Thatâs what Dana tells him. Thatâs what Jack tells him. And none of his residents will say it to his face, but he can see the disappointed judgement in their eyes when you walk away from him, smiling to yourself like a schoolgirl with a crush, while he thinks of the best way to let you down easy.
Your seven weeks were almost up.
And you were amazing. Really, you were. But Robby couldnât help the feeling in his chest when you start calling him Michael more often or when you look at him like maybe he isnât all that broken. Itâs like a weight in his chest, fluid in his lungs that has to be drained, a tumor that must be resected before it does more damage.
So that was his sign to pull the trigger on what was becoming a lovely relationship, one that Caleb had offhandedly expressed support for. âSheâs good for you. Makes you laugh. Doesnât let you indulge in your self-depreciating tendencies.â Robby would hit him with a fly swatter if he could.
Everything was planned in the back of his head. Heâd walk you home after this shift, slowly bring up the topic of âneeding to focus on himselfâ as you apartment building came into view, and violaâŚhe would burn another bridge that was built too close to his heart, where his feelings for you were becoming too big for him to handle.
But those plans disappeared into thin air when an FBI unit showed up to his emergency department in search of an attempted murder victim. More specifically, when you were stitching a minor wound on their unit chief, clearly enamored with his dark hair and his pretty brown eyes and his no nonsense attitude.
At first, Robby tried to ignore it. Who cares if you wanted to flirt with a Quantico suit who looks like he hasnât smiled in years and has a decent hairlike for his age and doesnât 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, âI donât know the last time Iâve seen Hotch smile.â To which the boyband-haircut FBI agent responded, âOr loosened his shoulders.â
You carefully padded the area around Agent Hotchnerâs wound with fresh sterile gauze after tying your last suture, clearing any remnants of blood. âSo what does SSA stand for? Super special agent? Secret special agent agent?â 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. âSupervisory special agent.â He replied.
You grinned and pulled out dressing for the stitches. âOh, that sounds very important.â You hummed.
You knew the man in front of you was an FBI profiler, that if he really didnât 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. âSo, what do you think the likelihood of them getting drinks would be?â 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. âHonestly? It might happen once we finish up this case.â He admitted.
Amhad scribbled something down on his notepad and nodded. âDoes he usually do stuff like that?â 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. ââStuff like that?â You mean smiling? Talking?â He questioned, crossing his arms. âWe have a pretty strict rule of not profiling each other. But right nowâŚâ 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. âIâd say heâs got himself a little crush.â
A little crush.
The words rattled in Robbyâs 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.
âWhatâs got ya down, boss?â She asked with feigned ignorance, leaning back in her rolling chair.
Robby peered over his glasses, cutting her an aggravated glance. âI donât know what youâre talking about.â 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. âOh yeah? You mean youâre not throwing a hissy fit because someone else is playing with your toys?â She baited.
Robby tossed the iPad on the desk next to her. âSheâs not a toy.â
âNo? Then why are you treating her like one?â Dana spat back.
That hit him square in the chest. He shook his head, like he was trying to convince himself. âIâm not treating her like-â
Dana took the iPad and stood, ready to walk away from this conversation. âSave your breath, Robby. If the girl wants to flirt with a hot detective and get drinks and, I donât know, fuck around and move to Quantico, then let her. Sheâd give you the world, but youâre just using her as a stepping stone to your next seven week itch. Let her be with someone that deserves her.â
Robby stood frozen at the desk hub as Dana headed to the next patientâs room. He knew he didnât 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. âWhat? Whatâs wrong?â 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. âNothinâ. Thanks for handling that.â He deflected, desperately hoping to see you smile again, but for him this time, not that agent with a sharp jaw that isnât softening with age and-
âNo problem, Doctor Robby.â 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 heâs no good for you. That heâs 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 didnât know how, but Robby was going to win you back. He didnât have a choice.
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Summary: When youâre lost in a sub drop spiral after being ghosted, Jackâs the one person who realizes whatâs actually going on â and knows how to fix it.
Tags/Notes: hurt/comfort, getting together, sub drop, established friendship/maybesomethingship, dom!jack, sub!reader, light daddy kink, lots and lots of praise, body worship, inspection kink, fingering (f), oral (f), aftercare/sweetness, this is really just a very very soft bdsm fic establishing a dynamic itâs not anything wild and is very tame, also langdon is mean in this sorry
Content Warnings: Â the sub drop depicted here is very self-hatred/self-punishment focused. there is also a scene where reader and langdon are handling a complicated high stress emergency birth, jack to the rescue, but if thatâs a potential trigger the scene can easily be skipped past. also a major greyâs anatomy season 11/12 spoiler? in case?
Author's Note: this won the weekly â(finish your) wip wednesdayâ poll by a whopping .8% so just know your vote matters more here than in your national elections!
Word Count: 16.5k
Stupid.
Thatâs the only word youâve been able to use to describe yourself for two whole days.
So stupid it hurts.
Youâre 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. Itâs a stupid thing to be so upset about in the first place. Youâre 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. Youâre trying to make your face look alive instead of half-dead like itâs 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 didnât do your laundry this weekend. Couldnât. 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 youâre 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 â and in med school. Good work, Lefty.
Turtleneck it is.
The whole bus ride over â you miss the first one, of course â youâre 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 heâs messaged you or returned your calls or done anything but give you the radio silence thatâs 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 nurseâs station. Plaster on an apologetic smile and beg.
âIâm so sorry Iâm late,â you say as you check in with Dana. âI missed my bus by, like, thirty seconds and-â
âSave it, kid, we need you working ASAP.â
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, âRight. Of course. Thank you.â
You turn around â and walk directly into Langdon after not even three steps.
âThereâs my favorite fourth year,â he sighs sharply. âLate and careless; strong start to the night as usual, Lefty.â
âSorry, Dr. Langdon, I just-â
âCan it. Weâve got an MVC five minutes out and I need you to take my patients in six and nine.â
You nod quickly and take a step back from him because you canât breathe all of a sudden. âNo problem. Let me know if you need anything else.â
âFrom you?â He rolls his eyes. âIâm sure I wonât.â
It cuts you deep. Frankâs 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 heartâs pounding and your palms are sweaty just from the way he looked at you. Like youâre stupid.
Because you are.
And everyone knows it.
The universe apparently canât even give you one second of pity, though, because the next person you walk into â shoulders bumping too hard â is Dr. Abbot. Unlike Langdon, though, he immediately steps back. âShit, Iâm sorry. Are you okay?â
Oh god. You canât 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, âAll good. Donât worry.â
I always worry about you. He gives your shoulder a soft squeeze and says, âItâs good to see you, ace. Didnât see your check-in on the shift board earlier.â
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 couldnât be true. Instead, that familiar coil of guilt wraps tighter around your throat. âFuck, I know, Iâm 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 andâŚâ
As your voice trails off into self-conscious awareness, he presses gently, âAnd?â
Heâs the first person so far who hasnât interrupted you. So you have to stop yourself because what wouldâve come tumbling out would be way too much for the workplace and especially for Dr. Abbot specifically. You force a half-smile. âNothing. Just a hard weekend. But, yâknow, Dr. Langdon asked me to take his patients, so Iâm getting back on the horse.â
He shakes his head. âHand those off to Javadi; weâve got an MVC coming in.â
You hold onto them like a lifeline, though. âDr. Abbot, I, um, I think Iâd like to keep Dr. Langdonâs patients instead. If thatâs okay with you, I mean.â
He studies you for the spare few seconds he has. âAre you sure? Iâm guessing Langdon was just being a dick. We could use you.â
âNo, I- I donât mind.â Before he can prod, you avert your eyes and stammer out, âIâm, um, Iâm kind of still recovering from the weekend. Need to, I dunno, warm up a little, I guess.â
Jack tilts his head at you. Curious. Eyes narrowing. âAlright. Iâll page Javadi.â
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 canât 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-
âI can see you overthinking something from here.â Jackâs 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, âYou know you can talk to me, right?â
You hear your voice threatening to break as you reply, âOf course. Thank you.â
But he doesnât move his hand. And he doesnât drop his eye contact. Your heart rate starts to pick up because you can see the care in his eyes and itâs 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, âI mean it, ace. Everyone has their off days, especially in this job. Find me if you need someone to talk to.â
His offer is so human it borders on hysterical. You honestly want to laugh. Off days. This isnât an off day. This isnât 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, âIâm fine.â
âYou donât always have to be,â he murmurs softly. Then the sound of sirens at the nearest bay takes his attention. You donât 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, âFind me if you need me, okay?â
With your heart pounding against your chest, you nod. âOkay, Dr. Abbot. Thanks.â
And, finally, blessedly, you can escape.
For once, youâre thankful that Langdon was being a dick. Heâs 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. Sheâs healthy as a horse otherwise, as she repeatedly insists, but thereâs something soothing about helping him eliminate everything from the mental checklist thatâs 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, Jackâs scanning the ED for your familiar silhouette. Heâs done two full laps before deciding concretely that you arenât with any patients and you arenât 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. âWhitaker forget his leftovers in there again? Youâre mean-mugging the shelves.â
Slowly, robotically, you close the fridge. Still looking at the handle, you reply, âI thought I packed myself a lunch, but I guess I didnât.â
He doesnât miss how absent your voice sounds. Like a glass shattered on the kitchen floor that youâre trying to piece back together without nicking your bare hands.
Thatâs when Jack realizes.
The hesitation in your movements. The foggy way youâre speaking.
Youâre dropping.
Well, more accurately, youâve dropped. Youâre in the middle of it now.
Jackâs been a dom since soon after he left the army. He missed the structure, the protocol, the sense of control. In emergency medicine, heâs always putting out fires that someone else started. When heâs 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 someoneâs universe for even a few moments. More importantly, he has someone to care for. That matters more than he wouldâve admitted when he was a cocky 25 at one of the local kink clubs.
Heâd 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 youâre always so hesitant to answer questions about your personal life and especially your dating life. All things that he could write off easily â but, now, with your eyes clearly searching for something you canât 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, âSit with me. Have half my sandwich and weâll both get something from the vending machine after. The good one on the third floor.â
You stare at him for a second. Gears grind against each other in your mind. Autopilot flicks on. âThatâs okay, Dr. Abbot, I can just- Itâs alright. Iâll order something to the hospital.â
âYou wonât,â he counters. Soft. Certain. Youâre lying to him and he knows it. His expression says you wonât be getting away with that. He pulls out a chair at the table and insists, âSit.â
Itâs uncomplicated. Direct. Clear.
Your current haze has turned even the most mundane tasks into foreign mazes, but Jackâs 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, âWhereâs your water bottle?â
Staring at the objectively delicious-looking sandwich â Jack goes all out with fancy bread and farmerâs market fillings â with no semblance of hunger, you tell him, âI left it in my locker. Iâll go and grab it in a minute.â
He shakes his head and stands. âIâll get it now. Does your locker have a lock on it?â
The answer settles heavy in your gut. You whisper, ashamed, âI forgot to put it on this morning.â
Christ, he wants to strangle whoever left you alone like this. He doesnât know whatâs going on in your personal life â if this is a breakup, a hookup, a mistake â but he knows a good partner wouldnât leave someone who looked even a fraction as broken as you look right now. Most of your coworkers are surely assuming this is just âone of those days.â Even Abbot had thought that at first. But now he can see the splinters in your irises. You canât 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, âJust eat. Iâll be right back.â
Jack swears heâs never made the walk to and from the locker room faster. No matter how fast he goes, though, he canât outrun your racing thoughts. When he returns, you havenât touched a bite of the sandwich, just picking apart tiny pieces of the crust. In that moment, he guesses you havenât had a full meal sinceâŚwhenever 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. âHere. Drink some.â
You take a few small sips of water and mutter a thank you.
Jack doesnât say anything, but the way he looks at the tiny mountain of crumbs youâre creating on your plate bores through your skin. He knows youâre putting off eating. When he lifts his own triangle to his mouth, you do the same, mirroring his movements. You donât want to disappoint him, too. He swallows, you swallow. He takes a swig of water, you take a swig of water. He doesnât push you to talk, least of all to interrogate you about your mood, but his presence anchors you.
Before you know it, youâve actually finished eating. You hadnât felt hungry, but you somehow notice its absence.
Then Jack smiles at you. Sincere and warm. âGood job. Iâm proud of you.â
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 itâs silly. Proud of you forâŚeating half his food? For doing the absolute bare minimum to keep yourself alive? But thatâs not what your brainâs saying right now. Your mind is begging for more of his soft affirmations. All you can manage is a soft, âThank you.â
Jack watches you incredibly closely from there. Heâs 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 â makes you feel embarrassed, ashamed, afraid â then youâre 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. Youâll always feel like a weak, pathetic little thing if he doesnât 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. Thatâs what he tells himself as he scribbles your name in the journal heâs 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, heâll inherently help more than if he didnât 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 heâll make sure you eat, take your breaks, and donât push yourself too hard. Thatâs what you need to get through this. Someone to see you. Someone to care for you. If heâs careful, you wonât even notice the role heâs going to step into until youâre sure on your feet again.
He tells himself it doesnât have to mean anything. That this isnât an admission of the feelings for you that heâs been shoving deep down for â if his drunken confessions to Robby are anything to go by â years. Youâre older than most of the students in your year, more sure, and kinder. Life has made you kind the same way itâs 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 isnât about his feelings. Itâs 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, youâre more irritated than anything the next night when you clock in. At least youâre on time today, so there arenât any jabs about your arrival â which is good, considering youâre 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 theyâre just pissing you off. Youâre 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 donât bother; your stomach still feels more like a twisted fist than something you actually want to put a meal into. Youâd made it through half a bowl of cereal before your shift, which is the best youâve 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. âMorning, ace.â
âEvening, Dr. Abbot,â you reply without looking up.
âJust 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-â which Jack had personally asked her to do â-and you got tens across the board.â
That perks you up slightly. âReally?â
He nods, happy to see you on the verge of smiling, and grabs an iPad from the charging station. You donât notice him setting down a small box so he can handle it. After tabbing through for a minute, he reads off, ââWhen I left, I felt heard, like she actually cared about me as a person. Itâs the most validated Iâve felt by a medical professional in a long time.ââ Jackâs smile is affectionate. Proud. Like heâs really seeing you for who you are. âGreat work. Bedside manner is one of the hardest skills for doctors to master. Keep it up.â
Trying not to let your lip wobble, you near-whisper back, âThank you for telling me. It means a lot to know I didnât screw everything up yesterday.â
Moving his large hand to your arm, he corrects, stern in a way that makes you bite your lower lip inadvertently, âYou didnât screw up anything.â
âBut I didnât help with that car crash and-â
He shakes his head. Something in the way he does it â maybe the tiny scoff under his breath, maybe the way his silver hair catches the light, maybe just the fact that heâs slowing down your inner monologue â makes you shut your mouth to listen to whatever heâs going to say. He gives your arm one more gentle squeeze and tells you seriously, âBeing 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. Itâs the beginning of your career; Iâd say thatâs damn good.â
After biting back tears for a minute, you put on a semi-teasing smile and nudge him. âYouâre being awfully nice today, Dr. Abbot. Compliments, donuts.â
âIâm always nice,â he replies, smirking conspiratorially. He nods back towards the breakroom and asks, âWhatâs your go-to?â
Grimacing, you reply, âI usually get a bear claw, actually.â
âIâm glad I remembered correctly.â Jack takes the smaller box heâd 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. âGot one for you special.â
Your irritation at the day so far breaks. When you look up at Jack, itâs with eyes that are innocent and wide. You take the bear claw from him like itâs an engagement ring or something even more precious. A crown jewel. Your voice goes a little breathless as you ask, âYou remembered my favorite pastry?â
He chuckles, âThe gray adds ten years; my mindâs not going on me yet. Maybe I should dye it so people stop assuming Iâm ancient.â
You giggle, âNo, the gray is sexy.â
You only realize youâre saying it when itâs already tumbled out of your mouth. As pink creeps into Jackâs cheeks, you snap your lips shut and avert your eyes. Fuck, youâre so disoriented you actually said it out loud instead of keeping it in that apparently very, very smooth brain of yours. Stupid. The word thatâs been haunting you just keeps on knocking around your psyche. You stammer out, âSorry, Dr. Abbot, that was- Iâm sorry. Iâm still, um, waking up.â
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 donât care in the slightest. God, his hazel eyes. Theyâre smoldering with warmth. You want to curl up by his feet. To have him hold you. To rest under his protection. When heâs satisfied at your eye contact, he slowly withdraws his hand and says, low and firm, âDonât apologize. Eat.â
Thereâs no way out of eating the hearty pastry â itâs not like you can put it in your backpack or trash it right in front of him â so, even though your brain is still screaming that you donât deserve to eat by not sending hunger cues, you take a bite. If nothing else, the soft sugary flavor is nice. Jack doesnât move and you can tell itâs 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 donât notice how his eyes are glued to your pretty lips.
After rolling his shoulders, Jack praises, âGood job. We can get going now. Youâre shadowing me today.â Nodding in another direction, he informs you, âWeâre starting off rounds in trauma four.â
He didnât offer you any other options, so you canât go searching for them. The thousand directions your day couldâve gone in fizzle away into one path: Youâre shadowing me today. His clarity is pure relief compared to the chaos of your mind.Â
You follow behind him obediently and start the shift.
Things make more sense when youâre under Jackâs direct supervision instead of Langdonâs or even Danaâs. You feel more like yourself, like you can trust your own hands because you know thereâs 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 doesnât melt you; it builds you. Heâs scaffolding.
Youâre 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. Youâre taking a rare moment to fill your water bottle and drink it when you hear Langdonâs voice a few rooms down.â
âLefty, get in here!â He sounds seriously urgent, in his gown and gloves, so you jog over right away. Heâs tying on your gown before youâve even gotten a look at the patient. âYouâve done a vaginal delivery before, yeah?â
Gloving up, you nod and confirm, âA handful â supervised.â
He leads you back into the room where a barely-conscious patient with a gnarly head wound is in very, very active labor. Thereâs a lot of blood around her head and neck; you canât tell whatâs wrong. But Langdon focuses you: âOBâs on the way from her house, but I have to focus on getting mom stabilized up here. Sheâs nearly crowning; weâve gotta get the baby out.â
Standard vaginal delivery. You run through the steps mentally, visualizing the ones youâve both observed and assisted. âHow far apart are contractions? Whereâs she at?â
âTwo and a half minutes. Fully effaced and dilated.â He gives you a pointed look as he resumes his work on the patient. âShould be simple.â
âGot it.â 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, sheâs able to push and make progress. You smile and praise her louder than Langdonâs gruff grunting, âHead is out. Youâre doing great, mama, just stay focused on your breathing, okay? A couple more contractions and weâll be done and youâll both be on the road to recovery.â
She gives you a woozy nod and half a smile. No matter how hard sheâs fighting it, you can tell sheâs tethered to consciousness by thread thin as floss.
You watch the next contraction wash over her â and the babyâs head doesnât move. His chin tucks forward a little. Shit. His shoulder is stuck behind her pubic bone. Keeping your voice calm, you tell Langdon, âDoctor, I think Iâm seeing shoulder dystocia.â
Distracted at her chest, he replies quickly, âYouâre going to need to deliver the posterior arm.â
The posterior arm. Right. In this position, you arenât even sure which one that is. You havenât done your OB rotation yet. So you offer, âShould I go and get-â
The patient slips out of consciousness before the questionâs out. Langdon curses as the monitors go off. He snaps at you, âJust pull!â
âNo, thatâs-â
Heâs not listening to you.
Heâs not listening to you and the baby canât take a breath yet.
I know thatâs not the right thing to do. Thatâs 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 canât do, especially not without someone very heavily guiding and supervising you. âDr. Langdon, I really think we should switch places at the very least. I can handle stabilizing while we wait for the-â
Sweat on his brow, he shouts back, âShut up and let me focus.â
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 babyâs face is still nice and pink, not yet going dusky, so you know thereâs time. But that time is ticking by fast.
You know itâs more dangerous for you to try something youâve 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 babyâs straining face and whisper, âItâs okay. Just hang on, alright? Dr. Abbotâs gonna come and help you. He always comes when I need him.â
After a deep breath, you try again, more firmly this time, âDr. Langdon, I donât know how to do the McRoberts maneuver by myself and I canât move from this spot without someone else stepping in. I really, really think we need to-â
Langdon slams a hand down on the table where his equipment is laid out. âYou donât need to think anything! Just fucking get it done!â
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. âWhat the hell is going on that Iâm getting an emergency page for a vaginal delivery?â
Langdonâs hands keep working over the patient as he starts to admonish, âSeriously, Lefty? You paged our-â
You manage to find the courage to cut him off, informing Jack as clearly as you can with your heart in your throat, âBabyâs presenting with shoulder dystocia. OB is on the way but I- I need help. I canât do this. I donât know how.â
Jack rapidly scrubs and assesses the situation. Seeing that Langdonâs doing procedures you couldâve handled while other help came, he barks, âLangdon, why the hell havenât you switched with her?â
âBecause I thought your star pupil could handle one goddamn-â
âSheâs a fucking student, Frank!â Jack shouts back and drops down onto his knees next to you. He places his hands over yours, prepping for the maneuver, and says, âYou can let go, ace. Iâve got him now in plenty of time.â You collapse backwards from the relief as the nearest nurse moves in to assist Dr. Abbot. Your heartâs pounding and tears bite at your eyes. In the split second before he gets to work, Jack makes determined eye contact and orders, âGo get some air. You did the right thing. Iâll find you after.â
Itâs another half hour before Jackâs able to go searching for you. On a normal day, he wouldâve 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 youâre completely invisible. The only sign of you is quiet sniffling; Jack opens the door quietly so the sound doesnât startle you. Heâs met by your soft, tentative voice carefully peeking out from behind the stairs. âDr. Abbot?â
Following your voice, he tucks into the dusty corner and sighs. Youâre sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes puffy from panicky tears. You havenât stopped crying since you left the delivery; heâs sure of it. âHey, ace.â
âYou shouldnât call me that,â you whisper. âNot when I keep fucking up whenever someone needs to rely on me.â Before Jack can contradict the self-hatred, though, you swallow hard and ask, âHow are the patients? Did the baby- Did you deliver him okay?â
âBabyâs up to the NICU for monitoring, momâs in surgery.â Jack sighs â heavier than youâve ever heard â and tells you, âLangdon shouldnât have put you in a position like that knowing full well youâre a student and not a doctor yet. He wanted to make the dramatic save, not deliver a baby. Selfish prick couldâve cost both their lives for his own goddamn ego. Iâm filing a report.â
You shake your head and pinch your eyes closed. âI shouldâve-â
âShouldâve what? Ripped a babyâs arm off trying a complex delivery? Let him go hypoxic? Risk a maternal hemorrhage?" Jack leans down and offers you his hand, hoping that youâll take it so he can pull you back out of the ocean of doubt. As he helps you off the floor, he urges gently, âYou did exactly the right thing. You questioned the doctor who was giving you bad orders. When it was obvious he wasnât going to listen, you called for help. Langdonâs gonna take it poorly because heâs an ass, but you were perfect. That was a master class in handling yourself well under pressure.â He touches your cheek, just enough to get your attention, and adds, âMakes me even more certain youâre going to be a great doctor.â
You canât even say thank you. Your throatâs 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 youâve 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. Jackâs 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: âCan I hug you?â
It hangs for just a moment too long. Jack doubts himself for a split second.
Then you nod. Itâs 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. Youâre weak and small. You ball your fists up in Jackâs 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, âMatch your breathing with mine for a minute. In and out. You can do it.â
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, âGood. Thatâs good.â
âJesus, this is so stupid.â You sniffle, pulling away from him a bit, and swat at your tears like theyâre parasites. He hates how rough you are when you touch your own skin. Heâd never show you anything but softness. You ramble on, âSorry for being so â I donât knowâ ridiculous the last few days. This isnât- I promise Iâll be better. This is- Itâs a temporary thing. I promise.â
Jack takes your face between two hands. Theyâre calloused and experienced but perfectly and completely gentle. He vows, âIâm here for you â even if it isnât.â
Youâre 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, âWhy are you being so nice to me?â
Jack almost scoffs. âBecause you deserve it.â
The response is so immediate you have to believe it: âI donât.â
Sensing that this might be his one opportunity, he asks with nothing but sensitivity on his lips, âWho made you think that? You were fine last week; what happened?â
You drag in one more breath that wavers. Shame is heavy in your gut but youâre spilling it out like vomit, unable to hold it all by yourself anymore. âI- 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 doesnât make sense and it sounds crazy compared to how Iâve been acting but-â
âIt doesnât sound crazy.â He cups your face in one hand. His calloused thumb brushes your cheek so sweetly it makes your throat tighten up. Heâs treating you like gossamer. âI understand.â
Biting your lower lip, you reply, sound small and alone, âYou donât. Iâm sorry, but you donât.â
Jack takes a step forward, his body pushing yours, so youâre 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. Itâs not frightening and you can tell heâs 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 youâve only ever caught flickers of this particular darkness in his eyes. Little moments over the years â protecting one of his doctors, advocating for a patient, taking command of a crash â youâve seen a flash of how heâs looking at you right now.
But you never realized what it is.
Then he repeats, âI understand.â
And itâs clear as day after a long night shift.
âIâm here for you, ace, because I understand completely.â He wraps his arms around you one more time, tight and fast, and says, âUntil youâre through this, Iâm here for whatever you need. You can always come find me. Got it?â
The relief that washes through you is nothing short of heavenly. You needed this. Needed someone to know. Even if Jack isnât your dom, he still sees the truth of whatâs happening. Thatâs enough to matter a hell of a lot. You take a breath â no shaking â and give a tiny smile. âThanks, Dr. Abbot.â
âJack,â he corrects gently. âI want you to call me Jack from now on.â
Dr. Abbot â Jack â 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 youâre collecting your backpack from the locker room â you havenât been changing at work this week because of the bruises all over your body â Langdon approaches you. Jack, idling a few paces away as he waits to walk you out, stiffens up as soon as Frankâs shadow eclipses your light.
âIâm sorry about earlier,â he says quietly. Quickly. Like itâs a shameful secret. âI was in over my head, too, and all the attendings were out, so I just- I snapped. Iâm gonna have to do a review and everything so, just, yâknow, first steps. Iâm sorry.â
âThanks, doctor,â you reply, barely above a whisper. âI understand.â
âAlright, good. Weâre cool, then. Great.â He runs a hand through his hair, touches your shoulder, and says, âSee you tomorrow, Lefty.â
You sigh and force a smile. âBye, Dr. Langdon.â
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, âWhy do they call you that anyway? Youâre right-handed, yeah? Mustâve started on day shift; I never heard the story.â
The familiar embarrassment of the nickname you canât shake warms your neck and chest. Trying not to sound affected by it, you begin, âLangdon started it. As a joke, I guess, not that it- I donât think itâs funny, obviously. Maybe it is and I just- Whatever. At the end of my first handful of shifts with him. I donât think people even remember why anymore. They just hear a nickname and repeat it. Like Crash.â You shrug a bit, grimace, and explain, âLefty. Because I canât do anything right.â
Jack rolls his shoulders and sucks in a sharp breath.
Rage shreds his ribs apart.
He doesnât exactly need more reasons to loathe Langdon â having him stuck in nights the last month has made him seriously debate his âno groveling to Robbyâ rule â but he knows one thing for certain: Nobodyâs calling you that in his ED again. Nobodyâs going to make you feel small. Not while heâs dedicating himself to building you back up.
Out of nowhere, Jack turns on his heel, takes you by the elbow, and says, âCome on, letâs go to the skills lab. Iâll get us food after. Iâm gonna teach you the damn McRoberts maneuver.â
You donât freeze because youâre in Jackâs orbit, once again following your sunshine, but you still ask, âWhat? Why?â
Jack doesnât even have to look at you; you can feel the intensity in his words. The protectiveness. This is personal to him. He growls back, âBecause youâre not fucking stupid.â
By Sunday night, the last shift of your seven on, youâve actually gotten a full nightâs sleep and eaten a breakfast with real protein and carbs. And honestly? Youâre doing it because you know that Jackâs 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.
Jackâs waiting at your bus stop.
You hop into his field of vision and laugh. âWhat are you doing here, Jack?â
âThought you could use some company for your walk,â he replies effortlessly. He takes your backpack from your hand and slings it over his own shoulder. âWeatherâs gorgeous and I thought we could use a minute to check in before the day starts.â
You canât contain the grin that comes with Jack going out of his way for you. Heading toward the hospital, you ask, âAnything in particular we need to check in about?â
He starts simple: âHowâd you sleep?â
âPretty good, actually. No nightmares for once.â
Jack nods, making a mental note. âWhat did you have for breakfast?â
âEggs on toast,â you tell him. The way it feels like youâre 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, âAnd I packed a big lunch with a couple snacks for my breaks.â
âGood job. Really good job.â He gives you a smile thatâs nothing short of hunky. âI know you wanted to do laundry last night. Any luck there?â
You shake your head meekly. âI was way too tired. I didnât shower before my shift, either.â
âDid you brush your teeth?â
âYeah, and flossed.â
âThatâs enough for today,â he assures gently. Pushing through the staff entrance, he asks, âHave any plans for your week off besides R&R?â
âI think I should probably take it easy,â you admit with a sad little sigh. âI want to catch up on cleaning and get back into my self care routines.â
âThat sounds like a plan. Iâm off, too; we can call when you need accountability.â
You smile and look at your sneakers, thankful that he canât see your heart stammering for more and more of his attention. âPerfect. Thank you.â
He hands your bag over again before you reach the locker room, not wanting to catch any wayward eyes. âItâs no trouble, ace.â
The way he says it, you believe him. He really doesnât mind carving out space in his life to help you, even if it feels silly and stupid and frivolous at times. Heâs 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 nurseâs 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 whoâs still admitted. At the same time, Langdonâs approaching you with a fresh chart, his step peppy. âEvening, Lefty, ready to-â
Jackâs bark â from more than ten feet away at the nurseâs station â interrupts him: âLangdon, câmere a second.â Despite cutting him a suspicious look, Frank walks over to Jack at the nurseâs 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 Langdonâs close, Jack says, short and direct, âI donât want to hear any of that nickname shit anymore. No Crash, no Lefty. No more putting each other down. Jobâs hard enough as it is.â
Langdon laughs and puts on his puppy dog eyes, gazing over at you as if that could help him get off Jackâs shit list when heâs already deep in it. âAw, but Lefty doesnât mind, do you?â
Jack slams his hand on the counter and snaps, âIf I hear you call her that one more time, weâre going to have a serious problem.â
You try to squeak out, âItâs okay.â
When he turns to you, all the anger leaves his face. Thereâs nothing but softness, that desire to help you right at the surface. âItâs not. Itâs really, really not okay with me. Give us a second, ace.â 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. Frankâs never seen his eyes so dark. âDonât say it again. Or youâre gonna be âRighty.ââ
Langdon rolls his eyes to hide his nerves. âAnd whatâs that mean, gramps?â
âYouâll have nothing left when Iâm done with you.â Jack lets go of Langdonâs shirt and shoves the center of his chest. âBetter yet? Stay away from her. Until HRâs reviewed your case from yesterday, I donât want you within six feet of her.â
âI think thatâs a little bit of an overreaction to-â
âYou donât want to see me overreacting,â Jack bites back. His words are gravel to be picked out of an open wound. âDo your job. Thatâs it.â
The shift is a killer. The kind youâve been dreading all week. Itâs 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, thereâs Jack. Heâs a whirlwind, but heâs 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 heâs not actually by your side, you hear his voice in your head. Great work, ace. Smooth and steady. You know this. Youâve got this. Somewhere amid the chaos, that voice mingles with your own. You start to actually believe in yourself again. Jackâs been the scaffolding, but youâre still the structure heâs been repairing. Your breaks have been mended, your scars patched. And in the surfing wake of Jackâs healing, youâve remembered that youâre worth something on your own. Even when you lose sight of it, that canât truly be taken from you.
Youâre 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, youâre practically glowing because youâre 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 isnât in any of the usual spots. Because itâs 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.
Youâre 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.
Jackâs 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. âGood morning, ace.â
You join him by the railing, taking in the sunshine and opening up your granola bar with a smile stained to your lips. âMorning, Jack.â
His eyes trace every line of your face. A tiny smirk plays with his lips as he notices, âYouâre smiling again.â
âIâm happy,â you hum in return. âI did a thoracostomy all by myself. Shen said I was perfect.â
Jack has to bite his cheek to resist the urge to scoop you up and spin you around. Heâs been fighting all week to see that self-assured smile he loves so much. âIâm sure you were. Thatâs my girl.â
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 youâre 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, âItâs been really nice working so closely with you this week, Jack.â
Eyes linked with yours, he assures, âThe feelingâs mutual.â
You want to ask if thatâs the only feeling thatâs mutual.
But you canât bring yourself to. The fear of his rejection is too heavy. After days of coming to rely on his strength, you canât imagine blowing it and losing the foundation youâve built. Anxious all of a sudden, you ask him softly, âYou really donât think itâs kind of, I donât know, pathetic to be so affected by some shitty one-off dom ditching me?â
Jack scoffs and turns toward you properly. âPathetic?â He gives your hand a quick squeeze, shakes his head, and explains, âWhen you open yourself up like that to a partner, itâs sacred. It means everything. Youâre saying, âhey, hereâs all of me,â even if itâs new. For someone â anyone â to take that trust and use it up and then leave without building it back upâŚâ He swallows hard and runs a hand through his curls. You can tell heâs choosing his words carefully. âHonestly, that makes me fucking sick. Youâre not pathetic in the slightest. He is. If you were my- I would never treat my sub like that. Never.â
You wrinkle your nose like a bunny. âSounds like I might need to raise my standards.â
âIf the standard is basic aftercare and courtesy, Iâd definitely agree.â He leans against the railing, tries not to imagine you as his, and asks, âWhere do you even meet a chucklefuck like that?â
âFetLife.â
âFigures.â Jack takes a long pull from his water bottle like itâs a beer. âHe block you on everything right after?â
You cringe and confirm, âMhmm.â
âWhat a dirtbag.âÂ
âMostly Iâm just mad at myself,â you admit sheepishly. âI was being-â at his challenging eyes, you quickly adjust your wording â-irresponsible. I skipped steps that I usually follow. I wasnât as thorough as Iâve been in the past. All just because I really need to be-â
You close your mouth and laugh at yourself. Yeah, as close as you and Jack have gotten this week, he definitely doesnât need to know how that sentence was going to end.
Jack takes a deep breath and sighs it out. No matter what you need from a dom, he knows exactly how heâd give it to you. But this isnât the time nor the place to broach the possibility of that. He just tells you, âWeâve all done shit like that when times are tough. The important thing is bouncing back and learning.â
You giggle at the idea. âYouâve made some reckless kinky decisions?â
âOh, absolutely,â he laughs. âLast one? Summer 2021. Post-pandemic munchies, if you will.â
Your eyes widen. Jackâs being playful with you. ItâsâŚeverything. âSeriously?â
âEnded up hogtied suspended from the ceiling.â He shakes his head at himself again. The way he chuckles is worth drinking down. âI had to use my Alexa to call Robby to get me out. Never gonna live that one down.â
Your brainâs positively tingling. âYouâre a switch?â
âNo,â he confirms, saying it like the ideaâs ridiculous, âbut I like to try things out myself before I have a sub do them. Call it a safety obsession. I donât screw around with unnecessary risk. Submission is a gift; I protect that gift. Treasure it.â
Fuck, thatâs hot.
You want to drop to your knees.
He can taste it in the air.
Into the way-too-thick silence, Jack urges, âSo stop punishing yourself. We all crave that connection and sometimes it gets the better of us. Just keep yourself safe; thatâs all you can do.â Then he opens up his arms and offers, âCâmere.â
Itâs impossible not to slide into the embrace. The morning air nips at your ears but Jackâs 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.
âYouâve done such a good job this week. Itâs so hard to put yourself back together when someone takes advantage of you,â he murmurs against your ear. âIâm so proud of you.â
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, âThank you, daddy.â
The moment you hear the word tumble from your lips, you stagger away from him like youâve 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. âOh god- Oh god I- Iâm so sorry. That wasnât- I donât know why I said that. I was just feeling so safe and- I promise that- Fuck fuck fuck Iâm so-â
âDonât you dare,â he almost snarls, the sudden flare not directed at you but at anything thatâs ever made you believe it. The low rumble of his voice is downright possessive. âDonât you dare call yourself stupid again after all the progress youâve made this week.â
Jack takes your hand and tugs you back to face him. Close. No disgust in his eyes like youâd feared. Tears flood your cheeks and land on your chest, darkening your shirt. Youâre on the verge of hyperventilating now. You canât 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 heâs 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, âMy sweet, sensitive girl. I hate that youâve had to be so scared and so brave when all you need to thrive is someone to take care of you.â Touching his forehead to yours, he pleads tenderly, âWould you let me take care of you?â
Your heartâs fast-beating in your throat.
The sunâs risen now and the sky is blue.
The sky is blue.
Jackâs pager goes off and he sighs, checking it with furrowed brows. The bubble of the moment pops. Still, he doesnât move. He holds you. Lets the intensity fade naturally. He urges, âI need to get back onto the floor, sweetheart. Would you come home with me so we can talk?â
âI think-â 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. âI think Iâd like that, Jack.â
He kisses your forehead. It lingers a moment. Like heâs breathing you in to fortify himself for the rest of the shift. âWait by my car at the end of your shift.â
Itâs actually Jack who ends up waiting for you, but he doesnât 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 Jackâs gazing at you like a damn princess on a throne. He wraps you in a quick hug and confirms, âYou still okay with this?â
âCompletely and totally,â you confirm â but your voice shakes a bit. Itâs a mix of nerves and excitement and adoration and so many more things you donât 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. âWhat are you thinking?â
âIâm nervous,â you admit, biting your lip for a moment.
Jack touches his thumb to the place where your teeth connect. âWe need to work on that habit.â
Your cheeks warm, especially hot where his hand lingers. âWe?â
He gives you a cute, sly smirk. âI have a funny feeling that Iâm going to be holding you accountable very soon.â Dropping his hand, he walks you around to the passengerâs 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, âTell me what youâre nervous about.â
It takes a minute to recover from the feeling of Jackâs arm hair tickling the back of your neck, so simple and so sexy itâs hard to think straight. When youâve finally accepted that Jack is comfortable with touching you so easily now, you glance at him sideways and reply, âI just like you, honestly. A lot. And I feel like maybe this could be, yâknow, something big. Something good and important and- and real.â
His eyes flick over to yours. His expression manages to be both teasing and warm. âAnd that makes you nervous.â
âYeah.â You stifle the corresponding laugh that threatens. âReally nervous.â
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. âIâm sure I can fix that in no time.â
Your breath catches in your throat and a nervous laugh makes its way out. âTouching my thigh certainly isnât helping with the nerves.â
âYour nerves arenât a bad thing,â he replies simply. His hand slides toward your inner thigh, pinky brushing the seam. âThat just means you care about how this goes. Youâll feel better the more comfortable you get and youâll get more comfortable when you realize Iâm not going anywhere.â Then, as he pulls off into a lush neighborhood full of old, cozy family homes surrounded by spring blooms, he tells you, almost whispering, âIâm nervous too, if that helps.â
You scoff, torn between wondering which of these expensive houses belongs to Jack and actually paying attention to him. âWhat could you possibly be nervous about? Youâre the hot salt-and-pepper doctor who always swoops in to save the day. Iâve seen enough Greyâs to know where that gets you.â
He eyes you and chuckles. âBrain dead due to a delayed CT scan?â
âI meant more âable to fuck any med student you want,â but Iâm absolutely thrilled to know youâve seen the show.â
As he parks the truck in the driveway of perhaps the cutest storybook house youâve ever seen, he replies modestly, âWell, Iâve never wanted to fuck a student before.â
Giggling so that you donât have to acknowledge the butterflies once again launching into your chest, you tease, âI donât believe you for a second.â
Jack snickers; the idea is so ridiculous to him. âCross my heart.â
He gets out of the truck and then opens your door, offering a hand to help you down the step. When youâre 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. Youâd 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, âDonât be too impressed; I hired some lady who wore too much turquoise to pick all the stuff out when I bought the place.â
âItâs nice,â you say, really only speaking so that you donât retreat back into your nerves.
He nods toward the nearby couch â plush boucle like a cloud â and says, âSit down; Iâll bring you something to eat and then you can shower.â
âI donât have a change of clothes.â
He sets both your bags on the floor and says, âIâll grab you something of mine to wear.â
Once youâre 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 heâs abandoned his. Your heart stutters. Heâs so fucking gentle with you. After pressing a kiss to each of your knees, he stretches himself upwards and instructs, âJust relax for a minute. Iâll be right back.â
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. Youâre going to find out what Jack Abbotâs 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. Thatâs 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. âNot the sexiest meal I couldâve offered, but I didnât think weâd be doing this tonight.â
âLeftover takeout is fucking perfect after tonight,â you assure him, digging in right away. After youâre satisfied by a few bites, you nudge his knee with your own and ask, âDidnât think weâd be doing it tonight or didnât think weâd be doing it at all?â
âTonight,â he replies. Blunt. Immediate. âI didnât want to push you. Or do things too soon. Be too much. But I wasnât going to let you go home thinking youâd made a mistake by calling me-â
âDonât say it,â you blurt out. âItâs too embarrassing.â
âIâm not allowed to say it?â 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 heâs being torturously cutesy, âDaddy, daddy, daddy. Thank you, daddy. Hi, daddy. Yes, daddy. I need it, daddy.â
You shriek, hands flying over your face. âJack, please!â
âOooh, I love that one,â 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 youâre 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, âPlease, daddy, stop it, daddy, Iâm so embarrassed, daddy, itâs too much, daddy.â
Your face is absolutely burning and you squirm in your skin, covering your silly grin because Jackâs lightness is so delicious you can hardly stand it. âFine, fine! Itâs not embarrassing, you win!â
Finally he relents, letting you breathe in the laughing quiet, and says, âI liked when you called me daddy. A lot. I hope it wasnât for the last time.â
And then youâre kissing him.
You physically canât stop yourself from pulling him down by his scrub top, letting him bracket you with his weight, and crashing your lips into his. Youâll 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, âIt definitely wasnât the last time.â
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, âGood girl.â
And you know youâre done for. Youâre soaking wet from thirty seconds of teasing and your mind is a serene summer lake. Heâs 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 theyâre hotter now, sharper, more exciting. You donât dread; you want.
After clearing your plates â he insists that you donât need to do anything â Jack offers you his hand and says, âCâmon, sweetheart, letâs go upstairs.â
You take his hand eagerly. Outside of the hospital, you donât 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 doesnât matter. Nothing matters but Jackâs hand around yours, leading you up the stairs toward his bedroom suite.
Itâs perfectly neat, which youâd expected, but there are undeniably more signs of Jack here. Itâs 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, thereâs 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, âHave a shower. Iâll use one of the guest bathrooms.â He throws a wink at you and adds, âFigured youâd like a chance to snoop uninterrupted.â
You scrunch up your face. âOkay, youâre not wrong, and I hate you for that, but what about your shower chair? Pull bars? Donât make things harder for yourself for me.â
âYouâre so considerate,â he sighs affectionately. A little quieter, he adds, âYouâre so fucking special; you have no idea.â After another beat, he goes on, âAll the showers in the house are accessible, though, so don't worry. Lots of other stuff around the place, too â lower table and counters so I can use my chair while I cook, pull-down shelves so I donât have to strain, voice-activated lights so I donât have to move. New construction perks.â
âThatâs awesome,â you say, sounding almost drunk, very distracted by the fact that heâs stripping off his shirt and tossing it in his hamper. Absently, you add, âIâll have to think about what I can do in my apartment to make things easier.â
He smiles to himself again. Considerate. He loves loves loves that about you. Even though he wants to say âjust stay here with me whenever you want,â heâs grateful for your thoughtfulness. Youâll make the perfect little plaything for him, always eager to please. If it were any other day, heâd tease you unrelentingly for how youâre ogling his bare chest, make you list off every pathetic thought youâre having when you see him, but this morning, he has other goals. So he just repeats, âShower. The towels on the rack are clean. Take whatever you want to wear from the closet. Iâll only be a few minutes.â
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. Thereâs 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 â an antidepressant and a blood pressure pill, not particularly surprising â next to a pill case thatâs clearly never experienced a missed dose. Naturally, Jack Abbot is a religious floss pick and mouth wash user.
Showering with Jackâs products is weirdly and wonderfully intimate. Youâre wrapped up in his scent, all woodsy and sharp and masculine, as steam curls around your body like a loverâs touch. The water pressure is amazingly harsh and there are shower heads on both far walls. Itâs built for showering together. God, youâve never met someone who manages to be so hot when he isnât even in the room.
After your shower, itâs time for snooping in the closet. The surface level is boring â how could one man own so many white, gray, black, and navy clothes? â but you find some hidden gems. For example, most of his boxer briefs are patterned. Red hearts, peaches, bumble bees, dinosaurs. Thereâs so many you wonder if he has one of those subscription services for new cute ones every month or something. Heâs also got a collection of old band tour tees. If these are all from concerts, he mustâve 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 youâre 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 youâve 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 bodyâs tingling with anticipation.
Suddenly Jackâs voice behind you snaps you back into reality. âSnoop to your heartâs content?â
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, âI absolutely did.â
He takes a step closer. Predator to prey. âFind anything you like?â
âMhmm.â
âWant to share with the class?â
You shake your head and giggle, âUh-uh.â
âKeeping your cards close to your chest I see.â 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 youâre wearing, and praises, âYou look good in my clothes.â
âYou look good. Period.â 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 heâs holding himself back from demolishing you. Lifting your eyes again, you tell him, âYouâre really beautiful, Jack.â
âAnd youâre exceptionally sweet,â he replies. Studying your expression like only he can, Jack checks in, âHow are you feeling? Tired? Nervous?â
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, âHorny.â
As he chuckles â youâre getting addicted to his low raspy laugh â 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 Jackâs hand covers yours. When your eyes open in surprise, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your fingers, telling you, âNot today, baby.â
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, âYou donât want me?â
Jack shakes his head ardently, seriously, and assures, âI want you, sweetheart. I want you more than anything.â Touch as soft as if he were handling a FabergĂŠ egg, his thumb traces your cheek and his eyes stay on your face. He explains, low, slow, serious, âBut Iâm not going to fuck you today. Right now, you donât need my dick; you need someone to take care of you. I want to be that someone for you from now on.â
Hope and gratitude pools inside you. âFrom now on?â
He smiles at you, so warm itâs like a home-cooked meal in the dead of winter. âThis week Iâve realized I canât go on pretending I donât want you to be mine â and only mine.â
You repeat gently, âYours.â
âMine.â His first finger drags along your jawline. Inspecting. Discovering. âIf youâll have me.â
You give a tiny nod and gently whisper, âI need you. I want you.â
âThen I make the decisions today. I decide what you need from me and when â because you obviously need me to tell you what to do, you silly little thing.â
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, âIf youâre not going to fuck me, what are you going to do?â
Jackâs 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, âIâm going to worship you.â
âJack, I-â You swallow hard and let out a deeply pathetic high-pitched whine as his breath tickles your rising goosebumps. âI donât even know what to say.â
âThen donât say anything,â he replies easily. You can tell heâs being so sincere and so wanting as he insists, âLet me do all the thinking. Just let go for me. Let me take everything for you. Can you do that?â
Despite your shaking breath, you tell him, âIâll try.â
âThatâll do for now,â he assures, pressing another soft kiss to your forehead. Then he steps back and informs you, âIâm going to take a good long look at you now. I want to learn every inch of my new favorite toy. Is that okay?â
âVery okay,â you confirm breathily. The word âtoyâ has sent you through the stratosphere and into the stars. âAnd you donât have to ask permission.â
âI do,â 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. âUntil we establish your safewords and I learn to read you, Iâm always going to ask when I start something new. Youâre in charge here.â
Even though you nod, you definitely donât feel in charge when he starts to examine you like a piece of furniture heâs thinking about buying. First, he takes your shirt off. Itâs borderline unceremonious; the fabric is nothing more than a distraction between him and his possession. Thatâs 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,âBe good.â
God, heâs 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 isnât going to be an issue for Jack.
And heâs noticed.
Of course he has.
On his way to the other side of your body, he taps your inner thigh and orders, âWiden your stance.â
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 youâve 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, âYouâre already being so good for me, baby. Iâm going to have so much fun with you.â
Breathily, you moan, âJack, if youâre not gonna fuck me, you should probably stop turning me on so much.â
His movements still and he gazes back up at you with challenging eyes. âI didnât say I wasnât going to get you off.â
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 heâs talking. Unrelenting touch. âLook, baby, sometime soon â very fucking soon if I have anything to do with it â weâre going to sit down and have a good long talk. Iâm going to write down all of your limits and commit them to memory and tell you mine. Youâre going to tell me all about your history with doms and vice versa. Youâll tell me every single thing your brain and that pretty little pussy of yours want â no matter how embarrassed that makes you. And Iâm going to use all that information to be the best fucking dom youâve ever had. The kind you actually deserve.â
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 thatâs way sexier than if he shoved you onto the bed and took you as hard and as fast as you know heâs craving. His self control is honey.
Standing up again, Jack rests his hands on your waist, kisses you, and says, âUntil then â until I know everything I need to know â you have to be good and take what Iâll give you. No brattines or begging. Because the most important thing to me is always going to be keeping you safe, princess. Youâre still coming out of some really nasty sub drop; Iâm not going to do anything intense to you right now that might send you back under. And Iâm always intense when Iâm fucking.â His eyes own yours and he goes on, âIâm just gonna get you off enough times to know youâll sleep well in your new daddyâs bed. That sound good to you, sweet girl?â
You nod eagerly, chest rising and falling with lust as he plays with you.
Jack tuts, the sort of sound youâd make at a puppy having an accident. With his dominant fingers teasing gently through your pubic hair, he instructs, âYou have to use your words with me. Youâre gonna figure it out soon enough on your own, but Iâm big on talking. Wanna hear that sweet voice say the filthiest things. Tell me what you want.â
You bite your lower lip until his eyes catch you red-handed. Youâre so desperate for him that youâre stupid all of a sudden â stupid in the best way. Not the âstupidâ youâve been weaponizing against yourself. No, this thoughtlessness is safe and breezy. Itâs anticipation and toes curling and trust. Youâve 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, âIâll wait as long as it takes. Deep breaths.â
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, theyâre so wanting and breathless it honestly surprises you even in your current state: âTouch me, daddy.â
Pure want blows Jackâs pupils wide and dark and all-consuming.
âThereâs my good girl,â he purrs, closing the small distance between your bodies. âOn the bed. Spread your legs and get comfortable. And I mean actually comfortable â donât try to pose yourself for me. I promise youâre always going to look sexiest when youâre not overthinking it. Understood?â
With lust filling your every nook and pore, you sit back on the large, comfortable bedâs silky soft linens and tell him, mustering the confidence you know he wants, âUnderstood.â
He gives you an approving nod â so you get comfortable. You move his many pillows around until youâre 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, âJesus, your body isâŚfucking perfect. No other way to say it. Iâve imagined this so many times I canât believe youâre even more gorgeous than I pictured.â
âYouâve pictured me naked?â
Unashamed, he grabs rough handfuls of your inner thighs just to watch you gasp and writhe as he answers, âAbsolutely. Iâve spent hours and hours on these thighs alone.â
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.
âAnd your hips,â he croons, kissing one as he grips the other. His hands are so strong and commanding; you canât 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, âYou have no idea how many times Iâve imagined bending you over just so I can grab these perfect fucking hips. Look so good even in your damn scrubs.â
Then he finally lets himself gaze at your tits. Heâs looking at your body like youâre 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, âThese may be the prettiest nipples Iâve ever seen in my twenty years as a doctor.â
You let out a self-conscious laugh. âThatâs your medical opinion?â
âPurely objective, I assure you,â 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. Heâs positively rapturous. He really has been envisioning this moment longer than you wouldâve 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, âYup, the best. Objectively the best.â
Then he gives you a slow, unhurried kiss. His index finger tilts your chin upward and he tells you, voice like a lullaby, âOnly thing better is this pretty face of yours.â His thumb parts your lips, gently brushing the tender places where you bite your lower lip. âIâm going to take the best care of you, princess. Treat you better than you even thought possible.â
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 itâll 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, âFuck, youâre gonna take care of me, too, arenât you?â
You nod, all mischievous and coy. âIâm gonna be your new favorite hobby.â
âI donât have a single doubt about it,â he chuckles. Drawing his hand down once more â your neck, your chest, your stomach, your pubic hair â he orders, âNow look me in the eye while I fuck you with my fingers for the first time.â
He knows youâre fucking soaked, so thereâs 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 Jackâs 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. âI said look at me.â
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, âThank you, daddy.â
Jack smiles in earnest. âYouâre welcome, baby. You can relax now. Just enjoy yourself for a while.â
You half-giggle/half-moan, âYes, sir.â
Jack snickers. âMmm. Thatâs what I like to hear, pretty girl.â
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 Jackâs 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. Itâs slow and controlled, the way he works you up, like carefully turning a corkscrew. So when he does finally decide youâre ready to cum â youâre grinding against his hand, moaning and whining, babbling out cute little pleas â itâs champagne. You burst into a million bubbles that run down Jackâs greedy hand and wrist.
The whole time, thereâs his voice. Insistent and low. Good girl, thatâs 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 youâve finally simmered through all the aftershocks, you expect Jack to pull back and put you to sleep. But he doesnât. 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 wonât be letting up any time soon. Not until heâs satisfied with how totally blissed out he can get you using nothing but his mouth and hands. Itâs 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 â no, leaping â 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. Heâs 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 youâre close again. Your moans get deeper and slower. Youâre relaxing into him now â 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 tongueâs 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 heâs 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 Jackâs hair, moans rolling out of your mouth and down your body and straight into Jackâs ears.
You cum again and think that has to be it â youâve never even been together before, for Christâs sake â but Jack doesnât let up. Not completely. His turns his touches slow and light, caressing instead of consuming, but youâre the exact opposite â bucking like a bronco from the overstimulation of him latching onto your swollen, sensitive clit. You whimper out, âToo much, Jack. I- I canât-â
Because itâs new and youâre at where youâre 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, âThink you can do one more for me, baby girl?â
Eyes wide and hazy, you reply, âI- I dunno, daddy. Dunno anything.â
He smirks and runs his thumb across your lower lip, all swollen and cute from biting while you got off. He checks, âThe good kind of âdunno anythingâ or the bad kind?â
âGood kind,â 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. âFeel really good, Jackie.â
âJackie,â he repeats with a chuckle. âBeen a hell of a long time since anyone called me that.â
You pull back and look at him with eyes on the verge of watering. âIs that okay?â
He places a firm kiss on your forehead and assures, âHoney, you can call me whatever the hell you want as long as youâre mine. Youâre too good and too cute for me to deny you anything.â
You give him a silly grin. âYeah?â
âAbsolutely.â He turns you both onto your sides and asks, âNow, do you want more or do you want to get ready for bed?â
You shake your head, still buried in the crook of Jackâs shoulder, and murmur, âYou pick.â
âUh-uh,â he tuts. After kissing your temple, he insists, âNot this time. Weâre not skipping any steps here; I canât learn what you need when you need it if you donât know and tell me first.â
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. âI think Iâm ready to be done and go to bed. Is that okay?â
Jack feels that familiar flicker of protectiveness in his gut. He holds your chin and his expression turns serious. âYou are always allowed to be done. Even when we reach the point where Iâm making all the decisions and youâre just my dumb little slut following orders, youâre safe to tell me whatever you need whenever you need it.â
You poke him in the chest and giggle again, âYouâre whipped already, Dr. Abbot.â
âYeah, I am,â he admits freely. âAll I want is to be yours.â
Jack stands up next to the bed, loops his arms beneath your body, and lifts you like itâs no big deal. You squeal out of a laugh and he smiles back, the perfect mix of silly and strong.Â
He takes you into the en suite bathroom, sits you on the low countertop next to the sink, and orders, âOpen your mouth, sweetheart.â You do so without question and get met with another lovely âgood girlâ that makes your heart dance, more of a waltz than a tango now that youâre coming down. Jackâs brow furrows in concentration like heâs 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 heâs cleaning.
Once heâs satisfied with his work, he lifts a cup of water to your lips and says, âSwish and spit.â
Again, you follow his orders. Folding into Jackâs guidance is so natural for you. Itâs easy. And in a life where so many things are so fucking hard, thatâs worth everything. Then he winds floss around his fingers and you sleepily offer, âYou donât have to do all that.â
âIâm going to,â he responds plainly. Opening up your mouth again and getting to work, he says, âI take care of whatâs mine. When youâre with me, you donât have to do anything for yourself unless you want to.â He throws the floss out and kisses the tip of your nose. âI always tend to my pet.â
hii mae how are you!!! i unfortunately have fallen victim of the 2026 flu and i feel like im dying :( i missed work all of this week and also had to get extensions for all my assignments and im itching for a sick fic and i was hoping youâd be down to write one w any of (or all) the marauders? if you want to keep it general thatâs totally fair but if youâd like something more specific i was wondering if you could write something about reader just getting more and more nervous throughout the week for having to take so many days off and worrying about everything piling up in the midst of a fever?
Thanks for requesting angel <3
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If youâre new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
Sirius Black x fem!reader ⥠623 words
You keep saying that youâre getting better, but itâs not a great sign when you donât hear the front door open. Sirius finds you slumped over the kitchen table, your cheek smushed against the wood and an incriminating pile of papers scattered around you.Â
He rubs gently between your shoulder blades, feeling the heat of your skin through your pajama shirt. âHey, lovely girl. This isnât going to help your back aching.âÂ
You wake with a weak sniff. Sirius can tell by hearing it that it doesnât do much for your stuffy nose.Â
âHowâd you wind up here?â he asks lightly. âSleepwalking?âÂ
You make a low, remorseful sound and turn your head into your elbow. âI didnât get anything done.âÂ
âWell, thatâs a relief. Thatâd be like doing work even though youâve asked for the week off.âÂ
âIâm gonna be so behind.â Your voice is mumbly, too quiet for Sirius to hear without leaning his head down close to yours. âI wanted to do more, but I fell asleep.âÂ
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. âLetâs go to bed, sweetheart.âÂ
You allow him to stand you up and puppet you to the bedroom. A small pile of tissues has accumulated on Siriusâ 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.Â
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.Â
âDo you want some soup?âÂ
âI want to go back to work.âÂ
âFuck me, capitalism really is taking our most gorgeous girls.â He kisses you again. âI know you donât really mean that, darling. Say it isnât so.âÂ
âIâm gonna have so much to do when I get back,â you sigh. âItâs making me nervous thinking about it all piling up. I just wanted to try and get a head start.âÂ
Sirius sighs. He rests his cheek on your tummy, your feverish skin like a heated pillow. âYouâre burning up,â he tells you, earnest now. âThis is no state to be doing work in. I wish you would work on getting better instead.âÂ
Your arm lowers so you can look down at him. You sniff pitiably. âI thought I was getting better earlier.âÂ
He pouts. âI know, baby. I hoped you were, too.âÂ
The corners of your mouth lift. âSorry, is my flu inconvenient for you?âÂ
âYes, actually. Iâm on a kiss ban, if you recall,â says Sirius, only half faking his huffiness. He thinks itâs a foregone conclusion that heâll catch your flu anyway, but you still refuse to let him near your face. He kisses your stomach again to console himself. âIf you were healthy enough to crawl across the bed, youâd see where Iâve been tallying the days on the wall like a prison inmate.âÂ
âSorry to deprive you.âÂ
âThank you. Itâs nice to receive at least some compassion for my suffering through all of this.â Sirius grins.Â
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.Â
âSure you donât want some more of your soup?â he asks softly.Â
You shake your head. âJust lay here with me?âÂ
âLet me get out of these work clothes, sweet girl.â Sirius rises up onto his knees, leaning over you to kiss your overwarm forehead. âIâll give you the cuddle of a lifetime.âÂ
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What if it was the LAST race of the SEASON and your WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP depended on your childhood RIVAL and you were both hoping for a MIRACLE from each other but he couldnât DO it because his car SUCKS and even though you LOST the wdc you still made sure to GLAZE him during the presscon because heâs the ONLY bitch you EVER respected in this HOUSE!!!!
Summary: you meet Oscar exactly once when he breaks your nose with a football in the paddock. You meet him exactly twice when he breaks it again with his elbow in a hotel room. Some love stories start with a meet-cute. Yours starts with a medical bill and the worldâs most apologetic future World Champion who keeps turning your face into a crime scene. (Heâs really, really sorry about it.)
The air in the paddock is thick with a nervous energy you can almost taste, a metallic tang of anticipation mixed with the sweet, acrid scent of high-octane fuel and burning rubber. Itâs a symphony of controlled chaos. The low, guttural growl of an engine being tested somewhere down the pit lane rumbles through the soles of your shoes. Team personnel, clad in vibrant, logo-splashed uniforms, move with a crisp, clipped purpose that makes you and your friend, Beth, feel like youâre wading through a current.
âI canât believe this is real,â Beth whispers, her voice tight with awe. She clutches her phone like a holy relic, trying to discreetly film everything without looking like a complete tourist. Which, of course, is exactly what you both are.
âTry to act like we belong here,â you murmur back, though your own eyes are as wide as dinner plates. Youâre scanning the river of people for a familiar face, a flash of papaya, a shock of blond hair. Winning these paddock passes felt like a one-in-a-billion lottery ticket, a glitch in the universe that accidentally spat you out into the heart of the circus.
And then you see them.
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. Theyâre 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 Landoâs knee to Oscarâs 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 isnât something you see on a broadcast. This is a stolen moment, and youâre a thief for watching it.
âOh my god,â Beth breathes, fumbling with her phone. âGet a picture.â
âNo, donât,â you hiss, grabbing her arm. âLet them have their space. Weâre not supposed to âŚâ
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 â cool and impossibly focused â 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.
âGetting sloppy, mate,â Oscar calls out, his voice a low, calm murmur that barely carries over the ambient noise. The Australian lilt is subtle, but itâs there.
Lando grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. âJust lulling you into a false sense of security. Show me what youâve got, then.â
Oscar juggles the ball once, twice, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips. Itâs the smile youâve seen in a hundred post-race interviews â reserved, a little shy, but genuine. He shifts his weight, positioning himself for a clean pass back to Lando, whoâs 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 Oscarâs point of view, itâs a simple calculation. A routine heâs 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 Landoâs feet.
But a mechanic from another team, his arms laden with a stack of tires, cuts directly through Oscarâs intended flight path. A sudden, unexpected obstacle. Oscarâs 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, youâre 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.
âOh, God!â 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. Youâre on all fours, head bowed, the world a dizzying, spinning mess. A low moan escapes your throat, a sound you donât even recognize as your own.
The world outside your personal bubble of agony is a sudden explosion of chaos.
âOh, bloody hell!â
The voice is Oscarâs, 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.
âOscar! Mate, what did youâOh my God.â Thatâs Lando, his voice an octave higher than usual.
Two pairs of race-booted feet skid to a halt in front of you. You canât 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.
âAre you alright? Oh God, Iâm so sorry. Are you okay?â Oscar is kneeling in front of you, his voice urgent, laced with pure, undiluted horror. Heâs reaching out, his hands hovering uselessly in the air, terrified to touch you.
You try to answer, to say âIâm fineâ 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.
âIs she okay?â Lando asks, his voice tight with alarm. Heâs addressing Beth, who is now kneeling beside you, her own face pale with shock.
âI-I donât know! You hit her in the face! With the ball!â Bethâs voice is shaky, accusatory.
âI know! I know, I didnât mean to!â Oscar sounds desperate. âIt was ⌠I was aiming for Lando. Someone walked in the way. Iâm so, so sorry.â
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.
âCan you look at me?â He asks, his voice softer now, but no less panicked. âPlease? We need to see how bad it is.â
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.
âDonât move your head,â he says quickly. âOkay, okay, donât move.â
âHer nose,â Beth says, her voice trembling. âI think ⌠I think itâs broken.â
A heavy silence hangs in the air for a beat, thick with the unsaid. Oscar lets out a low curse under his breath.
âRight. Okay. Medic. We need a medic,â he says, his voice taking on a new urgency. He turns his head. âZak! Arthur! Can we get a medic over here? Now!â
His voice, usually so measured, cracks with the strain. Heâs yelling now, and you can feel the vibrations of it in your chest. Youâre 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.
âWhatâs going on here?â A new voice, this one with an American accent. Sharp, authoritative.
âI hit her with the ball, Zak,â Oscar says, his voice strained. âIt was an accident. I think her nose is broken. We need a doctor.â
âJesus Christ, Oscar.â
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. Youâre bleeding all over the ground in front of the McLaren motorhome, with half the team, including both drivers, staring at you like youâre a car crash. Which, you suppose, you sort of are.
âItâs okay, weâre getting someone,â Lando says, trying to be reassuring, but he just sounds as freaked out as everyone else. âTheyâre coming. Just stay still.â
âI am so, so sorry,â Oscar repeats. It seems to be the only thing he can say. Heâs 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.
âYouâre bleeding a lot,â Beth says quietly, her hand resting gently on your back. âCan you try to tilt your head forward a little? Not back.â
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. âMedical team is on their way. Theyâll take her to the care centre.â
âOscar, Lando, we need you in the garage,â Zak says, his voice firm but not unkind. âQualifying starts in twelve minutes.â
âNo,â Oscar says immediately, shaking his head. âNo, Iâm not leaving. I did this.â
âYou are,â Zak insists. âThereâs nothing you can do here now. The medics will handle it. We have a session to prepare for. Letâs go.â
âZak, I just broke a girlâs nose,â Oscar argues, his voice rising in disbelief. He gestures wildly at you, a crumpled, bleeding heap on the ground. âI canât just walk away and go drive a race car.â
âYou absolutely can, and you absolutely will,â 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. âLet the medical professionals do their job. Your job is in that car. Now.â
He puts a firm hand on Oscarâs shoulder. Lando is already being herded away by another team member, casting a worried look back over his shoulder.
âGo on, Lando. Get your head in the game.â
âIs she gonna be okay?â Lando asks, his eyes wide.
âSheâll be fine. Go.â
Oscar doesnât move. Heâs still looking at you, his expression a chaotic storm of regret and frustration. âI canât just go.â
âOscar.â Stellaâs voice is iron. âNow.â
He gives Oscarâs shoulder a gentle but insistent tug. The finality in the gesture is clear. Oscar knows heâs 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. Youâre still looking at him through a curtain of pain and tears, but you see the raw apology in his gaze. Itâs so intense it almost hurts as much as your nose.
âWait,â he says, resisting the pull for one last second. He addresses you directly, his voice low and rushed. âPlease, donât leave. After qualifying, Iâll ⌠Iâll find you. The medical tent, okay? Iâll find you there. I promise.â
He searches your face, desperate for some kind of acknowledgement, some sign of forgiveness you are in no condition to give.
âI am so unbelievably sorry,â he says again, his voice cracking on the last word. âIâll make this up to you. I promise.â
And then heâs 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 canât 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 youâre 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 Oscarâs MCL39 rolls into its bay, itâs 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.
âYES, LANDO! GET IN!â
âMEGA JOB, MATE! MEGA!â
Lando is grinning, a wide, euphoric smile as heâs pulled into a series of back-slapping hugs. Heâs earned it. He was flawless.
Oscar feels a pang of something that isnât jealousy. Itâs 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. Heâd left a girl bleeding on the ground. How could he possibly find the last few thousandths of a second after that?
âGood job, Oscar! P2, fantastic result for the team,â 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 â a terrible, frantic, brilliant idea â sparks in Oscarâs mind.
âI need that hat,â he mutters.
âWhat?â Tom asks, leaning in closer over the din. âNeed a what?â
But Oscar is already moving. He pushes past Kim, past Tom, and stalks towards the celebratory huddle around Lando. Heâs a man possessed. Lando sees him coming, his grin faltering slightly at the wild, haunted look in Oscarâs eyes.
âOsc, mate, we did it! Front row!â Lando shouts, ready for a hug.
Oscar doesnât hug him. He reaches out and snatches the P1 cap right off Landoâs head.
âHey!â Lando yelps, his hand flying to his now-bare head. âWhat the hell?â
âI need this,â 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.
âAnnie, give me your marker.â Itâs not a request.
She blinks, startled. âUh ⌠Oscar, the media pen is waiting for âŚâ
âThe marker,â 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 Landoâs chest.
âSign it,â he commands.
Lando stares at him, utterly bewildered. Heâs surrounded by cheering mechanics, Zak is beaming, and his teammate looks like heâs in the middle of a nervous breakdown. âSign ⌠my own hat?â
âYes. Sign it. Now.â
âWhy?â Lando asks, his voice a mix of amusement and genuine concern. âAre you okay? You look a bit ⌠traumatized.â
âI am traumatized!â Oscar hisses, his voice low and intense. âI am responsible for a traumatic event that has caused trauma. For which I need to atone. Sign the hat, Lando.â
Lando, deciding itâs easier to just go along with whatever strange ritual this is, takes the pen and scribbles his signature across the brim of the cap. âThere. Happy?â
Oscar snatches the signed cap back. âNo.â
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. Itâs weird. Itâs definitely weird. But heâs committed now. He leans against the workbench, unzips the boots, and pulls them off, his sweaty socks steaming in the cool garage air.
âWhat are you doing?â Tom asks, his face a perfect mask of professional confusion. âOscar, we have debrief in twenty.â
âI canât.â 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.
âBradley!â
Bradley turns, one eyebrow raised at the sight of his driver in his socks, clutching a bizarre assortment of items. âOscar. Congratulations. Shall we arrange the usual for your family?â
âNo. Yes. I mean, later. I need something else,â Oscar says, his words tumbling out in a rush. âI need two VIP passes. The full experience. Paddock Club, garage tour, the works.â
âOf course. For which race?â Bradley asks, pulling out his tablet.
âI donât know yet,â Oscar says, shaking his head. âShe 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 donât care. Can you do that? Just have the vouchers or whatever ready. Iâll let you know the names and the race later.â
Bradley looks from Oscarâs wild eyes to the boots in his hand and seems to make a swift calculation that arguing is futile. âConsider it done, Oscar. Iâll have a confirmation packet drawn up.â
âThank you,â Oscar breathes, a fraction of the tension leaving his shoulders. He turns to leave.
âOscar!â Itâs Zak, his arm outstretched to stop him. âMedia pen. Letâs go. Great day for the team.â
Oscar sidesteps him. âCanât. Sorry, Zak.â
âWhat do you mean, you canât? Itâs mandatory.â
âI have to go find her,â Oscar says, as if this is the most logical explanation in the world. He waves the boots and cap. âI have to apologize.â
He doesnât 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.
âOscar, your cool-down!â
âOscar, Sky Sports is waiting!â
âOscar, for Godâs sake, put some shoes on!â
Heâs 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 doesnât 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 thatâs just the broken nose. Youâre 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 canât breathe through it, so youâre 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, itâs definitely broken. A clean break, sheâd called it, as if that were some sort of consolation. Sheâd 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.
âWell,â Beth says, trying for a light tone and failing miserably. Sheâs perched on a plastic chair beside you, scrolling nervously through her phone. âOn the bright side, you met Oscar Piastri.â
You shoot her a glare that you hope conveys your deep and profound unimpressedness. âHe tried to decapitate me with a soccer ball, Beth. Thatâs not âmeetingâ. Thatâs an assault.â
âA very apologetic assault,â she counters. âHe seemed genuinely horrified. And, you have to admit, itâs a way better story than just getting a selfie.â
âIâd rather have the selfie and an intact nasal cavity,â you mumble, your voice nasally and thick.
You look down at your shirt. Itâs 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. Heâs still in his race suit, though itâs 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 â anxiety. His eyes, clear and startlingly intense, immediately find yours. Heâs holding a hat, a pair of racing boots, and he isnât 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.
âHi,â he says, his voice breathy. He takes a hesitant step inside. âThey said you were in here. I am ⌠God, I am so sorry.â
He walks towards you, his socked feet silent on the linoleum floor. He stops a few feet from the bed, looking utterly lost.
âYour face,â he says, his voice barely a whisper. He winces, as if looking at you is causing him physical pain. âItâs ⌠is it broken?â
You nod slowly, the motion sending a dull throb through your skull. âClean break,â you manage to say, the words thick and foreign in your mouth.
âBloody hell,â he breathes, running a hand through his already chaotic hair. âI 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. Iâm an idiot. I was just messing around and I wasnât paying attention and ⌠Iâm so sorry.â
Heâs 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.
âHere,â he says. âThis is for you.â
He holds out the cap. You stare at it. Itâs the P1 hat. Lando Norrisâs signature is scrawled across the brim.
âLando got pole,â he explains, as if this makes perfect sense. âSo this is his hat. I made him sign it for you.â
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.
âAnd these,â 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. âTheyâre my boots. From today. I finished P2 in them.â He pauses, looking at the boots, then back up at you. A flicker of self-awareness dawns in his eyes. âThatâs ⌠thatâs a bit weird, isnât it? Giving you my sweaty shoes. I donât 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 donât know.â
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 â it all combines into a feeling of complete and utter detachment from reality.
Beth finds her voice first. âYou ⌠you ran here in your socks?â
Oscar looks down at his feet as if just noticing them. âOh. Yeah. I guess I did. I was in a bit of a hurry.â
He stands up, looking deeply uncomfortable and out of place. Heâs 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 dadâs car.
âThatâs not the real apology,â he says quickly, trying to recover. âThe real apology is ⌠I spoke to our hospitality manager. And I have arranged for you and your friend,â he glances at Beth, âto be my personal guests at any race for the rest of the season. Or next season. Whichever you want.â
You blink. The fog in your brain parts for a moment. âWhat?â
âAny race,â he repeats, his earnestness radiating off him in waves. âMonza, Singapore, Vegas, Abu Dhabi ⌠your choice. Weâll 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 Iâm buying them.â He swallows, his gaze fixed on you. âI know it doesnât fix ⌠this,â he gestures vaguely at your bandaged face. âBut itâs the only thing I could think of to even begin to make up for it. For ruining your day. Your face.â
He trails off, looking miserable.
The silence in the tent stretches. Beth looks at you, her eyes wider than youâve ever seen them. This is a grand gesture of epic, romcom-finale proportions. Itâs ludicrous. Itâs insane. Itâs also ⌠incredibly, unbelievably sweet.
âYouâd really do that?â You ask, your voice small.
âOf course,â he says without a momentâs hesitation. âYou can pick tomorrow. Or next week. Whenever youâre feeling up to it. Just let my team know. Theyâll handle everything.â
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, heâs 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 itâs almost comical. And all you can see is the genuine, gut-wrenching remorse in his eyes.
âOkay,â 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. âOkay?â
âOkay,â you repeat, a little firmer this time. Youâre still in pain, youâre 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. Itâs suddenly about something else entirely.
***
The Abu Dhabi air is a thick, humid blanket, clinging to Oscarâs skin as he walks from the driverâs 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. Itâs beautiful. He doesnât 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 Driversâ Championship presses down on his shoulders, a physical, tangible thing. Itâs all come down to this. Him and Lando. Teammates. Friends. And for the next two hours, his only rival.
âHydration good?â Arthur, his trainer, asks, falling into step beside him. âEnergy levels?â
âFine, Arthur. Iâm fine,â 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.
Heâs been in this bubble all weekend. Heâs barely spoken to anyone outside his core engineering team. He eats, sleeps, and breathes data, telemetry, and strategy. Heâs 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.
Itâs 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. Sheâs wearing a simple black dress, her hair is down, and sheâs smiling a smile so bright it seems to generate its own light. Thereâs 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.
Itâs 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 hasnât heard a word since his teamâs legal department confirmed you had accepted the VIP package. Heâd asked Bradley a few times which race sheâd chosen, but Bradley had been evasively professional. âWeâre handling it, Oscar. All sorted.â Heâd eventually dropped it, figuring youâd chosen a race earlier in the season and heâd 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. Heâd only ever seen your face contorted in pain, and now, seeing it relaxed and happy, is a revelation. Youâre beautiful. The thought is so clear and intrusive it knocks the breath out of him.
âOscar, letâs go. Andreaâs waiting.â Arthurâs 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 isnât just conjuring ghosts. But the angle is wrong, and a throng of guests blocks his view. Youâre gone.
âDid you see âŚâ He starts, but trails off.
âSee what?â Arthur asks, his eyes scanning the area for a potential threat or distraction.
Oscar shakes his head. âNothing. Thought I saw someone I knew.â
It couldnât have been her. Itâs 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 canât 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. Oscarâs 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, Tomâs voice a calm, steady anchor in the screaming chaos.
âOkay, Oscar, Lando is pitting. Itâs go-time. We need everything youâve got.â
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 Landoâs papaya car flashes past. Still P2.
The laps wind down. Ten to go. Five. Three. The gap is 0.8 seconds. Landoâs tires are beginning to fade. Oscarâs 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 heâs 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. Heâs in the lead.
The final lap is the longest of his life. He doesnât breathe. He just drives, his focus absolute. He crosses the finish line, and the world explodes.
âYES! YES, OSCAR! YOUâVE DONE IT! YOU ARE THE WORLD CHAMPION! YOU ARE THE WORLD CHAMPION!â Tomâs voice is raw, shredded with emotion.
A sound rips from Oscarâs throat, a strangled, guttural sob of pure relief. Heâs 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.
âThank you, guys,â he chokes out, his voice thick. âThank you, everyone. Unbelievable. Just ⌠unbelievable.â
The cool-down lap is a blur of waving flags and cheering fans. He pulls into parc fermĂŠ, 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. Heâs 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 doesnât know what heâs 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 Oscarâs victory is immediately tempered by the quiet pain of his friendâs defeat.
âMate,â Oscar says softly, sitting down next to him.
Lando looks up. The disappointment in his eyes is vast, but thereâs no anger. Just a deep, weary sadness. He manages a small smile.
âWorld Champion, huh?â He says, his voice quiet. âSounds good.â
âIâm sorry,â Oscar says, and he means it.
Lando shakes his head. âDonât be. You drove a mega race. A mega season. You earned it.â He bumps his shoulder against Oscarâs. âJust ⌠do me a favour and get slower now youâve won one.â
Oscar laughs, a real, genuine laugh. âNo promises.â
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. Itâs 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. Heâs done it. The goal that has consumed his entire life has been achieved. He feels a quiet sense of what now?
Heâs 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 heâs put the dayâs disappointment behind him for the night.
âYouâre not celebrating,â a voice says beside him. Itâs Tom.
âI am,â Oscar says with a smile. âJust quietly. Soaking it in.â
âWell, soak faster. A few of us are heading to W. Some of the other teams are there. Itâs the unofficial end-of-season party. You should come.â
Oscar hesitates. All he wants is his bed. But heâs the World Champion. He canât very well go to sleep before midnight.
âYeah, alright,â he says. âFor a bit.â
***
The club is a different world. Itâs 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. Itâs 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 â just a sparkling water, heâs had enough alcohol to last a month â 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. Heâs happy. Heâs ecstatic. But heâs also just ⌠tired.
And then he sees you.
Itâs not a fleeting glimpse this time. Youâre standing near the bar with your friend, Beth. Youâre talking to one of the Williams mechanics, your head tilted back as you laugh at something heâs said. The strobe lights catch the silver of the scar on your nose. It was you. He wasnât hallucinating.
His breath catches in his throat. The exhaustion, the detachment, the quiet haze in his mind â it all vanishes, replaced by a sharp, sudden focus. Itâs you. Youâre 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. Itâs 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 donât seem to hear him. Beth notices his approach and her jaw drops for the second time in your shared F1 experience.
âHi,â he says, his voice coming out a little hoarser than he intended.
âHi,â you reply, your voice a low murmur that he has to strain to hear over the music.
A small, hesitant smile touches your lips. âCongratulations, World Champion.â
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.
âThanks,â 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. âI, uh ⌠I didn't know you were here. I thought I saw you earlier, before the race, but I figured I was just âŚâ
âHallucinating?â You finish for him, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. âUnder the circumstances, I wouldn't have blamed you.â
âSomething like that,â he admits, a faint blush rising on his neck. âI asked my team which race youâd 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.â
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.
âProbably a smart move on their part,â you say. âThough you should know, my nose was reconstructed with titanium. Itâs stronger than ever. You could probably hit it with another football and it would be fine.â You pause, your eyes twinkling. âPlease donât test that theory.â
âI will never, ever go near a football again,â he says, his voice so serious itâs almost a vow. âI swear. Iâve been having nightmares about it.â
âReally?â
âNot really,â he confesses. âBut the guilt has been ⌠significant.â He looks at you, properly looks at you, taking in the reality of you standing in front of him. âHow is it? Your nose, I mean. Honestly.â
You reach up and touch the bridge of your nose, a light, unconscious gesture. âItâs fine. It aches when itâs about to rain, which makes me feel like Iâm eighty years old. And I have this scar.â You lean in a little, tilting your head into the light. âSee? The doctor called it a âcharacter-building imperfectionâ.â
He leans in too, his gaze dropping to the faint, silvery line. Itâs 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.
âIâm sorry,â he says, his voice low and sincere. âFor that. For all of it.â
âYou gave me a VIP tour of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix and Lando Norrisâs sweaty P1 hat,â you counter, your tone light. âIâd say weâre almost even.â You glance down at his feet, then back up at him with a mischievous glint in your eye. âI 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.â
A surprised laugh escapes him. Itâs the first time heâs laughed freely all night, a real, unburdened sound. âYouâre kidding.â
âIâm not,â you say with a perfectly straight face, which then breaks into a wide grin. âOf course Iâm kidding. Theyâre sitting in a box in my closet. Beth wants me to build a shrine.â
The easy back-and-forth feels shockingly natural, as if youâve 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 â it all fades into the background. There is only this bubble of space around the two of you.
âSo,â he says, searching for a way to keep the conversation going, to keep you here. âDid you enjoy the race? Apart from the constant, looming threat of airborne sporting equipment.â
âIt was incredible,â you say, your eyes lighting up. âWatching it from the garage, hearing the comms ⌠itâs a completely different world. And that last-lap overtake was âŚâ You shake your head, at a loss for words. âI think my heart stopped.â
âMine too,â 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 donât want to leave. He doesnât want you to leave.
Maybe itâs the six glasses of champagne he had since the podium. Maybe itâs the dizzying, surreal euphoria of achieving his lifeâs dream. Or maybe itâs 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.
âDo you want to get out of here?â
Your eyebrows shoot up. The playful smile on your face is instantly replaced by a look of amused surprise. âGet out of here? Mr. World Champion, are you asking me back to your room?â
His face flames. Hearing it said so bluntly makes it sound impossibly forward, ridiculously arrogant. âI ⌠yes?â He stammers. âIs that too much? Iâm sorry. Iâm not usually ⌠I mean, Iâm not good at this. The talking. The ⌠this.â
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. Itâs surprisingly, disarmingly endearing.
âYou win the biggest prize in motorsport,â you say, tilting your head. âAnd the first thing you want to do is go home with the girl whose nose you broke. Thatâs either incredibly romantic or you have a very specific fetish.â
He chokes on air. âIt is absolutely not a fetish.â
âGood to know,â 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. âMy hotel is on the other side of the island.â You pause, letting the statement hang in the air. âI assume yours is closer.â
Relief, potent and dizzying, floods his system. âYeah,â he breathes. âMuch closer.â
âAlright then, champion,â you say, your voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. âLead the way.â
***
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 donât talk much. You donât 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 â 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. Heâs a world champion in his own territory, and yet he feels like a teenager on a first date.
âSo,â he says, breaking the silence. âThis is ⌠the room.â
You turn to face him, a soft smile on your face. You slowly walk towards him, your eyes never leaving his. âItâs a very nice room, Oscar.â
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.
âFor the record,â you whisper. âI was hoping youâd ask.â
And thatâs 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. Itâs a kiss that tastes of champagne and victory and a strange, shared history of accidental violence. Itâs 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. Itâs a release of months of tension â 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 â 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. Heâs 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. Heâs 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. Itâs 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.
Itâs a sound he knows. A sound that is seared into his memory. Itâs the sound of bone breaking. Itâs 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.
Oscarâs 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.
âNo,â he whispers, the word a strangled, pathetic sound. âNo, no, no, no, no.â
Youâre sitting up now, hunched over, your hands cupped over your face. Youâre completely still.
âAre you âŚâ He canât even finish the sentence. The question is too horrifying, too absurd. His mind is short-circuiting. This isnât 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. Itâs 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.
âOscar,â you say, looking from the blood on the sheets to his horrified face. âYou really need to stop making a habit out of this.â
Oscarâs brain ceases to function. The words you speak â so calm, so absurd, so utterly unexpected â 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.
âI ⌠what?â He says, his voice a choked whisper.
âA habit,â you repeat, your voice still unnervingly steady. You press the corner of the duvet to your nose, wincing as the fabric makes contact. âYou know, something you do regularly. Like brushing your teeth. Or, in your case, shattering my nasal cartilage.â
The clinical, detached way you say it finally snaps him out of his paralysis. He lurches into motion, a frantic, chaotic scramble.
âOh my God,â 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. âOh my God, not again. I canâtâthis isnâtâI am the worst person on Earth.â
âYouâre not the worst person on Earth, Oscar,â you say, your voice muffled by the duvet. âBut your spatial awareness in moments of passion could use some work.â
âIce!â He exclaims, a single, brilliant thought piercing the fog of his panic. âWe need ice.â 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. âAnd a doctor. Iâm calling Dr. Hughes. Heâs the team physician. Heâll know what to do.â
He finds his phone on the nightstand, his fingers shaking so badly it takes him three tries to unlock it.
âOscar,â you say, your voice firm, cutting through his rising tide of panic. He freezes, phone halfway to his ear, and looks at you. Youâve lowered the duvet. The bleeding is worse now, a steady drip. But your eyes are clear and focused. âDo not call the McLaren team doctor at three oâclock in the morning on the night you won the World Championship to tell him you broke my nose. Again. During âŚâ You wave a hand, searching for the right word. â⌠an intimate moment.â
He stares at you, the logic of your words slowly penetrating his thick skull. Youâre right. The PR fallout from that phone call would be apocalyptic.
âRight,â he says, lowering the phone. âNo team doctor. Okay. Right. So, a hospital. Weâll go to a hospital. Iâll get the car.â He starts pulling on his trousers, which are inside out. He doesnât notice.
âOkay,â you agree.
âI am so sorry,â 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. âI donât know how this happened. My elbow just ⌠slipped. I wasnâtâI would neverâI swear to God, Iâm not normally this ⌠hazardous.â
âI believe you,â you say, and the strange thing is, you do. This wasnât 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, itâs 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 youâre 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 Oscarâs frantic, shallow breathing. Heâs gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white.
âThis is, without a doubt, the weirdest night of my life,â you say, finally breaking the silence. Your voice is thick and nasally. Youâre holding a wad of tissues he grabbed from the hotel room to your face.
He flinches as if youâd slapped him. âI am so, so, so sorry, Y/N.â He uses your first name, and the sound of it in his mouth, so earnest and broken, makes something in your chest ache.
âI know,â you say softly. âYou keep saying that.â
âItâs all I can say,â he replies, his voice cracking. âWhat else is there? âOopsâ?â
A small, painful laugh escapes you. âProbably not âoopsâ.â
âI just,â he says, shaking his head in disbelief. âI win the World Championship. My lifelong dream. And hours later, Iâm 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?â
âMaybe youâre cursed,â you suggest. âMaybe you made a deal with the devil. He gives you a world title, but youâre doomed to be a menace to my specific nose for all eternity.â
He glances at you, a flicker of a smile touching his lips before being immediately extinguished by a fresh wave of guilt. âThatâs not funny.â
âItâs a little bit funny,â you insist. âThe universe has a strange sense of humor.â
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 heâs 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 doesnât 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. âHey, are you âŚâ
Oscar freezes, his face paling. âNo,â he says quickly. âIâm not.â
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 âfallingâ and then gently probes your face. Oscar hovers by the door, radiating an aura of guilt so powerful it feels like itâs sucking the oxygen out of the room.
âWell,â the doctor says, shining a light up your nostrils. âIt seems you have a talent for this. Itâs broken. Again. Same place.â
âA talent is one word for it,â you mumble.
âWeâll need to set it,â the doctor says calmly. âIt will be unpleasant, but itâs better to do it now. A local anesthetic to numb the area, and then a quick, firm ⌠reset.â
Oscar makes a small, strangled sound from the doorway.
âWould your ⌠friend like to wait outside?â The doctor asks, glancing at the pale, sweating World Champion.
âNo,â Oscar says immediately, his voice stronger than you expected. âIâm staying.â
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.
âOkay,â he says. âA deep breath. This will be quick.â
Oscarâs 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 itâs 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 itâs 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.
âI felt that,â he says, his voice a raw whisper. âWhen he ⌠set it. I felt it. And seeing you ⌠the look on your face âŚâ He shakes his head, unable to finish. âThis is all my fault.â
âWeâve established that,â you say, your voice gentle. You squeeze his hand. âOscar. It was an accident. A ridiculous, statistically impossible, cosmically stupid accident. But it was an accident.â
âIt doesnât matter,â he says, looking up at you, his eyes swimming with a vulnerability youâve never seen. âIt happened. Twice. I hurt you. Twice. The first time was bad luck. The second time is a pattern. I am officially a health hazard.â
He lets go of your hand and stands up, resuming his pacing in the small room.
âI shouldnât be around you. Clearly. Iâm dangerous. Iâm like a walking cartoon anvil.â He stops and faces you, a look of grim resolution on his face. âAfter I take you back to your hotel, Iâll 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 Iâll cover every medical bill, now and forever. And then ⌠Iâll stay away from you. For your own safety.â
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 heâs doing the noble thing. The right thing. And itâs the last thing in the world you want.
Heâs waiting for you to agree, to accept his terms of surrender. The silence stretches, thick and heavy.
He looks so lost, so convinced that heâs 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. Heâs given up.
Itâs your turn to be brave. Or stupid.
âOscar,â you say. He turns back to you, his expression guarded. âBefore you banish yourself to a remote island for my protection, can I ask you a question?â
âAnything,â he says.
âThat night at the club ⌠before all this,â you gesture to your face, the room. âWhen you asked me to come back to your room. Why did you?â
He looks confused. âWhat do you mean?â
âI mean, what was the reason? Was it because you felt guilty and you were just trying to complete the apology tour? Was it because youâd just won the biggest race of your life and you were drunk on champagne and adrenaline and I was just ⌠there?â
He stares at you, processing the question. He walks back to the stool and sits down, his eyes locked on yours.
âNo,â he says, his voice low and firm. âNo. It wasnât guilt. The guilt was there, itâs always going to be there. And it wasnât the win. That was ⌠that was all just noise.â He leans forward, his hands clasped between his knees. âFrom the moment I first saw you â I mean, really saw you, at the club, smiling â I couldnât think about anything else. I havenât been able to. I felt ⌠I donât know. Iâm 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.â
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. Itâs a moment of bravery. Or stupidity.
âY/N,â he says, your name a quiet prayer. âWhen we get out of here, and after youâve had time to heal, and after youâre sure you donât 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.â
The question hangs in the air, audacious and hopeful and completely insane.
You look at him â 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.
âIs that because youâre trying to break my nose for a third time?â You ask. âGoing for the hat-trick?â
The anxiety on his face vanishes, replaced by a sudden, startled laugh. Itâs a beautiful sound. He shakes his head, a look of relief washing over him.
âGod, no,â he says, his smile reaching his eyes for the first time in hours. âIâm going to spend the rest of my life making sure nothing ever touches that nose again. Iâll wrap you in bubble wrap if I have to.â
âOkay then, champion,â you say softly, reaching out and taking his hand again. âItâs a date.â
***
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. Itâs quiet, peaceful. Youâre walking along a gravel path, your hand loosely held in Oscarâs. 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 â each one meticulously planned by Oscar to be as low-risk and hazard-free as possible â 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.
âIâm just saying,â you say, giving his hand a squeeze, âthat 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.â
He feigns a look of deep offense. âItâs called being prepared. What if we have unexpected guests? What if thereâs a pasta-related apocalypse? Weâre set for a week. You should be thanking me.â
âMy thank you is not having to cook for three days,â you concede. âBut my Tupperware collection is filing a formal grievance.â
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.
âIs my subpar pasta-cooking a deal-breaker, then?â He asks, a playful smirk on his lips.
âIâm considering my options,â you say, rising on your toes to kiss him. âBut for now, youâre safe.â
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. Itâs 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 Oscarâs world speeds up.
His kiss hasnât even ended when his senses scream DANGER. His racerâs 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. Heâs holding the plastic disc like itâs a venomous snake heâs just subdued.
You slowly reach up and touch your nose. Itâs there. Itâs intact. Itâs 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.
âOh my god,â you manage to get out between gasps.
âAre you okay?â He asks, his voice tight with a familiar, post-traumatic panic.
You look up at him, your eyes shining with tears of laughter. âBetter than okay. My hero.â You tap the frisbee still clutched in his hand. âLook at you. Finally putting those ridiculously fast hands to good use.â
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.
âAll of it,â he says, his voice a low, dramatic vow. âThe 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.â He tosses the frisbee dismissively onto the grass. âMy lifeâs purpose is complete. I have saved your nose.â
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to you. âMy nose and I are eternally grateful,â you whisper against his lips.
âGood,â he murmurs, his smile softening into something tender and real. âBecause I plan on keeping it safe for a very, very long time.â
He kisses you then, a kiss that isnât born of frantic passion or champagne-fueled victory, but of quiet certainty and a shared, ridiculous history. Itâs a kiss that tastes like home. And you know, with a clarity that settles deep in your bones, that while your story started with a bang and two clean breaks, it will end with a lifetime of very, very quiet saves.
âthe thing about polyamory is now i have two people getting mad at me when they ask what i ate today and i tell them âcoffee.â â
and i thought it was rlly cute and was wondering if you could do something like that for poly!wolfstar :)
Thanks for requesting lovely!
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If youâre new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her vile agendas
cw: talk of not eating (unintentional)
poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ⥠820 words
Itâs not rare for Sirius to come home to a quiet houseâhe jumpstarts the noise, usually, because left to your own devices you and Remus are quiet as miceâbut when he kicks off his shoes today, he canât help feeling like the quiet has a different flavor.Â
Youâre sitting at a barstool across from where Remus is working in the kitchen. Sirius sneaks up behind you, snaking his arms around your waist and smooching your cheek. âWhy are we sulking?â he asks you.Â
You turn your head, a silent request for a real kiss which he happily obliges. âIâm not sulking.âÂ
âLiar,â he says fondly. âCome on, itâs not even six. Too early to be upset.âÂ
You nod at your other boyfriend, whoâs chopping basil with the steady mercilessness of an executioner. âHeâs icing me out.âÂ
âI am not,â says Remus.Â
Sirius hums. âEveryone seems to have an idea of what theyâre not doing.âÂ
You sulk harder. âHe is. Heâs cooking at me all passive-aggressive.âÂ
âIâm cooking for you,â Remus snipes. âYou canât cook at someone.â
âYou manage it.âÂ
Sirius tsks, giving your middle a pinch of admonishment. Itâs not like you to antagonize Remusânot like either of you to squabble much at all, usuallyâbut itâs especially strange that youâre doing it while heâs making your dinner right in front of you.Â
Sirius taps your jaw, directing you to face him. âWhat did you do?â he asks quietly.Â
You lour. âItâs silly.âÂ
âI could use a laugh.âÂ
Your gaze moves to Remus. Heâs directing his attention pointedly at the cutting board. âHe wanted to know what I ate today, and then he got fussy about it not being enough.âÂ
âBecause the answer was nothing,â says Remus.Â
âIt wasnât nothing! And you shouldnât have asked if you didnât want to know.âÂ
âDoll. Look at me.â Sirius taps your jaw again. When you do, he does his best to look non-accusatory. âWhat did you eat today?âÂ
You shrink a bit, as though you suspect the answer wonât go over much better the second time around. âI had coffee this morning, and then a couple cups of tea at workâŚâÂ
Slowly, Sirius retracts his arms from around you. Your lips part with betrayal.Â
âSo, you do understand that coffee and tea are liquids, donât you?âÂ
âBut they stillââÂ
âWhich means that when Rem says you ate nothing, heâs not wrong, because you didnât actually eat anything.âÂ
Remus still hasnât looked up, but his expression has taken on a smug hue.Â
âIt wasnât on purpose. I just havenât felt like having anything.â You look at Sirius with big, sad eyes. âI havenât been feeling very well all day.âÂ
âIâve got an idea as to why,â Remus hums.
Sirius has to tuck his lips in to keep from smiling. Your expression sours.Â
âYou guys are pricks,â you decide. âFine, I wonât complain to you about feeling sick anymore. Sorry to burden you.âÂ
âDarling,â Remus sighs, softening a tad, âitâs not that I donât want you to talk to me. I just wish you didnât have anything to complain about, which I donât think you would if youâd looked after yourself better today.âÂ
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 whatâs best for everyone (he often does), and you, who also has to be right and chafes against being told what to do.Â
âYouâre supposed to feel bad for me,â you say, sulking still, but now with the slightest bit of humor. âYouâre supposed to curse the skies and shout âshe doesnât deserve this!ââÂ
Remusâ lips quirk. âMaybe next time.âÂ
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. âYou donât deserve this, our lovely girl,â he says, slow and saccharine enough to bring a bit of bashfulness to your expression. âYou know how you can make it up to us?âÂ
You hum.Â
âEat all of whatever Remus is making for you.âÂ
You roll your eyes. âI was always going to eat it,â you mutter.Â
Sirius kisses your knuckles again happily before moving onto his next partner in need of consoling.Â
âPoor love,â he murmurs, squeezing himself in between Remus and his cutting board to steal a kiss. âShe had you all twisted up, didnât she?âÂ
Much like you had, Remus rolls his eyes, but thereâs fondness curled up in the corner of his mouth. He palms Siriusâ face to kiss him back, and his fingers smell like herbs.Â
âNext time youâll have your script,â Sirius promises.Â
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hi i have an unhealthy attachment to your doctor!remus contentâŚcould i request a fic where reader is hiding some type of health problem from him or maybe ignoring it, and when something bad happens he finds out and is all stern with her and his usual worried self? i <3 this man, thank you truly for sharing your writing and doing it so well!!
Thank you for requesting lovely!
cw: description of vertigo, mention of nausea
doctor!Remus x fem!reader ⥠1.1k words
Youâre sick of being miserable. You had a cold, which had turned out to be the flu, which had turned into a sinus infection, and your poor, sweet boyfriend had weathered it all with you. Remus had made you soup. Heâd warmed damp towels for your sinuses. Heâd stayed home from work a couple of days, and rubbed your back, and your chest, and your temples when they ached, and supplied you with name-brand medicines. Heâd been so, so patient when you were whiny and awful to be around. So now, when your sinus infection has turned into this heinous ear pain, youâve decided youâre done with it.Â
You wonât entertain your body with its miseries any more. You certainly wonât be making it Remusâ problem.Â
Itâs easy not to feel miserable when you wake up before him on a slow Saturday morning. Thereâs a line of sunlight reaching across the room from the crack in your curtains, Remusâ face lovely even in shadow. He could use a haircut, you think fondly. Itâs 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 itâs not very professional.Â
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.Â
âI think,â you say, âthat we should stay here all day long.âÂ
Remusâ smile widens, and it takes half a second after his mouth begins moving for you to realize you canât 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.Â
â...what you really want? Youâve been home nearly all week,â says Remus. âWhat if we went on a walk today? We could go to that park you like, the one with the lake.âÂ
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.Â
âYouâre right,â you say brightly. âThat sounds great.âÂ
Remus peers over you to check the time. âOh. God, we slept in, didnât we? We may have to go soon if we want it to still be nice out.âÂ
âThatâs alright,â you say easily. âIâll be right after you, I just have to pick out what Iâm going to wear.âÂ
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.Â
Your movements are sluggish for different reasons. You sit up slowly, fighting through the vertigo that sloshes the room about you in protest. It wasnât this bad yesterday.Â
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. Youâre genuinely uncertain whether the ringing in your ears is a symptom of your ear infection or a warning bell of your impending insanity.Â
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.Â
But youâre stubborn. You can do this, you think. If youâre only walking on even ground in the park, and Remusâ hand is in yours, youâre sure you can manage. The internet said your symptoms wouldnât last long anywayâmaybe theyâll clear up as the day goes on.Â
â...ove? Dove?âÂ
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 heâs smiling. His hand cups your face.Â
âYou seemed off in your own world there,â he says fondly.Â
You smile and hum, keeping your head perfectly still so that the spinning slows. Remusâ eyebrows twitch towards each other.Â
âYou alright?âÂ
âMhm, yeah.â You cup your hand over his, holding onto it as you stand. âLetâs go.âÂ
âYouâre ready?â 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.Â
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. âYeah,â you say. âArenât you?â
Remusâ hand tightens on yours. You donât understand why for a moment, but then youâre falling sideways, his hands catching you around the waist.Â
âDove.â His stern voice is slightly alarmed and largely disembodied, your eyes unable to find his face in the whirling mass in front of you. âWhatâs going on?âÂ
Like an overinflated balloon popping, you burst into tears.Â
Remus collects you to his chest, holding your head securely against him as he half carries you back to the bed. It doesnât prevent your dizziness entirely, but it helps.Â
âWhatâs happening?â he asks more gently as you sniff and whimper. âI canât fix it if I donât know.âÂ
âI think itâs an ear infection,â you say in a small voice. âIt hurts, and my head hurts, and Iâm soââ You take in a short breath. ââso dizzy I feel sick.âÂ
âOkay. Okay, itâs alright.â Remus pets the back of your head, shushing you until you calm some.Â
âSorry,â you whimper.Â
âWhat are you sorry for, love? For crying?âÂ
Your sniffly silence is answer enough.Â
Remus sighs. âWhy did you try to act like nothing was wrong?âÂ
âBecause,â you say thinly, âIâm tired of things being wrong. I just wantââ You pause, pressing your lips together to avoid crying again. âI want to feel normal.âÂ
âOh, sweetheart.â Your boyfriendâs mix of disappointment and sympathy only brings you closer to tears. âYou canât will it, my love. And you canât pretend this away. These are the sorts of things I need to know about.âÂ
You blink away the blur of tears, grateful that your world has finally straightened out. You press your head closer to Remusâ chest. âI wanted to give you a break, too,â you admit. âThe internet said it would go away in a couple of days, so I figured Iâd just ride it out.âÂ
âMm, a middle ear infection would.âÂ
You stiffen. âWhat does that mean?âÂ
The kiss Remus drops to your head is heavy with compassion. âVertigo 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.âÂ
He pauses while you process this.Â
âYou know, the sort prescribed by a doctor.âÂ
âOh.âÂ
He chuckles fondly, kissing your head again. âThis is why you tell me things. Understand?âÂ
âYeah.â You wrap your arms around his middle, clinging pathetically. âIâm sorry. Help me.âÂ
âI will, sweetheart. Think you can lay down and be still while I nip to work and the pharmacy?âÂ
You donât think youâll have any problems there.
đ°đ¨đŤđ đđ¨đŽđ§đ: 2.7k
đŠđđ˘đŤđ˘đ§đ : johnny storm x fem!reader
đđđ đŹ: mdni, smut with comic relief
đŹđŽđŚđŚđđŤđ˛: Johnny's work life is starting to interfere with his sex life, and that just won't do.
đ/đ§: Here's another thing I made (also I was stoned when I edited this, so there's that)
âFucking finally,â he mutters against your lips, kicking the door shut behind you both with enough force to rattle the frame. His body crowds you against the wall, heat rolling off him in waves, his thigh sliding between yours with deliberate, maddening pressure. The friction draws a whine from your throat, and his grin sharpens, wild and wicked.
âYeah? You like that?â he teases, voice already rough, breath uneven. His hands skate down your hips, gripping hard enough to bruiseânot that youâd complain. Not when youâve spent the last two weeks aching for exactly this.
You donât 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 pullingâyetâbut holding on like heâs 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.
âShitâ just like thatââ His voice is ragged, head thudding back against the wall. âKeep goinâ and I swear Iâllââ
Then, the blare of his mission alert slices through the room like a particularly sadistic punchline.
âPriority one. Latverian drones spotted in Manhattan. Suit up.â
Johnny doesnât just groanâhe growls, a sound so genuinely feral youâd laugh if not for the way his grip on your hair gentles, his forehead dropping to yours in sheer, agonized frustration.
âNo. No. Absolutely not,â 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. âIgnore it. Five minutes. Four. Iâll be fastââ
You can feel the way his body wars with itselfâthe 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 thatâs half-snarl, half-whine.
âI hate Doom,â he grits out, pressing one last searing kiss to your mouth before wrenching himself away. His hands linger on you, thoughâtrailing down your arms, squeezing your hips like he canât bear to let go, and youâre left slumped against the wall, flushed and frustrated, watching as he yanks his suit on with aggravated precision.. âThis isnât over,â he promises, voice dark with intent. âThe second I get back, youâre mine.â
You arch a brow, still breathless, still aching. âBetter make it quick, hotshot.â
Then heâs gone in a blaze of fireâleaving you aching, unsatisfied, and absolutely counting down the minutes until he returns.
The second heâs got you beneath him again, Johnnyâs hands map every inch of you like heâs trying to prove a pointâlike heâs 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 heâs aching too. But he wonât rushânot when heâs spent weeks starving, not when the taste of you is finally on his tongue again.
âJohnnyââ 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. âYeah?â he rasps, breath hot and uneven against your soaked skin. âMissed this, didnât you? Missed me.â His teeth graze your thighânot quite a bite, but a promiseâbefore his mouth is on you again, licking into you like heâs chasing the last embers of a fire.
You tug at his hair, hips jerking, but he doesnât 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.
âFuckâ Johnny, pleaseââ
"Yeah, thatâs 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 nameâ"
Bzzzt.
The comm unit on his nightstand crackles to life, Sueâs voice slicing through the haze of pleasure.
"Johnny, the charity gala started twenty minutes ago!"
He groansâdeep, gutturalâand 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 Iâm 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 rightâ
But Sue is unrelenting. "Benâs already covering for you, and heâs 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 heâs 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 thighâone last promiseâbefore 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 isnât over,"Â he growls, voice low and dangerous as he grabs his jacket, throwing a glare at the comm unit like itâs personally betrayed him.
You collapse back onto the bed, still trembling, still aching, and watch as he stalks toward the doorâevery inch of him radiating frustration and unspent want.
"Better not be,"Â 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 galaâs champagne-bright chatter still ringing in his ears, the space is bathed in the amber glow of the bedside lamp youâd 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 youâcurled into the space he usually occupies, cheek smushed against the fabric like youâd tried (and failed) to wait up for himâsteals 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 thatâs 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, maybeâpress 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 youâre 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 youâ
âhe shouldnât 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. âMissed you too,â he murmurs, though youâre too far under to hear it.
It doesnât take long for the rhythm of your breathing to lull him under, his own limbs going heavy.
After three more agonizing days of obligationsâpress 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 wholeâyou finally manage to slip away.
The Baxter Buildingâs rarely used guest bathroom is a sanctuary of marble and muted gold, all cool surfaces and pristine lightingâthank you, Sue, for insisting on âluxury accommodationsââbut Johnny doesnât 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 shudderingâyes, let me remember this tomorrow.
Then heâs gripping your ass, hiking your skirt up in one impatient tug, and the noise he makes when he sees youâre already desperate for him is downright feral.
âChrist, youâre killinâ me,â he growls against your neck, lips dragging over your pulse as his fingers tease the soaked lace clinging to you. A rough jerkâripâfabric tearing (heâs 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. âLove you so fucking much,â 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.
âFuck, fuckâshoulda known youâd feel this good,â he grits out, hips rolling just to hear you whine. His hands tighten on you, possessive, like heâs trying to fuse you together.Â
And then he movesâno patience, no finesse, just raw, relentless needâeach 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 heâs afraid youâll vanishâit all coils tighter and tighter until youâre both hurtling toward the edge, too far gone to care who hears.
âWhat do you want, baby?â 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 amusementâlike heâs savoring every second of your desperation. âUse your words.â
Youâre right thereâteetering on the edge, ready to beg, demand, scream if thatâs what it takes to push you both overâwhenâ
BWEEEEEEEEEEP.
The alarm doesnât just soundâit attacks, a deafening, soul-crushing shriek that rattles the walls and the very foundation of your patience. The Baxter Buildingâs safety system cuts in with infuriating serenity:
Johnny goes statue-still behind you for one glorious, suspended secondâsilence.
Thenâ
âYouâve got to be kidding me.â
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 heâs 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. âIt was one time!â he roars at the ceiling, as if the universe itself is conspiring against him. âOne time I got a little carried away and maybe set the couch on fireââ
The alarm blares louder, as if in protest.
Down the hall, Benâs thunderous laughter shakes the walls, followed by Reedâs long-suffering sigh. âJohnny, we talked about this.â
Johnny whirls toward the door, finger jabbing at it like heâs about to shoot a flare straight through the wood. âI hate this family.â
You canât help itâyouâre laughing, breathless and giddy, even as your body still thrums with unfinished need. Johnny turns back to you, and the look on his faceâall wild-eyed desperation and hungerâsends a fresh pulse of heat between your legs.
âOh, you think this is funny?â His voice drops, rough and dangerous, his hands caging you in before you can so much as squeak. âYouâre laughing while Iâm out here suffering?â
He leans in, his mouth hovering just above yours, his body burning against you. âYou know what this means, right?â His grin is pure, unrepentant mischief. âNow I owe you. And I always pay my debts.â
The alarm wails again.
Johnny exhales, long-suffering, and presses his forehead to yours. â...After we evacuate.â
Right now is apparently his last straw.
Youâre 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 thatâs just shy of mean. Your nails scrape red lines down his back, and he hisses in gratitude, like heâs been starving for the sting.
Youâve both been too patient for too long, and now? Now, thereâs no room left for restraintâjust skin and heat and the desperate, aching need thatâs 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, nowâ
Then the door whooshes open.
"Johnny, have you seen theâoh."
Reedâs voice slides into the room like an unwelcome algorithm, smooth and utterly oblivious.
Johnny doesnât even look up. His entire body locks tightânot 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 heâs banishing Reed from the planet.
A beat of silence.
Then, Reedâbecause heâs Reedâclears his throat. "Right. Well, if you do find the quantum stabilizerâ"
"REED." Johnnyâs voice cracks like a whip. "I swear to God, if you finish that sentence, Iâm setting all your lab notes on fire."
Another pause. The door starts to slide shutâthen stops. Reedâs head pokes back in. "Actually, you do realize this is a common area, right? If you two wanted privacyâ"
Johnny moves.
One second, heâs pinning you to the couch. The next, heâs halfway across the room, fingers sparking, eyes literally glowing with fury. "OUT. NOW."
Reed finallyâfinallyâgets the hint. The door shuts.
Johnny exhales, long and slow, like heâs 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?"
[3.8k] in which max accidentally puts himself so deep in the friendzone that you have to get creative to help him realise how you feel. (smut)
.
It was embarrassing, really, how long it took you to realise your feelings for Max Verstappen.Â
It was even more embarrassing considering you had many, many, many people tell you over the years that the boy was downright obsessed with you. You had always waved it off, laughing as you told people time and time again that you and Max were just friendsâthat he was one of your best friends and you couldnât imagine him not in your life.
Which, yeah, looking back on it now, you realised those feelings for Max were there long before you even entertained the idea.Â
The epiphany wasnât 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 dinnerâemphasis on attempting since Max had been struggling to open a bottle of red wine because you couldnât 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.Â
So yeah, maybe you were a little late to the party but you knew now, and thatâs 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.Â
For the fucking life of him, Max Verstappen didnât seem to understand you were flirting with him.Â
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.Â
Yet, in an ironic turn of events, it seemed like Max was the oblivious one now.Â
It would be comical if it hadnât 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.
âCan you at least pretend to not find joy in my misery?â 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 elsewhereâas it usually was these days.
âOh, câmon! Itâs funny! Iâm allowed to find this funny!â
âAlex,â you whined, hissing a little when your foot snubbed the edge of your coffee table. âShit.âÂ
The laughing had stopped, but you could still hear the amusement in his voice. âHey 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. Iâm allowed to take a little enjoyment in how hopeless you both are.â
You rolled your eyes, even if he couldnât see you. âYeah, yeah, we are stupid and hopeless and perfect for each other. Now, can you please help me? Iâm running out of ideas here. I donât know what more I can do!âÂ
âTell him how you feel directly?âÂ
âI tried that already,â you grumbled, your cheeks heating up as the memory replayed in your head.Â
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.Â
So yeah, not quite the romcom level confession scene you were expecting.Â
âI canât believe he has put himself this far into the friendzone. Itâs honestly impressive.âÂ
You snorted.Â
âMaybe you have to do it the old-fashioned way.â
You paused, considering his words for a few moments as you slowly nodded your head. âYeah,â you murmured. âYeah, youâre right.â
âI am? I mean, duh!â
âI donât know how I didnât think of it sooner.â
âSee, I can help!â There was a small pause before he continued. âUh, how did I actually help? Because I was thinkingââ
âIâm going to seduce him.âÂ
There was another pause. âCome again?âÂ
âWellââ
âEW! DO NOT FINISH THAT SENTENCE!â An exaggerated gagging noise was heard on the other side of the phone that made you snort. âThis is not what I meant when I said old-fashionedââÂ
âItâs what your idea made me think of!â
âDo not say this was my idea!â
You pressed your lips together to hold back your laughter. âThanks for the inspiration, Albono!âÂ
âIâm going to throw up.â
âŚ
With the Singapore Grand Prix around the corner, the celebrations around Maxâs birthday were small and casualâjust a dinner amongst some of his closest friends who could make it.Â
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 couldnât think of a better way to celebrate his birthday.Â
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, Maxâs arm around the back of your chair felt like a permanent fixture.Â
If anything, the dinner was the perfect prelude to your plan.Â
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 doesâ-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.Â
âDid you enjoy the night?âÂ
Max smiled as you knocked your shoulder against his, letting his body sway to the side slightly before he righted himself. âYeah, it was perfect.â
âPerfect?â You repeated, brows raised. âWow, thatâs a strong word, Verstappen.â
âI know,â he shrugged. âAnd it fits.âÂ
âStill riding high on that GT3 win?â You teased, enjoying the way the skin around his eyes crinkled as he laughed.Â
âIt gave me an ego,â 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.Â
You wondered how many times over the years you had ignored the flips in your stomach.
The walk from the restaurant to your place wasnât long. The sun was long gone, the streets were illuminated by street lights and there was something about the sight of Maxâcheeks flushed from the wine, smile spread across his face, eyes shining with happinessâunder those lights that made you want to kiss him there and then.Â
Instead, you found yourself blurting, âdo you want a house tour?âÂ
Max blinked, some of that happiness melting away into confusion as he flashed you an amused look. âWhat?âÂ
âA house tour,â 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.Â
âBut Iâve seen your place before,â Max retorted, but he didnât sound against the idea. More so confused, maybe a little caught off-guard.Â
You lightly shoved him. âSo you donât want to see the fancy wine I got for your birthday?âÂ
Maxâs grin widened. âWell, if thereâs wineâ-â
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.Â
âMeet you on the couch? Itâs comfy.âÂ
Max gave you a weird look at your comment but didnât 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.Â
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.Â
It wasnât half bad, all things considered. A little too bold for your liking, if you were honest. And judging by the look on Maxâs face, you could tell he agreed.
âI think I mightâve ruined that perfect birthday,â 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.Â
âYou could never ruin anything perfect,â Max replied, the words said so simple like it were a fact. It made your chest tighten. âPlus, all wine is shit. Itâs the company that matters.â
You laughed, tilting your head to the side. âAnd my company?âÂ
âThe best,â Max replied without hesitation.Â
âYouâre going to give me an ego.â
âYou deserve it.âÂ
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 didnât matter and you didnât 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 heâ
âPlus,â Max cleared his throat, turning to look down at his wine glass. âYou also need good snacksââ
âAre you hungry?â You asked, something else in your voice as you watched him closely.Â
Max swallowed, turning to look at you again. âHm?â
âAre you hungry?â You asked again, your hand was on the back of the couch, so close to where his head was. âBecause I haveââ
âOh no, Iâm stuffed,â 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. âI was just saying because it reminded me of this wine GP got when we were in Belgium andââÂ
Later on, you would feel bad for zoning his story out. But at that moment, you were just completely gobsmacked by your best friendâs obliviousness to the whole situation.Â
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 hadnât 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 andâ
Your patience only went so far.
âDo you want to fuck me or not?âÂ
Max was grateful he had put his glass down somewhere amongst his rambles because he was sure he wouldâve 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 headâlike he had fully hallucinated the words that left your mouth.
âWhat?â He managed to choke out, his cheeks burning for more reasons than the wine.Â
âDo you want to fuck me or not?â You repeated, slightly exasperated. âBecause I have been trying all night and I donât think Iâm being subtle anymore but you are just giving meâŚnothing. And I donât really know if you want to, if Iâm being honest.â
âI didnât know fucking you was an option,â 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.Â
âWell, it is. Itâs my preferred option, if Iâm being honest,â you retorted.
Maxâs 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.
âBecause everyone keeps telling me youâre obsessed with me and I have recently discovered I am equally obsessed with you, so this should be easy, right? But Iâve been trying for the last few weeks and everything I doââ You cut yourself off with a laugh. âLike, at this point, I donât 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.â You paused for a moment, snorting a little before shaking your head. âI just donât know if Iâm just seeing what I want to see or if maybe everyone else was mistaken and you donât feel the same orââÂ
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.Â
Max Verstappenâyour best friend and the boy you recently realised you were head over heels in love withâwas kissing you.
âWaitââ you murmured as he pulled away, one hand on the back of your head and the other resting on the back of the couch.Â
âEveryone was right,â he panted, his eyes dark and pupils blown as he stared down at you. âIâm obsessed with you. So fucking obsessed with you. And I would like to fuck you, if that is still an option.â
A smile slowly spread across your face. âStill very much an option.â
âPerfect,â 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.Â
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 didnât 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 andâ
Well, yeah. You couldnât really complain about that.Â
âFuck,â 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. âYou donât know how long Iâve wanted to do this.â
âMâall yours now,â you murmured, your hands gripping his shoulders as you stepped out the dress and kicked it off to the side.Â
âGod, you canât say shit like that,â he laughed breathlessly, his forehead pressed against your shoulder and his hands gripping your waist as he tried to ground himself. âOr this is going to be an embarrassingly short few minutes.â
âShy about your stamina?â You teased, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth when you noticed the challenge in his eyes as he lifted his head. âHave we finally found something Max Verstappen isnât good at?â
He raised a brow. âOh, yeah? You wanna play that game?â
You grinned in response. âWhat you gonna do about it?â
It took less than thirty minutes for you to find out what he planned to do. And honestly, it wasnât fair. It wasnât fair that Max Verstappen was hot. It wasnât fair that he was ridiculously talented at all and any racing he competed in. It wasnât fair that he was kind and generous and had a heart bigger than this world would ever know.
And it wasnât 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 andâ
It wasnât fucking fair.Â
âShit, shit, shit,â you panted, back arching off the bed as you reached to hold onto him or the sheets or something. âMax, Iââ
But the words died on your tongue.Â
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.
âCould stay here all night,â he murmured between your legs, placing one, two, three kisses below your bellybutton as he looked up at you. âSee if I can make you scream. Maybe see how many times I can make you come before itâs too much for you.â
âThatââ You swallowed, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. âSounds exhausting.âÂ
âSounds perfect to me,â Max retorted, pressing another kiss just above your cunt. âIâve thought about this, thought about having you laid out like this fâme andââ
âItâs not the only night youâre getting,â you murmured, shifting a little until you were leaning back on your elbows. âThis isnât 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.â
Max didnât say anything at first, just looking up at you from between your legs with an unreadable expression written across his face.
âWe have time,â you whispered.Â
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.Â
âI love you,â he murmured, soft and sweet and raw and genuine, before he kissed you again.Â
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.Â
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 âfuckâ under his breath after he finally slid into you.Â
âWe have time,â 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.Â
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.Â
There would be time for all that, but it doesnât have to be right now.Â
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 didnât seem as appealing as enjoying the weight of your best friend pining you down on the mattress with his cock still inside you.Â
âShit,â Max murmured. âI still have to pack for Singapore.â
You snorted before you could stop yourself. âThatâs what youâre thinking about right now?âÂ
âActually,â 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. âI 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 havenât packed either.â
Your face softened. âYou want me in Singapore?â
âI want you by my side everywhere, all the time,â Max said, in that simple tone like it was a fact he was reading out. âBut yeah, I want you in Singapore.âÂ
Your smile widened. âI think I can work some things out.â
Maxâs face lit up. âYeah?âÂ
âYeah,â you laughed, nodding.Â
âGood,â Max mused, leaning down to press one, two, three more kisses on your lips before pulling back. âI have great wine on the private jet.â
You rolled your eyes, fond. âWell, then I just have to go if thereâs wine.â
âI can promise great company,â Max added with a grin.
âAnd the sex?â
âIâve always wanted to join the Mile High Club.âÂ
And yeah, lying in bed and laughing with you really was the cherry on top of Maxâs perfect birthday celebration.
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I recently binged your Max and Little Leclerc series and Iâm obsessed omg đ¤Š
Iâd love to see something about her and Max getting a bunch of wedding gifts from the rest of the grid spearheaded by like Yuki and Logan and Charles is just so done with it all đ if weâre allowed to submit Max ideas for series ofc!!!
i have missed them so much!! thank you for requesting!đŤśđ˝
series masterlist
.
âAbsolutely not.âÂ
âWe havenât even opened it!âÂ
âItâs going straight in the rubbish.â
âThatâs a bit rude.â
âItâs from Lando. Itâs not safe.â
Max didnât even bother hiding his snort, grinning widely as he reached for the box currently in Charlesâ hands. The other boy let out a yelp of surprise, caught off guard and unable to grab the box back when he tried. But Max had already rounded the room, shaking the box vigorously.
âItâs quite light,â he mused. âShould have known Lando would be on the cheap side of gift giving.â
âIâm seventy percent sure he just gets an allowance every week because no one trusts him with money,â you commented, glancing over Yukiâs 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.
âJust open it,â Yuki said, impatiently waving his hand at the box in Maxâs hand. âWe all know itâs going to be shitââ
âHarsh,â Logan murmured.Â
ââmight as well get it over with!âÂ
âMaybe Lando will surprise us,â you said, ignoring the incredulous look the American to your left was giving you.Â
âUhââ
âWHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?âÂ
âWellââ
âMY EYES!âÂ
âCharles, mate, youââ
âITâS NOTHING AND EVERYTHING ALL AT ONCE!âÂ
Yuki hummed, tilting his head as he stared at the scraps of fabric Max was currently holding. âMinus ten points for the colour and the overall lack of taste. Itâs quite ugly.â
Charles let out a dramatic wail. âTHIS IS THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE!âÂ
âHas he never seen lingerie before?â Logan frowned.
âBURN IT! BURN IT ALL!âÂ
âI donât think the orange is that bad,â Max admitted, shrugging. âAt least itâs more Dutch orange than papaya.âÂ
âI THINK IâM DYING!âÂ
âI am not wearing anything orange,â you shot back at your husband, your nose scrunched up. âI may be Mrs Verstappenââ
âSTOP REMINDING ME!â
ââbut that is too far, even for me,â you snorted, shaking your head. âPlus, I have lingerie way nicer than that ââ
âTHATâS IT, I AM ASKING PIERRE TO RUN ME OVER!â
what if he's written mine on my upper thigh (only in my mind)
you've been on four dates with johnny storm. you don't think it's serious. he has a different idea in mind. (johnny storm x fem!reader)
AN: this fic is VERY LOOSELY based off that one lyric in guilty as sin that became the title. i usually don't write super shy or oblivious characters, but i am too obsessed with an opposites attract dynamic. so this is what came about. i hope u enjoy & lmk what u think!!!!! also not proofread again super sorry
WORD COUNT: 5.7k
âBriefing notes?â
âCheck.â
âFinal printed copy of the speech?â
âIn a PDF format as well! Check.âÂ
âLozenges?â
In honey lemon. âCheck!â
âTriple shot flat white?â
You donât vocalize your opinion, but you felt like an old man ordering that at the coffee shop. âCheck.â
âYouâre getting good at this.â
You fight a blush, waving off Lynneâs praise.Â
Itâs 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 youâre off. You always get a bundle of nerves at this part; waiting to reach the actual living quarters of the building. But youâve done it enough to know to stare at your shoes to avoid feeling nauseous. Itâs 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.Â
At first, you and Lynne are met with nothing but silence, which is quite unusual (usually thereâs Ben in the kitchen, or H.E.R.B.I.E. watching baby Franklin by the couch, his various beeps that you donât understand greeting you upon entering). You and Lynne donât question it, though, her muttering something about a late morning while ushering you to the kitchen area where you put everything youâre holding on the counter.Â
Itâs only when you feel like youâre taking your first breath of the day, hands cramped, do you hear footsteps bounding down the hallway, high heels clanking on the sleek floors.Â
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 youâre sure costs more than your weekly paycheck. She greets you both with a kind smile, âGood morning.â
âHardly,â says Lynne, frowning. It took awhile to get used to the fact that Sue and Lynneâs 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. âThereâs a seventy-three percent chance of rain and the wind nearly ruined my hair.â
Sue snaps her fingers, regaining her memory. âI almost forgot my coat.â Sheâs 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.Â
You donât 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 Sueâs UN speech, checking thrice for any grammar mistakes (if there are any, thatâd be your fault and would no doubt be getting a scolding from Lynne).Â
Youâre too immersed, brows drawn tightly together and lips mouthing each part of the speech. You donât notice the soft footsteps entering the room, or the slight halt in the steps, before it continues to proceed in your direction.Â
A hand rests on the small of your back, finger splayed out on the material of your sweater.Â
You jolt, not expecting the contact.Â
You swivel the seat and are met with the eyes of Johnny Storm.Â
âI didnât know youâd be here today,â he says flatlyâa fact, yet thereâs something else hidden beneath his tone. A slight surprise, maybe hurt, as if he expected you to let him know every time youâd be making an appearance in his vicinity.Â
His hand stays on your back.Â
You open your mouth to reply, though with what youâre 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. âTheyâre gonna get stuck like that.âÂ
You glance at Lynne. She has a compact in her hand, angling the mirror at a stray piece of hair, pretending not to notice.Â
When you look back, Johnnyâs eyes are still on you. Observing, memorizing, whatever it is he does.Â
Your association with Johnny is⌠new. Youâve 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 heâs already calling to schedule a new one. Youâre unsure if youâre part of a rotation of girls, or if youâre the only one heâs seeing. You don't think it's the latter. Youâre too shy to ask. What you do know, however, is that youâre certainly not seeing anyone else. Dating is a fickle thing for you, really, and you had only agreed to going out with Johnny because heâd been incredibly persistent. Plus, it is an undeniable and unmoving fact that he isâto the eyes of allâincredibly attractive. You never had it in you to say no.Â
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.Â
Youâre quietâa plain fact that even Johnny has to have already gotten used to. Words donât leave your mouth as you hoped it would. You imagine saying something that would elicit a smirk, or something. Instead, you remain silent.Â
If he notices your nerves, he doesnât say anything. Just glances behind you at the counter before his eyes light up. ââThat the big speech?â
You nod, instinctively turning and moving the paper to the side and in Johnnyâs line of vision to read. You feel the heat of him press against your back.Â
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 youâve written after a particular note, commending Sue on a certain sentence. âSo professional,â he says coolly.Â
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. âTime to go. Are you done flirting with my assistant, Johnny?â
âNot yet,â he rapidly replies, barely sparing his sister a glance before his eyes shift to you and he smiles. Itâs small, but carries the weight of mischief and reassurance. âSoâhow about dinner tonight?â
You blink. âTonight?â
âYeah. When youâre done with all this UN business.â His tone is light, but thereâs a shift in his eyes like heâs unsure of whether or not your answer will be yes. Hope flickers.Â
You hesitate, aware of Sue and Lynneâs attention and the fact that your heart is beating way too fast. âIâll see how late weâre there.â
âThatâs not really the answer I was hopiââ
âJohnny,â Sueâs voice cuts through, demanding but light. âIâll make sure sheâs back in ample time if you can let us go.â She frowns at Lynne apologetically. âWeâre already running late.â
Theyâre actually running early, but Lynne has always been a stickler for time. Sue seems to know that.Â
Johnny grins, as if the answer is as good as yes. âIâll take it.â 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. âTry not to frown too much until then.â
The weight of Sue and Lynneâs gazes on you is strong.Â
You try your best to ignore it, following them down the building and into the waiting car.Â
â
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 youânervous, unassuming youâto 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, âWe wonât be taking any questions.â The interaction was over soon after it started, but had left you shaken up, cursing at yourself for not knowing what to do.Â
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 youâre affiliated with someone from the Fantastic Four.
Youâre 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.Â
âYou donât have to worry about the press, do you, Kiwi?â you say softly to the cat in your arms, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. âWell neither do Iâanymore, at least. Letâs feed you.âÂ
You make your way to your small kitchen and into the cupboards until you find Kiwiâs 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 youâre sure that Kiwi is properly satisfied, you leave him and walk into your bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes.Â
Youâre 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 Valentineâs Day. Itâs 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.Â
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. Youâre praising Kiwi as he lets out continuous purrs on your lap when thereâs a knock on your door.Â
Your head jolts us, eyebrows furrowing as you gently set Kiwi to the side before making your way to the door.Â
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.Â
âWho were you talking to?â he asks plainly, peering into your apartment.Â
You follow his line of vision, taking in everything he is. Thereâs 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.Â
Itâs definitely not a sight to see for guests.Â
The silence stretches as you donât have it in you to reply. What would you say? You were talking to your cat?Â
Thankfully, Johnny doesnât wait for your reply. He peers down at your face, a lackluster and slightly disappointed expression. âSue said you were too tired for dinner.â
You do remember telling Sue that, apologetically asking her to relay the information to Johnny since you probably wouldnât 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.Â
âBut that never usually stops Johnny,â she added after, to which you only offered her a half-smile before scurrying off to Lynneâs side.Â
You shouldâve known heâd show up.Â
âSue said to leave you alone to, you know, de-stress, or whatever,â he flails a hand up to convey that he saw that advice as useless. âBut you need to eat.â
Itâs 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.Â
He hears it, the corners of his mouth turning up.Â
âItâs from that place you talked about. Chiuâs Garden, remember?â
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 donât want to cook. You had their number memorized, and the workers there greeted you by name. The place isnât what shocks you. Itâs the fact that Johnny of all people remembers.Â
There are many things you want to say. Starting with Thank you and I hope you plucked the sauce thatâs on the counter before you left. But mostly How do you remember?
If Johnny notices your shock at the gesture, he doesnât comment. Only raising a single eyebrow at you. âCan I come in?âÂ
You realize you havenât spoken yet. âAre you a vampire?â
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 itâs the first thing your mind went to.Â
Johnny stifles a laugh. âA vampire?âÂ
Well, now you clearly have to give him an explanation. âVampires need permission to be let into private areas.â Thereâs a hint of embarrassment in your voice, and you curse yourself once again for not knowing what to say and saying the wrong thing.Â
He peers at you, eyes squinting and assessing your face. âWhat have you been watching lately?â
You shrug. You donât tell him you watched the Scars of Dracula while you were finalizing the last of Sueâs 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 donât have a roommate to let unknown strangers into your apartment.Â
âWell, Iâm no vampire,â he says.Â
Thereâs 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, youâre not in on a lot of jokes, you take a long backwards step back into your apartment. âProve it.â
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 doesnât mean that he can hear it. âSee?âÂ
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 itâs a rush of nervousness or excitement.Â
He seems to take your interaction as an acceptance that heâs allowed to be here, in your apartment, and though heâs never been inside, he quickly assesses the layout and walks towards your kitchen.Â
Kiwi looks as if to say, you let a man into the apartment.Â
Your eyes reply, I didnât know he was coming!Â
âI know I didnât show itââ Johnny calls out from the kitchen. You hear the crinkle of the brown bag and food being brought out. ââbut I was really nervous that I knocked on the wrong apartment. I only ever walked you to the front of the building!â
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.Â
âI had to look at each door to find your last name,â he says through a mouthful of broccoli. âThank God you live on the second floor, right?â 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. âDo you usually eat with plates or out of the container? Also I brought you orange soda.â
âIâI just eat out the container,â you say softly, leaning against the entryway, arms crossed.Â
âPerfect! Me too.â He gathers the food into his arms in a perfect balance, picking up the soda can last before motioning past you. âCâmon. Letâs eat.â
You watch him maneuver your apartment with ease, as if it isnât the first time heâs been here. He tiptoes past Kiwiâs 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. âSo what are we watchingâoh. Hello.â He peers down at your cat, who stares back at him blankly. âIs this the infamous Kiwi? Is this who you were talking to?â He reaches his hand out and scratches behind Kiwiâs ear tentatively, unsure if he would be squeamish or not. Unsurprisingly, Kiwi leans into his touch. Johnny is delighted âWeâre going to have great conversations,â he whispers, as if keeping a secret between him and the cat.Â
You find the sight awfully endearing. You donât realize youâve been staring as long as you have until Johnny turns his head to stare at you. âYou coming?â
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, youâve barely gotten used to. You like him (obviously, youâve let him take you out continuously), but youâre still unsure of what he is to you. The ambiguity of your relationship to him is much easier to stomach when heâs across from you at a restaurant booth, or walking in the park with fresh air around you.Â
Nowâhereâwith him on your couch, you donât think you understand your relationship with him all too well. You wonder if he shows up at other datesâ 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.Â
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.Â
âYouâre too far away,â he says plainly, as if stating a fact instead of discontentment. âBut I have a feeling heâs not going to move anytime soon, is he?â
This gets a laugh out of you, looking down at Kiwi, who blinks slowly at your face. âHeâs the boss.â
Johnny lets out a tsk tsk, shaking his head with a grin. âI shouldâve known. Guess Iâm gonna have to share you tonight.â
The rest of the night goes like this: Johnny shows the various things he bought you from the Chiuâs 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 heâs 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.Â
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 heâs with. You wonder if itâs stupid that you feel so special.Â
âHey.âÂ
You look up at him, brows already furrowed from how hard you were thinking.Â
âWhat did I say?â he scolds softly, his hand on your knee leaving as he reaches his thumb in between your eyebrows again. âTheyâre gonna get stuck like that.âÂ
â
When youâre not suffering from severe imposter syndrome as you play assistant with Lynne for Sue, youâre taking up extra shifts at the coffee shop down your street. Youâve been working here since you were eighteen and trying to pay for college. Now, youâre a little older and trying to pay your college debts. Still, you know the owner, and theyâre more than willing to pay you under the table for your efforts to keep the shop afloat when you can.Â
The line isnât long and youâre striking up a conversation with Miss Sutton, a regular, as she fishes her purse for change.Â
âAnd, Freddieââ she says, her eyes down at her bag, ââhe keeps crying. Heâs getting old. âVet said he might be going blind in his right eye.â
Your heart lurches immediately as you imagine yourself in that position; Kiwi growing old and going blind. But heâs only four and you make sure to take him to regular checkups. âIâm so sorry, Miss Sutton,â you say honestly. âMaybe he and Kiwi can have a play date! It might cheer him up.â
She places a few dollars onto the counter and looks at you flatly. âOr remind him of what he no longer has.â
Well, that took a turn.Â
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. Sheâs fifty cents off, but you donât mention it.Â
You busy yourself with making chamomile tea, which is one of the easier orders youâve had all day (you love a good macchiato with lavender syrup with the nice cold foam on the top, but itâs a fucking hassle to make). You hum a little to yourself, in your element at a place youâre comfortable in. Thoughts of a sick Kiwi and a grumpy Miss Sutton exit your mind.Â
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.Â
âHello, welcome toââ
Youâre met with blue eyes, blond hair, and an accusatory look.Â
Your mind goes blank.Â
Johnny doesnât wait for you to finish your obligatory customer greeting, âYouâve been overworking yourself.â
âIâwhat?â
âYou 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 youâre back today. Youâre overworking yourself.â
You want to say that this is actually what normal people do to make a living, but you donât say that. Instead, you stare up at his unrelenting gaze and gulp. âArenât youââ your voice comes out squeaky and you clear your throat. âArenât you, like, a superhero? You save Earth for a living.âÂ
He shrugs off your answer like itâs nothing.Â
Beside you, your coworker takes note of Johnny, and gasps.Â
You both turn your head to the sound.Â
âYou werenât lying?â she says, mouth wide. âYouâre friends with Johnny Storm?â
Johnny immediately looks offended. âFriends?â
âViv,â you say, ignoring him, âcan you go to the back and make sure Hal is done with the croissants batch? Weâre out up here.âÂ
Viv looks at you as if to say, youâre kicking me out as if Johnny Storm isnât right here?Â
You manage a harsher look, and sheâs off, muttering something about getting her camera. You hope to God out of embarrassment that she doesnât. 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.
âIâm sorry about her, Iâll tell her to put her camera away,â you say.Â
Johnny looks at you, brows furrowing before shaking his head rapidly. âI donât care about a photo. I care about you. When was the last time you took a break for yourself? Doesnât Kiwi miss you?â
â⌠I did a face mask last night,â 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 Reedâs flight to Chicago, face mask forgotten and on for hours while you tried to fix your mistake before Lynne noticed.Â
The admission seems to calm him down a bit, shoulders sagging as his mind recalibrates. âWhen do you get off here?â
You donât really have set shifts, youâve 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, itâs 5PM and the sun is getting ready to setâand 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.Â
âI can technically leave whenever.âÂ
His eyes light up. âPerfect! Youâre leaving now. Grab your coat.âÂ
âJohnnyââ
âYou can go,â a voice behind you says.Â
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. Itâs a look you recognize from the amount of times youâve spent with him. Itâs 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 unnoticedâknowing you donât like the attention. But you wonder if thatâs just how heâs been going around publicly lately; unnoticed. You realize itâs been awhile since youâve seen a tabloid of him walking a girl down the street, or a blurry photo of him in a store with someone. Maybe heâs tired of the cameras.Â
âAre you sure?â you ask Hal.Â
He nods, taking his eyes away from Johnny to give you a softer look. âCroissants are done, I have Viv to work like a dogââ
âHey!â
ââweâll be just fine. Have fun with your friend.â He wiggles his eyebrows, and you fight the blush that threatens to coat your cheeks.Â
Youâre too busy going to the back to grab your coat and purse to notice the shock on Johnnyâs face. You give one last goodbye to Hal and Viv before you leave the counter to join Johnnyâs 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.Â
You swear you hear a click from Vivâs camera.Â
You breathe in the fresh, cool air the second youâre out on the street. You watch as Johnny inconspicuously slips on a pair of sunglasses and pulls the hood of his coat up.Â
Heâs silent as you both walk the short distance to your apartment, which is unusual. Usually, heâs 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, youâre still nervous).Â
But thereâs 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.Â
Your stomach churns nervously. You wonder if Johnny is mad at youâfor overworking, as he says. If the concern has stretched into anger. Or if Hal and Vivâs peering eyes,, and knowing of him, threw Johnny off, realizing youâre just like any other person who brags about his existence. But itâs not like that! You wonder if youâve ruined what you and he haveâwhether you know what you guys are or not.Â
Finally, as both of your coats have been shrugged off and left on the hook by your doorâ
âIâm your friend?â
You look up from where you were staring at the floor and furrow your brows. âHm?âÂ
âThatâs how they talked about me,â he says, and you know heâs referring to Hal and Viv. âThey said Iâm your friend. Is that how you talk about me?â
He stares at you, eyes searching your own as you try to string together a response. âUm⌠yeah?âÂ
Because you donât know what else to call Johnny. Johnny who takes you to the most private parts of a fancy restaurant, and brings you takeout when youâre tired, and shows up to work to make sure you havenât been burnt out. Johnny who now looks down at you with a pained expression, for reasons youâre a little unsure of why. Isnât that what people are in whatever stage you and Johnny are in? Friends? Isnât he seeing other people?Â
Johnny exhales sharply through his nose, walking up to you and shaking his head as if your answer had been outlandish. âThatâs really what you think we are?â
Your lips part, but you donât answer. Heâs 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, youâre unsure. âYou and IâŚâ you say slowly, âWeâreâwhat else would we be?âÂ
His jaw ticks. âTogether.â
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 youâre convinced youâd just imagined it. Johnny, who has admitted to looking for restaurants with similar dishes to ones youâve cooked, so you can compare (âI bet yours is better,â he says plainly, taking another bite. âDo you agree? Or are you too modest?â). Johnny and his thumb that grazes the middle of your eyebrows because theyâre gonna get stuck like that.Â
You blink at him, voice small. âTogether?âÂ
Johnny genuinely looked confused at your confusion. His brows knot in the way he always tells you to stop doing. âYeah? Like dating. Together-together. What did you think this was?âÂ
Heat crawls up the back of your neck, mortification and disbelief tangling in a mess that makes it hard to think. âIâI thought you were just being⌠you know. Nice. How you treat the other girls.â
His head jerks back. â'The other girls'? Well first, nobodyâs that nice. At least, not like I have been. Iâve only ever been like this with you.âÂ
Your stomach turns at the admission.Â
âSecond, what other girls? You think Iâve been seeing other people?â
Youâre 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. âI donât know what to think right now, Johnny.â
You hear him sigh softly. Two hands reach your wrists. âHey, hey,â he coos, tone soft as he gently pries your hands away from your eyes. Youâre immediately met with a blue storm, swirling with thought and something else that youâre unsure how to name. âIâm sorry if I stressed you out, okay? Come here.â
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.Â
Your arms hover at your sides at first, stiff with hesitation. But as you slowly think through Johnnyâs 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.Â
Johnny thinks you too are together.Â
You wonder how stupid you must really be for not noticing.Â
âWeâre together,â you say softly into his chest, breathing him in.Â
âWe are,â he says, a whisper.. âIâm sorry for not making it more⌠known. I thought you knew.âÂ
âNo,â you say, shaking your head and laughing a little.Â
âI didnât know. Iâm too in my head about this, you know?â you admit meekly, your mind now re-assessing every interaction youâve ever had with the boy against you. Re-assessing with the word EXCLUSIVE over every single memory.Â
The two of you stay tangled in each otherâs 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 Kiwiâs head is facing Johnny.Â
âKiwi, this is my boyfriend. I bet you knew that already, didnât you?â Thereâs a glee in your voice that has Johnny lighting up, reaching down to give Kiwi a kiss on his head.Â
âHeâs all-knowing,â he adds with a grin. He reaches out to caress your cheek, pulling you back in, Kiwi in the middle. He sighs happily. âYou better reintroduce me to Hal and Viv,â he whispers softly into your hair.Â