURN IT! BURN IT ALL!” 

“I don’t think the orange is that bad,” Max admitted, shrugging. “At least it’s more Dutch orange than papaya.” 

“I THINK I’M DYING!” 

“I am not wearing anything orange,” you shot back at your husband, your nose scrunched up. “I may be Mrs Verstappen—”

“STOP REMINDING ME!”

“—but that is too far, even for me,” you snorted, shaking your head. “Plus, I have lingerie way nicer than that —”

“THAT’S IT, I AM ASKING PIERRE TO RUN ME OVER!”

“Check.”

“Final printed copy of the speech?”

“In a PDF format as well! Check.” 

“Lozenges?”

In honey lemon. “Check!”

“Triple shot flat white?”

You don’t vocalize your opinion, but you felt like an old man ordering that at the coffee shop. “Check.”

“You’re getting good at this.”

You fight a blush, waving off Lynne’s praise. 

It’s always daunting entering the Baxter Building (especially now more than usual), but you stick behind Lynne and follow her lead. The lift attendant ushers you both into the steel-lined elevator after you showed proper identification, and you’re off. You always get a bundle of nerves at this part; waiting to reach the actual living quarters of the building. But you’ve done it enough to know to stare at your shoes to avoid feeling nauseous. It’s only when you hear the ding do you look up, straightening out your work pants and making sure the coffee cup in your hand stays upright. 

At first, you and Lynne are met with nothing but silence, which is quite unusual (usually there’s Ben in the kitchen, or H.E.R.B.I.E. watching baby Franklin by the couch, his various beeps that you don’t understand greeting you upon entering). You and Lynne don’t question it, though, her muttering something about a late morning while ushering you to the kitchen area where you put everything you’re holding on the counter. 

It’s only when you feel like you’re taking your first breath of the day, hands cramped, do you hear footsteps bounding down the hallway, high heels clanking on the sleek floors. 

Sue Storm strides in, the pinnacle of elegance. She takes one moment to dust off a piece of lint from her red long-sleeve, made of a material that you’re sure costs more than your weekly paycheck. She greets you both with a kind smile, “Good morning.”

“Hardly,” says Lynne, frowning. It took awhile to get used to the fact that Sue and Lynne’s friendship strung for many years that Lynne no longer bothers to give her an agreeable type of kindness that others seem to give at default for the Invisible Woman. “There’s a seventy-three percent chance of rain and the wind nearly ruined my hair.”

Sue snaps her fingers, regaining her memory. “I almost forgot my coat.” She’s bounding down the hallway again, calling for Reed, but not before telling you both to get yourself comfortable and ushering you to the stools in front of the kitchen island. 

You don’t look at Lynne for approval before taking a seat, legs sore from the morning run your friend made you go on before work. You busy yourself by opening the manila folder that holds Sue’s UN speech, checking thrice for any grammar mistakes (if there are any, that’d be your fault and would no doubt be getting a scolding from Lynne). 

You’re too immersed, brows drawn tightly together and lips mouthing each part of the speech. You don’t notice the soft footsteps entering the room, or the slight halt in the steps, before it continues to proceed in your direction. 

A hand rests on the small of your back, finger splayed out on the material of your sweater. 

You jolt, not expecting the contact. 

You swivel the seat and are met with the eyes of Johnny Storm. 

“I didn’t know you’d be here today,” he says flatly—a fact, yet there’s something else hidden beneath his tone. A slight surprise, maybe hurt, as if he expected you to let him know every time you’d be making an appearance in his vicinity. 

His hand stays on your back. 

You open your mouth to reply, though with what you’re not sure, but his movements stop you. He reaches his other hand to your face, thumbs brushing in between your eyebrows and smoothing out the furrowed line. “They’re gonna get stuck like that.” 

You glance at Lynne. She has a compact in her hand, angling the mirror at a stray piece of hair, pretending not to notice. 

When you look back, Johnny’s eyes are still on you. Observing, memorizing, whatever it is he does. 

Your association with Johnny is… new. You’ve been on a few dates, four to be exact, and each time your eyes nearly bulged out of your head when you returned home and he’s already calling to schedule a new one. You’re unsure if you’re part of a rotation of girls, or if you’re the only one he’s seeing. You don't think it's the latter. You’re too shy to ask. What you do know, however, is that you’re certainly not seeing anyone else. Dating is a fickle thing for you, really, and you had only agreed to going out with Johnny because he’d been incredibly persistent. Plus, it is an undeniable and unmoving fact that he is—to the eyes of all—incredibly attractive. You never had it in you to say no. 

You feel your face warm up at the intensity of his gaze, looking down briefly at your ballet flats to collect yourself. You look back up and manage a small smile, hoping it comes as casual and not the complete mess you feel inside. 

You’re quiet—a plain fact that even Johnny has to have already gotten used to. Words don’t leave your mouth as you hoped it would. You imagine saying something that would elicit a smirk, or something. Instead, you remain silent. 

If he notices your nerves, he doesn’t say anything. Just glances behind you at the counter before his eyes light up. “‘That the big speech?”

You nod, instinctively turning and moving the paper to the side and in Johnny’s line of vision to read. You feel the heat of him press against your back. 

He pretends to scan the page. His eyes dot over the little notes on the margin, arrows pointing before and between words. His mouth crinkle upwards when he notices the tiny smiley face you’ve written after a particular note, commending Sue on a certain sentence. “So professional,” he says coolly. 

Sue finally comes back down the hallway, coat splaying on her arm. She notices you and Johnny and a knowing smile plays on her lips. “Time to go. Are you done flirting with my assistant, Johnny?”

“Not yet,” he rapidly replies, barely sparing his sister a glance before his eyes shift to you and he smiles. It’s small, but carries the weight of mischief and reassurance. “So—how about dinner tonight?”

You blink. “Tonight?”

“Yeah. When you’re done with all this UN business.” His tone is light, but there’s a shift in his eyes like he’s unsure of whether or not your answer will be yes. Hope flickers. 

You hesitate, aware of Sue and Lynne’s attention and the fact that your heart is beating way too fast. “I’ll see how late we’re there.”

“That’s not really the answer I was hopi—“

“Johnny,” Sue’s voice cuts through, demanding but light. “I’ll make sure she’s back in ample time if you can let us go.” She frowns at Lynne apologetically. “We’re already running late.”

They’re actually running early, but Lynne has always been a stickler for time. Sue seems to know that. 

Johnny grins, as if the answer is as good as yes. “I’ll take it.” He pushes off the counter, standing tall with a kind of confidence only the Human Torch can carry. He leans in and brushes a piece of hair behind your ear, eyes scanning your nervous face. “Try not to frown too much until then.”

The weight of Sue and Lynne’s gazes on you is strong. 

You try your best to ignore it, following them down the building and into the waiting car. 

—

The UN conference goes by smoothly (for the most part), you not really doing much except standing to the side with Lynne while Sue delivers her speech with natural poise. At one point, a reporter walked up to you—nervous, unassuming you—to see if they could get the scoop of something, anything, on Sue Storm. You stared blankly at the reporter, not being trained for anything like this, until Lynne yanked your arm and said unequivocally, “We won’t be taking any questions.” The interaction was over soon after it started, but had left you shaken up, cursing at yourself for not knowing what to do. 

The interaction still haunts you as you toe off your flats upon entering your apartment, slinging your bag down on the floor as you make your way to the couch and flop. You wonder if the reporter approached you because maybe you looked too meek to deny anyone a question. You hate that feeling. You always thought a job like yours would be a great way to make an impact while still staying away from the spotlight and glamour of politics, but clearly you had been wrong. Especially if you’re affiliated with someone from the Fantastic Four.

You’re contemplating your life decisions when your chubby tabby, Kiwi, curls himself around your right leg. He sniffs lightly at your work pants before nuzzling his head softly on your shin. You smile, reaching down to pluck the docile animal from the floor and lay him carefully in your arms. 

“You don’t have to worry about the press, do you, Kiwi?” you say softly to the cat in your arms, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. “Well neither do I—anymore, at least. Let’s feed you.” 

You make your way to your small kitchen and into the cupboards until you find Kiwi’s food. Your nervous system calms down at the mundanity, continuing your late-afternoon routine of making sure the bowl of food and water is full. When you’re sure that Kiwi is properly satisfied, you leave him and walk into your bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes. 

You’re slipping off your blazer and blouse, eyes rummaging through your array of t-shirts in your drawer to see which one would be the comfiest to slip on. You pick a tattered college tee, the one where it slips off your shoulders to combat the light warmth with a pair of shorts to match. They have kiss marks printed in a straight pattern, something a friend got you for Valentine’s Day. It’s silk and feels nice on your skin. You slip off the remaining rings that adorn your fingers and hoop earrings, delicately placing them on a tray over your dresser. You breathe in relief, finally feeling normal again. 

This is how the rest of your night goes, rummaging through your pantry for a snack and coddling Kiwi on the couch as you sift through various channels on your television. You’re praising Kiwi as he lets out continuous purrs on your lap when there’s a knock on your door. 

Your head jolts us, eyebrows furrowing as you gently set Kiwi to the side before making your way to the door. 

You open your door curiously, a hint of nerves, only to be met with Johnny.

Your nerves suddenly make more sense.

Your eyes angle up to meet his expression, one showing a bit of alarm. 

“Who were you talking to?” he asks plainly, peering into your apartment. 

You follow his line of vision, taking in everything he is. There’s a bunch of scattered papers, copies of the latest speech, on your small dining table. Various blankets litter your couch and you have two bottles of polish (one a top coat) on your rug. One part of the string lights you hung around your living room dangles down from when a tack broke and you were too lazy to fix it. Kiwi nudged a few pieces of kibble from his bowl and onto the floor. 

It’s definitely not a sight to see for guests. 

The silence stretches as you don’t have it in you to reply. What would you say? You were talking to your cat? 

Thankfully, Johnny doesn’t wait for your reply. He peers down at your face, a lackluster and slightly disappointed expression. “Sue said you were too tired for dinner.”

You do remember telling Sue that, apologetically asking her to relay the information to Johnny since you probably wouldn’t see him for the rest of the day. It was a little embarrassing, a little scary, as you deny seeing Johnny to his sister. But still, she gave you a kind smile and said that she would tell him. 

“But that never usually stops Johnny,” she added after, to which you only offered her a half-smile before scurrying off to Lynne’s side. 

You should’ve known he’d show up. 

“Sue said to leave you alone to, you know, de-stress, or whatever,” he flails a hand up to convey that he saw that advice as useless. “But you need to eat.”

It’s then that you look down and see the brown bag in his other hand, and the familiar waft of food hits your nose. Your stomach growls. 

He hears it, the corners of his mouth turning up. 

“It’s from that place you talked about. Chiu’s Garden, remember?”

The shock in you passes like a splash of cold water. You do remember. You said it in passing, once, about the Chinese takeout you get when work gets too busy and the ache in your head gets hard to manage and you don’t want to cook. You had their number memorized, and the workers there greeted you by name. The place isn’t what shocks you. It’s the fact that Johnny of all people remembers. 

There are many things you want to say. Starting with Thank you and I hope you plucked the sauce that’s on the counter before you left. But mostly How do you remember?

If Johnny notices your shock at the gesture, he doesn’t comment. Only raising a single eyebrow at you. “Can I come in?” 

You realize you haven’t spoken yet. “Are you a vampire?”

The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop yourself, unsure if you meant it as a joke or if it just slipped out because it’s the first thing your mind went to. 

Johnny stifles a laugh. “A vampire?” 

Well, now you clearly have to give him an explanation. “Vampires need permission to be let into private areas.” There’s a hint of embarrassment in your voice, and you curse yourself once again for not knowing what to say and saying the wrong thing. 

He peers at you, eyes squinting and assessing your face. “What have you been watching lately?”

You shrug. You don’t tell him you watched the Scars of Dracula while you were finalizing the last of Sue’s speech the night before. Or how you got fully immersed into it. Or how you talked to Kiwi about how thankful you are that you don’t have a roommate to let unknown strangers into your apartment. 

“Well, I’m no vampire,” he says. 

There’s a playful lilt to his voice, and you realize now that you might be in on a joke you created. Not wanting to disappoint him or bring the mood down because, hey, you’re not in on a lot of jokes, you take a long backwards step back into your apartment. “Prove it.”

Johnny responds by taking a similar long step into your apartment, now standing right in front of you. Your chest nearly meets his as he looks down at you with a smirk. Your heart stutters, and you hope the lack of space between you two doesn’t mean that he can hear it. “See?” 

You manage a small nod, walking around him to shut your door. You think your stomach might start doing backflips if you stay that close to Johnny, mind unsure if it’s a rush of nervousness or excitement. 

He seems to take your interaction as an acceptance that he’s allowed to be here, in your apartment, and though he’s never been inside, he quickly assesses the layout and walks towards your kitchen. 

Kiwi looks as if to say, you let a man into the apartment. 

Your eyes reply, I didn’t know he was coming! 

“I know I didn’t show it—“ Johnny calls out from the kitchen. You hear the crinkle of the brown bag and food being brought out. “—but I was really nervous that I knocked on the wrong apartment. I only ever walked you to the front of the building!”

You pad the small way to the kitchen, peering in to see him open a plastic container and dip his fingers in to snipe a piece of broccoli. 

“I had to look at each door to find your last name,” he says through a mouthful of broccoli. “Thank God you live on the second floor, right?” He turns to meet your eyes, giving you a close-lipped, goofy smile that has your mouth threatening to smile back. When he swallows, he motions to all the cupboards above him. “Do you usually eat with plates or out of the container? Also I brought you orange soda.”

“I—I just eat out the container,” you say softly, leaning against the entryway, arms crossed. 

“Perfect! Me too.” He gathers the food into his arms in a perfect balance, picking up the soda can last before motioning past you. “C’mon. Let’s eat.”

You watch him maneuver your apartment with ease, as if it isn’t the first time he’s been here. He tiptoes past Kiwi’s kibble on the floor and barely manages to knock down a picture frame that sits at the edge of your coffee table. He mutters an apology before putting the food down and sitting on your couch. “So what are we watching—oh. Hello.” He peers down at your cat, who stares back at him blankly. “Is this the infamous Kiwi? Is this who you were talking to?” He reaches his hand out and scratches behind Kiwi’s ear tentatively, unsure if he would be squeamish or not. Unsurprisingly, Kiwi leans into his touch. Johnny is delighted “We’re going to have great conversations,” he whispers, as if keeping a secret between him and the cat. 

You find the sight awfully endearing. You don’t realize you’ve been staring as long as you have until Johnny turns his head to stare at you. “You coming?”

You timidly make your way to the couch, now unsure of how to feel at place in your home when Johnny Storm is in it. Johnny Storm, who despite four dates, you’ve barely gotten used to. You like him (obviously, you’ve let him take you out continuously), but you’re still unsure of what he is to you. The ambiguity of your relationship to him is much easier to stomach when he’s across from you at a restaurant booth, or walking in the park with fresh air around you. 

Now—here—with him on your couch, you don’t think you understand your relationship with him all too well. You wonder if he shows up at other dates’ houses like this; their favorite takeout and a soft smile that can quiet any ache. You wonder how different the other girls he sees are from you; if they stumble on their words despite ample practice. 

You take a seat on the other end of the couch, Kiwi already taking up space in the middle. You angle yourself to face him, legs tucked under you with your arms still crossed. 

“You’re too far away,” he says plainly, as if stating a fact instead of discontentment. “But I have a feeling he’s not going to move anytime soon, is he?”

This gets a laugh out of you, looking down at Kiwi, who blinks slowly at your face. “He’s the boss.”

Johnny lets out a tsk tsk, shaking his head with a grin. “I should’ve known. Guess I’m gonna have to share you tonight.”

The rest of the night goes like this: Johnny shows the various things he bought you from the Chiu’s Garden menu, as he was unsure of what to get you. He has a delightful expression as you express that you like all of them. He pumps a fist in the air and you laugh, leaning down from the couch to pick your food of choice from the coffee table. He makes sure to give you a review of everything he tries, and he’s deeply satisfied, muttering about how you two need to go back together next time. Something flutters in your stomach at the mention of a next time. 

Eventually, Kiwi grows bored of the Ted Gilbert Show and hops off the couch, lightly swaying as he makes his way into your bedroom for some peace and quiet. Johnny takes that as an opportunity to sit closer to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and reaching his other to rest on your knee. He barely pays attention to the ministrations his thumb does on your knee, but it affects you greatly. You, again, wonder if he does this to other girls he’s with. You wonder if it’s stupid that you feel so special. 

“Hey.” 

You look up at him, brows already furrowed from how hard you were thinking. 

“What did I say?” he scolds softly, his hand on your knee leaving as he reaches his thumb in between your eyebrows again. “They’re gonna get stuck like that.” 

—

When you’re not suffering from severe imposter syndrome as you play assistant with Lynne for Sue, you’re taking up extra shifts at the coffee shop down your street. You’ve been working here since you were eighteen and trying to pay for college. Now, you’re a little older and trying to pay your college debts. Still, you know the owner, and they’re more than willing to pay you under the table for your efforts to keep the shop afloat when you can. 

The line isn’t long and you’re striking up a conversation with Miss Sutton, a regular, as she fishes her purse for change. 

“And, Freddie—“ she says, her eyes down at her bag, “—he keeps crying. He’s getting old. ‘Vet said he might be going blind in his right eye.”

Your heart lurches immediately as you imagine yourself in that position; Kiwi growing old and going blind. But he’s only four and you make sure to take him to regular checkups. “I’m so sorry, Miss Sutton,” you say honestly. “Maybe he and Kiwi can have a play date! It might cheer him up.”

She places a few dollars onto the counter and looks at you flatly. “Or remind him of what he no longer has.”

Well, that took a turn. 

You smile tensely at the older woman, taking the dollars and commit yourself to counting them instead of making the conversation worse. So much for comfort. She’s fifty cents off, but you don’t mention it. 

You busy yourself with making chamomile tea, which is one of the easier orders you’ve had all day (you love a good macchiato with lavender syrup with the nice cold foam on the top, but it’s a fucking hassle to make). You hum a little to yourself, in your element at a place you’re comfortable in. Thoughts of a sick Kiwi and a grumpy Miss Sutton exit your mind. 

The bell over the door dings, alerting you of a new customer. You pass the finished drink to your coworker as she finishes heating a pastry. You dust off your hands and turn around. 

“Hello, welcome to—“

You’re met with blue eyes, blond hair, and an accusatory look. 

Your mind goes blank. 

Johnny doesn’t wait for you to finish your obligatory customer greeting, “You’ve been overworking yourself.”

“I—what?”

“You were with Sue all day Tuesday, you cancelled our date yesterday to take a shift here and had an emergency meetup with Lynne, and now you’re back today. You’re overworking yourself.”

You want to say that this is actually what normal people do to make a living, but you don’t say that. Instead, you stare up at his unrelenting gaze and gulp. “Aren’t you—“ your voice comes out squeaky and you clear your throat. “Aren’t you, like, a superhero? You save Earth for a living.” 

He shrugs off your answer like it’s nothing. 

Beside you, your coworker takes note of Johnny, and gasps. 

You both turn your head to the sound. 

“You weren’t lying?” she says, mouth wide. “You’re friends with Johnny Storm?”

Johnny immediately looks offended. “Friends?”

“Viv,” you say, ignoring him, “can you go to the back and make sure Hal is done with the croissants batch? We’re out up here.” 

Viv looks at you as if to say, you’re kicking me out as if Johnny Storm isn’t right here? 

You manage a harsher look, and she’s off, muttering something about getting her camera. You hope to God out of embarrassment that she doesn’t. Johnny visits your place of work and the first thing that happens is your coworker ambushes him. And know he knows that you talk about him.

“I’m sorry about her, I’ll tell her to put her camera away,” you say. 

Johnny looks at you, brows furrowing before shaking his head rapidly. “I don’t care about a photo. I care about you. When was the last time you took a break for yourself? Doesn’t Kiwi miss you?”

“… I did a face mask last night,” you say dumbly. You leave out the part where you were on the phone with an airline company until 2AM because you stupidly booked the wrong time for Sue and Reed’s flight to Chicago, face mask forgotten and on for hours while you tried to fix your mistake before Lynne noticed. 

The admission seems to calm him down a bit, shoulders sagging as his mind recalibrates. “When do you get off here?”

You don’t really have set shifts, you’ve been here since 10AM and helping out any way you can. Hal had you making croissants with him for two hours until Viv asked for your help at the front. Now, it’s 5PM and the sun is getting ready to set—and you hate that Johnny is right, because you feel wrung out. Your body suddenly becomes more alert of the ache on your temples, and the emptiness of your stomach. 

“I can technically leave whenever.” 

His eyes light up. “Perfect! You’re leaving now. Grab your coat.” 

“Johnny—“

“You can go,” a voice behind you says. 

You turn to see Hal and Viv standing together by the door to the back, eyes wide in wonder as they continue to stare at Johnny. It’s a look you recognize from the amount of times you’ve spent with him. It’s why Johnny takes you to restaurants and you get seated at the most private corner, or why he wears sunglasses and a cap in the dead of winter when you stroll through the park. You appreciate the efforts Johnny goes to be unnoticed—knowing you don’t like the attention. But you wonder if that’s just how he’s been going around publicly lately; unnoticed. You realize it’s been awhile since you’ve seen a tabloid of him walking a girl down the street, or a blurry photo of him in a store with someone. Maybe he’s tired of the cameras. 

“Are you sure?” you ask Hal. 

He nods, taking his eyes away from Johnny to give you a softer look. “Croissants are done, I have Viv to work like a dog—“

“Hey!”

“—we’ll be just fine. Have fun with your friend.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and you fight the blush that threatens to coat your cheeks. 

You’re too busy going to the back to grab your coat and purse to notice the shock on Johnny’s face. You give one last goodbye to Hal and Viv before you leave the counter to join Johnny’s side. He waits for you to slip on your coat before placing a hand on the small of your back to guide you out the shop. 

You swear you hear a click from Viv’s camera. 

You breathe in the fresh, cool air the second you’re out on the street. You watch as Johnny inconspicuously slips on a pair of sunglasses and pulls the hood of his coat up. 

He’s silent as you both walk the short distance to your apartment, which is unusual. Usually, he’s already talking your ear off about his day, or something Ben has cooked since he knows your affinity with anything cooking or baking-related. You usually stay silent when he gets like that, listening intently and only giving your input when he manages to force it out of you (even after all this time, you’re still nervous). 

But there’s none of that today. Silence stretches even as you enter your apartment building, him holding the door open for you, and as you pat the snow from your boots onto the rug (normally, this is where Johnny says something stupid, like how you both look like ducks shaking water off by a pond). You walk up the stairs and open your apartment door, still silent. 

Your stomach churns nervously. You wonder if Johnny is mad at you—for overworking, as he says. If the concern has stretched into anger. Or if Hal and Viv’s peering eyes,, and knowing of him, threw Johnny off, realizing you’re just like any other person who brags about his existence. But it’s not like that! You wonder if you’ve ruined what you and he have—whether you know what you guys are or not. 

Finally, as both of your coats have been shrugged off and left on the hook by your door—

“I’m your friend?”

You look up from where you were staring at the floor and furrow your brows. “Hm?” 

“That’s how they talked about me,” he says, and you know he’s referring to Hal and Viv. “They said I’m your friend. Is that how you talk about me?”

He stares at you, eyes searching your own as you try to string together a response. “Um… yeah?” 

Because you don’t know what else to call Johnny. Johnny who takes you to the most private parts of a fancy restaurant, and brings you takeout when you’re tired, and shows up to work to make sure you haven’t been burnt out. Johnny who now looks down at you with a pained expression, for reasons you’re a little unsure of why. Isn’t that what people are in whatever stage you and Johnny are in? Friends? Isn’t he seeing other people? 

Johnny exhales sharply through his nose, walking up to you and shaking his head as if your answer had been outlandish. “That’s really what you think we are?”

Your lips part, but you don’t answer. He’s standing so close now that you can see the faint tint of pink on his nose from the cold. His breath fans down at you. You try to imagine what Johnny wants to hear, but still, you’re unsure. “You and I…” you say slowly, “We’re—what else would we be?” 

His jaw ticks. “Together.”

Together. As in, you and Johnny. You think about Johnny walking you to your door, eyes lingering at your lips but he moves to kiss your cheek and you’re convinced you’d just imagined it. Johnny, who has admitted to looking for restaurants with similar dishes to ones you’ve cooked, so you can compare (“I bet yours is better,” he says plainly, taking another bite. “Do you agree? Or are you too modest?”). Johnny and his thumb that grazes the middle of your eyebrows because they’re gonna get stuck like that. 

You blink at him, voice small. “Together?” 

Johnny genuinely looked confused at your confusion. His brows knot in the way he always tells you to stop doing. “Yeah? Like dating. Together-together. What did you think this was?” 

Heat crawls up the back of your neck, mortification and disbelief tangling in a mess that makes it hard to think. “I—I thought you were just being… you know. Nice. How you treat the other girls.”

His head jerks back. “'The other girls'? Well first, nobody’s that nice. At least, not like I have been. I’ve only ever been like this with you.” 

Your stomach turns at the admission. 

“Second, what other girls? You think I’ve been seeing other people?”

You’re too embarrassed to answer, because you know your answer would be yes. Instead, you huff a large sigh and press your palms to your eyes. “I don’t know what to think right now, Johnny.”

You hear him sigh softly. Two hands reach your wrists. “Hey, hey,” he coos, tone soft as he gently pries your hands away from your eyes. You’re immediately met with a blue storm, swirling with thought and something else that you’re unsure how to name. “I’m sorry if I stressed you out, okay? Come here.”

He envelopes you in a hug, warm and all-encompassing, the kind that makes you realize just how cold the outside has made you without noticing. His chin rests against the top of your head. 

Your arms hover at your sides at first, stiff with hesitation. But as you slowly think through Johnny’s words, you melt into him. The exhaustion from the conversation, from work, from everything presses down harder, and the steadiness of his heart against your head makes something inside you settle. 

Johnny thinks you too are together. 

You wonder how stupid you must really be for not noticing. 

“We’re together,” you say softly into his chest, breathing him in. 

“We are,” he says, a whisper.. “I’m sorry for not making it more… known. I thought you knew.” 

“No,” you say, shaking your head and laughing a little. 

“I didn’t know. I’m too in my head about this, you know?” you admit meekly, your mind now re-assessing every interaction you’ve ever had with the boy against you. Re-assessing with the word EXCLUSIVE over every single memory. 

The two of you stay tangled in each other’s arms until a small meow interrupts your moment, Kiwi coming to curl around your feet. You untangle yourself from Johnny to pick up the cat, resting his body against your chest as you turn to the side so that Kiwi’s head is facing Johnny. 

“Kiwi, this is my boyfriend. I bet you knew that already, didn’t you?” There’s a glee in your voice that has Johnny lighting up, reaching down to give Kiwi a kiss on his head.