DARCY

It was impossible to place when during her one-year of being employed in Mercedes had there been that sudden change. She had always found the 54-year old man attractive. He was all height and dark eyes. An infatuating smile paired with a deep voice. She was professional, but she couldn’t lie and say her heart didn’t skip a beat every time they were in the same room together. She was not blind to how handsome the older man was, but never had she acted on her attraction.

 Most importantly, the billionaire was married for god’s sake.

As for Toto, it had always been there. From the very first moment he laid eyes on her. From the second she sat in front of his desk to interview for an assistant position and his eyes lifted from his notepad to look at the third interviewee of the day he knew he was done for. She was simply brilliant, charismatic, poised & knew how to take lead in their conversation if need be. She was the natural type of beauty you would come across and never quite forget. He cancelled all further interviews and she was hired that same day. 

From that day on she was at his side every single day. He thought she was extraordinary in every way there was, he held her up on a pedestal from the moment she first started. They fell into a rhythm so quickly. She learned his ways, his quirks, how he liked his schedule to be managed and arranged. She grew to know his dislikes and made sure to start off his day exactly as he liked. She was the perfect assistant.

Late nights at the office were at times met with lingering looks—his so penetrating she had to simply look away. Her soft looks were a stark contrast from his penetrating gaze. It was impossible not to feel anything. Impossible not to notice their proximity to each other so much so she would often be hit with the expensive smell of his cologne. It was intoxicating just like his very presence. The unnecessary touches to her shoulders which he would do as though to encourage her when work had gone longer than planned.

It all happened so suddenly, a win in Barcelona being the catalyst of it all. Kimi crossing that finish line first engulfing the team with happy roars and celebration for the young Italian. A long night of celebrating out in the city turned into her being underneath Toto Wolff in his hotel room. His expansive hotel room being witness to what they knew would change everything for them. There would be no way back from this.

Toto devoured her whole being that night. Her body was engulfed by his massive frame as he touched her in ways she had not been in so long. For him it had been longer, his marriage in shambles and intimacy had been off the table for too long. To say the least, Toto enjoyed himself more than he should have. His thrusts were deep, desperate and borderline harsh. She was a mess of moans beneath him, gripping the sheets, his back anywhere she could get a hold of to simply feel it was all real.

He told her you take me so well in the midst of their skin slapping together mixed with her whimpers and all she could do was nod with heavy eyes as her body shuddered in an utter frenzy. 

She enjoyed every second of it too. She made crescent moons on his back with her nails when it all felt like too much, when he hit that one sweet spot inside her that made her squeal. He was relentless that night as though he was making up for so much lost time. In a way he really did feel this way, he felt as though they should have done this sooner. Toto’s morals went out the window the moment he first laid eyes on her and the restraint he had shown was simply not there any more. He knew it was dangerous to hire someone he was attracted to yet he did so anyway.

She kissed him more than she should have. One taste of his lips and she felt addicted. Lips joined together as they made the night theirs—Barcelona being the place where it all began.

Within a few weeks of what had transpired, she went from her apartment at the center of town to a house in the countryside. Not too far from Brackley, just close enough. Toto coddled her every desire, her every whim. She was spoiled beyond belief—his prinzessin (princess) as he had come to call her. She had him in the palm of her hand. 

It didn't matter how many times he took her in the countryside home he had set for her, in the many hotels around the world, in his office…he simply was insatiable. It was never enough. From dusk til dawn, exhausting pleasure-filled nights marked them both. Filling them to the brim with unforgettable memories, a push and desire for the very next time they would meet.

She catered to him just as much as he did her. Not financially as he did for her, but with physical and emotional aspects he needed. She would wait for him in the comfort of her (their) home with his favorite meals. Her figure donning dainty garments she knew he would love. Black lingerie covered with his old large Mercedes jersey that would reach the middle of her thighs. He would mewl at the sight of her every time. Every encounter better than the last and he didn’t even know how that was possible. 

She did not know when it all changed—when it diverted from being fucked into bed to being made love to. Rough kisses that softened with time. Eyes that drank her in her entirety, raking over her with gleaming admiration and something more. Hands that would knead at her in utter desperation to simply feel more as though he wanted to keep a part of her to himself. 

The shift became apparent, more domestic as their time didn’t just revolve around being intimate. They would cook for one another and find themselves glued to the couch watching a movie together as they ate. They would delve into deep conversations that made the ties of their bond stronger. Conversations that could be deep or just downright silly and they would both be bent over in laughter. It felt as normal as it could be allowed to be in their situation.

He was not always careful. Wasn’t always cautious during their time together, laid up in bed he would caress the soft skin of her hip, touch her hair as she laid on his bare chest. Tender kisses on her shoulder, on her neck that would leave the young woman shuddering for him. He wasn’t careful in the way he started to thread the line of looking at her as more than just a woman to pass his time with, a distraction from the torment that his marriage had become. But Toto knew that line had blurred from the very moment he set his eyes on her, how he hired her on the spot without even thinking twice. 

He looked at her as though she was something otherworldly from that very day. Knowing she was sitting just outside his office was exciting to him. He had never felt this way. His employees were just that--mere employees on his payroll. He never crossed that line, always professional, always focused. He had built his reputation for decades and was respected for it but something had shifted in him. Made him yearn for more than he could show the world. She made him want to rebel against the cage that was his position as CEO of Mercedes. The thing is she didn’t even know it.

She was not aware of the power she had over him. This was unlike him, he had never once stepped out of his marriage. Toto was loyal to the core. Quite frankly, he would have never entertained the idea of being with anyone else had his marriage not begun showing deep cracks. Had he not been sleeping in the guest room for close to a year. Small monotone conversations surrounding his son being their only reason for even speaking to one another. Had his wife not already proposed the idea of separating. It was chaos in his home and the young woman who perfected his schedule, who was the very definition of a perfect assistant, was the only thing he looked forward to on a daily basis. 

It was her on his mind during decisive meetings, during races, as he walked into the very building he knew she was in. From the moment he awoke to the moment his head landed on his pillow at the end of the night to sleep, it was her as though she was branded into his brain. Toto Wolff was done for and he knew it.

He knew it when she was a whimpering mess as she rode him. Her tightness engulfing him, milking him for all that he was worth. She drove him crazy this way, watching her as she took him for the third time that night. She savoured every minute of their time together, enjoying him as much as she was allowed to. She kissed him in the heat of it all, her soft hand on his cheek as she fucked him the way she knew he liked.

Toto loved watching her squirm as she tried to take all of him at first when she was on top, her pretty face grimacing as though it was too much for her. She always found a way to do it, her pussy accustoming to his girth. His girl always took him as though she was made just for him. His large hands grasped at her waist to help her move against him, the lines on his forehead showing as he bit his lip in mere admiration at his girl. She was all breathy moans, perky breasts bouncing with every move and Toto could not get enough.

When her movements faltered, when he hit that one spot that was too much for her and she gasped, Toto took his chance to turn her around. He fucked into her in the way he knew she liked, her face laced with pure ecstasy as she took him like the good girl she was. 

“You take me so fucking well, prinzessin.”

Her doe-like eyes met his for what felt like the hundredth time that night.

“You fuck me so good.” Her voice was soft in comparison to his deep baritone as though wrapped in sugar. She was delightful, Toto thought. Like a candy wrapped just for him. She was made simply for him and there was no way around it. She was his, more so now than ever before. In the home they had together away from prying eyes, from the naysayers, from a world that would never quite understand any of this. This was their safe haven. Their own space in a world that would undoubtedly tear them to shreds if they ever uncovered the truth. 

Toto was insatiable in the way he made love to her. His hands covered the expanse of her ass, her breasts were in his hands, his mouth. His lips nipped at her throat, her shoulder. God, he was anywhere and everywhere all at once and she didn’t even know how it was possible. It was animalistic at best the way his large frame took control over her, what little she could do to meet his harsh thrusts. 

“How could I not get excited knowing I have this tight little pussy waiting for me?”

His filthy words had her even more flushed than she already was. The air smelled like sex mixed with their expensive perfumes. Hearing his grave voice always seemed to do it for her, when he uttered sweet nothings or obscenities about her, about them. 

Watching her come undone was one of Toto’s favorite things, as she tried grasping for anything—the sheets, his hand, his back-- as though to lever her back to earth. As though holding onto any part of him as the wave of blinding pleasure tore through her was the only way she knew it was all real. She shuddered, cries sputtering out of her as it all became too much with his movements not stopping, not even faltering. Though Toto always followed right behind her, his release intense as watching her come seemed to do something to him.

In the end, she always found herself resting her head on his chest. Both naked and still sweaty, they spoke about their days as though they had not spent the majority of it together at work. He listened so attentively, holding onto every word that etched past her lips. Their eyes gleamed at the end of the night. 

At times he was too exhausted and would fall asleep next to her though he would usually opt to leave as though to not draw suspicions in his home. Though, his wife and him were way past this point. He slept in the guest room for god’s sake, she was not batting an eye whether he was home or not. 

She would cling to him, kiss his neck, his shoulders and his lips to entice him to stay. To share an entire night with her as she liked so much. To sleep beside him and feel his warmth, hear his soft snores and feel his arm that would always find its way to rest on her waist. It was domestic at best and they both knew. Playing house and acting as though they did not know one of them would get burned in the act of it all.

**

Quite frankly, toto’s realm, being part of it, being his for so many months had marked her. It was him on her mind the entirety of the day. Day and night—seven days a week. His eyes, his lips and his voice. His mere presence could silence an entire room. She was in love with him and she knew it the moment she even allowed for him to kiss her in the hallway of his hotel room floor. To allow herself to be second best was not in her nature, as though competing with someone who didn’t even know about her existence.

His wife.

Her very first time being face to face with reality. With his life that didn’t include her at all and in fact main-cased an elegant woman ,who had too, made her mark in the motorsports world.  Who was she to rip apart her world, to strip her of her family? 

A mistress would know her place. Avert her eyes from the true life the man she is with leads outside of her. With Toto’s job, with her being his assistant, with his immense hold in the world it was nearly impossible to evade it all. Of the family he had—his wife, his children and the seemingly impeccable life he led. No drama, no scandals. Just a stoic, hard-working man. A billionaire and CEO of the greatest teams in Formula 1. 

If the reality of their relationship made it into the light, it would ruin them. He had more to lose than she did. His family and decades of hard work in Mercedes…his lifeline. This secret life would derail them and separate them. For Toto, losing her scared him the most.

His wife was never around the paddocks. Always busy with her own career, always in a different part in the word than he was. The cracks in their marriage running deeper and deeper by the day and in a way they had both accepted defeat in even trying to mend it. The world noticed the fallout. The lack of sightings. The lack of contact as they stepped out together when they had to, solemn faces and a noticeable distance between them except for their son in the middle of them both.

When she did show up for a race, it made the young woman’s blood run cold. She had never come face to face with her. Always pushed to the back of her mind as though she did not exist, as though to nurse herself of what she was doing to her behind her back. 

Toto was next to her as they made their way past the expanse crowds. Their son in between them, his small hands being held onto by both his parents. He was smiling from ear to ear, the innocent little boy unaware of the scene that was unfolding before him. Of the woman who was crumbling as she watched his family walk closer and closer to the garage where she stood against the wall. 

Toto’s eyes met hers for a moment, emotions running high as their eyes said what their lips could not utter to one another. This was reality hitting them both like cold water. That their actions implicated more than just ruin for them both, for his family, their careers, but also just pure utter selfishness. She felt selfish putting her own needs first. She was tearing a family apart.

If people knew the truth about them, about the severity of their relationship. Of how she lived in a big house on the outskirts of Brackley that Toto, her boss, had bought just for her, for them to be together without the shutters of cameras and exploits of naysayers. Of how he made sure she was more than taken care of. Spoiling her rotten with gifts and his sole attention. If they knew all this they would mark her as a mistress, a sugar baby, the other woman who was there only for what he could offer. In reality, it was so much more than that for them both. It was passion embellished with feelings that had transpired over time, a seed of love that had been planted and grown from the very first moment they met.

No one would ever quite understand the layers of their relationship or even peel at them to see it for what it was—love. Of the feelings that had developed with so much, of fingers that brushed but pulled away in fear of pushing too far. To both Toto and her, what they shared was unequivocally love. There was no other name for it, no synonym in a thesaurus that would replace or even come close to describing it.

She looked away from him and the scene of their perfect little family walking closer and closer. She found her feet taking her away from the garage, not wanting to utter a word to him or to anyone at that moment. And especially not to his wife. How could she face her? How could she stand there and act normal as though her love for Toto didn’t almost burst at the seams? How could she look at the little boy and not feel guilt?

Toto could only simply stare after her, his hand entwined with his son’s. His wife, who had already thrown the towel on their marriage, was only there because their son begged her to take him. With Toto being team principal it was impossible for him to give him all his attention throughout the race as his job would take him away, so as estranged as they were she gave in to his demand. They were amicable at best, for show, for the cameras to not pick up on a relationship that was already dead and hollow.

Surely, she was his assistant she should have been at his side but she would make an excuse that other responsibilities that did pertain to her job had her away from the garage. 

She was brilliant at her job. No one could deny that. She got to where she was because she had worked hard and always focused on excelling at anything she did. Her position at Mercedes—she deserved it. She did not want to give up all that she had so ardently worked for just for him. Just because she had come face to face with a reality she had refused to even acknowledge.

She was eloquently enamoured with Toto Wolff. The very man she worked for, the very man who penned her check. She was so taken by him and her need for him she had betrayed her morals and chosen to be with him despite being married. But now that she had seen him together with his wife and son, something she had pushed so far into the back of her mind to rid herself of the reality their situation was. It broke her heart into tiny pieces.

Toto found her in his office space 2 hours later, the race to start soon, as he walked in to check if she was here avoiding the shitshow that was happening outside. All his texts to her had gone unanswered. She was sitting on the brown sofa along the opposite wall of the room. He locked the door and rushed to her.

“I have been looking everywhere for you, prinzessin.” 

“Please don’t call me that.” She whispered to him. Eyes glassy and filled with so much emotion at the reminder of the scene she witnessed. She had been so selfish.

“The guilt is eating away at me, Toto.” She confessed as she stared down at her hands. Toto sat next to her and grabbed a hold of her them.

“Look at me please.” He said. He had expected this. She was too good for all this, he too had been selfish for ever putting her in this situation. He had put his own needs before anything else and in the midst of it, he fell for the young woman. He was completely taken with her and there was no way around it, there was no way back from this. 

“What Susie and I had was fractured long before you came into my life.” He paused for a moment, trying to find the words. This, she already knew, that their relationship was nonexistent, that their son’s wellbeing was the sole reason he continuously chose to stay in the marriage. 

“You tell me that, yet you still choose to stay.” The worst sputtered out before she could think. “Toto…it feels as though I have stood too close to the sun and I am burning along with it.”

It was heartbreaking to admit all that she was feeling. How the guilt felt as though it was wrapped around her throat making it hard to breathe. That today’s scene really put things into perspective of the choices she had made.

Her eyes were brimming with tears as she lifted her gaze to meet his. He blinked at her confession and he reached for her.

She let him.

She let him get close to her. Let him place a hand to her cheek. He wiped a tear that cascaded down her cheek and held her close to him. His heart was hammering against his chest as he felt this part of his life that had been so wonderful, such a beautiful distraction from all the chaos, crumbling before his very eyes. 

“I’m sorry my love. I’m sorry for putting you through this. The last thing I wish to do is to hurt you.”

“I need to just…” She searched for the right words to stay. Eyes averting, looking around the room. At his desk, at the paper he had not yet seen on top of it. “I need some space.”

His heart constricted. How could he stay away from her? They shared every single day together. The man practically lived with her. He wanted to ask so many questions, refuse her plea but he knew his selfishness had already gotten them to this point.

“All that you need. Please just…just come back to me. I love you. “

She stood up from the couch.

“I love you.” 

It felt as though Toto sat on the couch for hours when in reality it had only been a few minutes. She had long walked out of his office space and he was glued to the seat. Unable to move, unable to think of the possibility of her not coming back. Of her not being at work the next day at his side. Of feeling hollow again. Of deciphering what exactly she meant by space. How much of it and what did this all mean for them?

It wasn’t until they knocked on his door letting him know the race was to start soon and they needed him that he stood up with knees that felt utterly weak. When he walked over to his desk, he found a paper that had not been there before.

That, at least, was what they thought of you.

When you arrived at King’s Landing alongside Taliya of House Tully, the contrast between the two of you could not have been more stark. Taliya was the Riverlands personified—yielding, perpetually flushed, and entirely too meek.

You, on the other hand, wore a mask with practiced perfection. You were quiet, yes, but you were not afraid.

You kept your chin tilted down just enough to look entirely prim, and your voice was always pitched to a gentle, musical hum that made people lean closer just to catch what you were saying.

The lords called you charming, the ladies called you sweet.

But beneath that silk, your mind was calculated. Guilt was a foreign language your parents never bothered to teach. They taught you that flaws in others were not things to pity, rather they were handles to hold onto.

The first test of your mask came during the welcoming feast.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was more or less a chaotic blur.

Taliya sat beside you, vibrating with anxiety as she chewed on air. You sat elegantly, sipping your watered wine as you watched the room with intention.

Then, Prince Aerion Targaryen entered.

He was a monster wrapped in velvet fabrics, dripping with a vanity so intense it bordered on madness.

He moved through the hall as though he owned the very air everyone else was breathing. Most ladies either shrunk or batted their lashes at his sharp and mocking gaze as he swept his eyes over the tables.

When his violet eyes finally drifted over to where you sat, you didn’t shrink. You didn’t look down at your plate like Taliya did.

Instead, you let your gaze linger on his for one, deliberate second. You gave him a fleeting smile before gracefully lowering your lashes, acting the part of the delicate maiden.

Aerion paused mid stride.

He was a man used to two things. Terror or simpering flattery.

Your controlled shyness didn’t push him away, it did the exact opposite. To him, it was an invitation to look closer. He stayed rooted to the spot for a moment, eyes narrowing as he assessed you.

He didn’t simply see a pretty girl. With the instincts of a dragon, he saw the tiny hidden flicker of something dangerous behind your eyes. A shared language of malice.

That was the only time you saw him during the entirety of the feast.

Not that you were seeking him out.

The midday sun over the Red Keep’s garden was suffocatingly warm, thick with the scent of blooming geraniums.

It was supposed to be peaceful, but Taliya was making it entirely restless.

She paced the walkway, the heels of her shoes clicking sharply against the gravel while you sat on a nearby chair, idly plucking the petals off a white rose. You watched as they fluttered to your feet, utterly unmoved by her frantic energy.

“He is just so… magnificent,” Taliya sighed for the third time that hour, her fingers trembling as she attempted to work on a silk ribbon.

She hadn’t made a single neat stitch from the moment she began. “I cannot even breathe when he enters the room. Did you see him at the feast? The way the lights caught his handsome features?”

“Prince Aerion?” You kept your voice perfectly level, pitched to that soft soothing melody you always used. “He is certainly striking, Taliya. A bit daunting, perhaps, but striking.”

“Dauntless,” she corrected with a dreamy sigh, finally stopping her pacing to stand right in front of you.

Her cheeks were flushed bright pink. “He looked at me yesterday, just for a moment when he passed the gallery. I thought my heart would stop right then. Every time he is near, I feel like an absolute fool.”

You watched another petal drop to the grass. “A man like that requires an invitation, Taliya. He is a prince of the realm, he won’t waste his time chasing shadows.”

Taliya’s face shifted, a sudden desperation taking over her features.

She dropped her embroidery onto the grass, grabbing your hands in a grip that was far too tight. Her eyes were pleading and swimming with a hopeless sort of adoration.

“You could help me,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. “You’re clever, and you’re graceful—people actually listen to you when you speak. You never hesitate like I do.”

You let your hands remain passive in her frantic grasp. You looked at her trembling lips, then her trusting eyes, and felt a vacancy where sympathy should have been.

“Help you? What could I possibly do?” you asked, tilting your head with a look of pure, innocent confusion.

“If you could just… find a way to talk to him,” she begged, squeezing your fingers. “Befriend him. You’re so courteous and friendly, he wouldn’t find you threatening at all."

She went on, “and then, when he is in a good humour, you could talk about me. Tell him how much I admire him. Tell him how beautiful the Riverlands are, or how I watch him at the training grounds. Just… get him to notice me.”

You stared at her for a long moment, letting the silence stretch long enough to make her hold her breath. Then, your lips curled into a sweet smile.

You squeezed her hands back and leaned closer. “I’ll do what I can. I’ll see if I can catch his ear.”

You spent the next two days wandering about the castle grounds, and you soon realized that befriending Prince Aerion did not require any grand gestures.

It merely required understanding the nature of a dragon’s pride.

A creature of that standing would not look down at the soil beneath its feet, but it would certainly stop to look at a mirror.

Fortunately, you knew exactly how to reflect what he wanted to see.

You began frequenting the quieter, dark corners of the Red Keep. The secluded ends of the library and the high breezy halls overlooking the body of water were your favourite.

It did not take long for Aerion to find you.

“Lady Tyrell?”

His sharp voice rang out through the stone corridor as he stepped out of the archway. He was dressed in black velvet and silver accents that caught the light with every arrogant step he took.

You let out a light breath. “My Prince,” your voice was a delicate breathless thing. “I did not mean to intrude you on your walk. I can leave.”

“You could not intrude,” Aerion said, looming over you until the scent of his expensive oil filled your senses.

Before you managed to take a step back, his hand shot out. His fingers were firm, and his rings felt cold against your skin as he hooked his index finger under your chin.

“Though you do seem to find yourself in my path quite often,” he murmured, eyes burning into yours. “Are you lost, or are you just looking for trouble?”

“Neither,” you replied softly. You didn’t pull away from his touch, nor did you lean into it.

You kept your gaze locked onto his, allowing just a fraction of yourself to bleed through your wide innocent eyes. “I simply find the rest of the court... tedious. They lack substance.”

Aerion’s pupils visibly dilated slightly, he tilted his head as a smirk formed across his face.

“Is that so?” his voice lowered into a dangerous purr. “A sweet rose like you judging the lords of the realm? You hide your thoughts very well, little rose.”

“I don’t know what you mean, my Prince,” you murmured, allowing a tiny, subtle grin to touch the corners of your mouth for a split second before you lithely stepped back, forcing his hand to drop.

Aerion let out an amused laugh, a sound of genuine intrigue.

He recognized the flame.

He could see that you were hiding behind a veil of modesty.

Over the next few weeks, these encounters became a part of your routine.

You would meet in the gardens under the guise of accidental crossings, or shared quiet conversations in the corners of the Great Hall while the rest of the court drank themselves away.

You spoke of court gossip with a lethal wit that delighted him, and you fed his arrogance with a delicate touch that made him crave your presence.

And in all that time, you spoke very little of Taliya.

When you did bring her up, it did nothing to help her.

“The Tully girl,” Aerion scoffed one evening as the two of you walked the high ramparts, your hair trailing behind you like silk in the rushing air. “She stares at me during breakfast like a dying fish. It is irritating.”

You stopped by the railing, looking out over the water, your expression shifting into practiced concern.

“She is very sweet,” you said softly, your tone laced with mock defense. “Perhaps too sweet for court. She lacks the… fire it takes to survive here.”

Aerion turned to face you fully, his hands coming up to trap a stray strand of your hair between his fingers, tugging it gently.

“She is a bore,” he insisted, “A waste of blood. I much prefer girls who knows how to burn.” His eyes found yours before he looked away.

You lowered your eyes, hiding the triumphant gleam within them. “You shouldn’t say such things, my Prince.”

“I can when I am with you.”

That night, Taliya was waiting for you in your chambers, walking back and forth with a nervous energy that made her look ragged.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, she whirled around.

“Did you speak to him?” she asked, her speech high and breathless with anxiety. “Did you mention me today?”

You let out a sorrowful sigh that you had rehearsed on the walk over. You didn’t answer right away. Walking over to your vanity, you slowly unpinned the flowers from your hair.

When you finally looked at her through the mirror, your expression was one of heartbroken sympathy.

“I did, Taliya,” you responded smoothly, voice thick with artificial regret as you turned around to face her. “I told him how sweet you are. I told him how beautifully you embroider, and how fondly you speak of the Riverlands. I swear to you, I bring your name up every time he and I cross paths.”

Taliya’s face lit up, eyes glistening with hope. “And? What did he say? Did he ask about me?”

You rose from your chair and walked over to her, taking her cold hands in yours. You gave them a comforting squeeze as if to buffer her from a cruel blow.

“Oh… It breaks my heart to tell you this,” you muttered a pained whisper. “He barely even listened. When I spoke your name today, his expression grew so cold. He laughed, Taliya. He told me he prefers women of… a much different stature. Said Riverland girls are entirely too plain for his taste.”

Her smile faltered, the blood completely rushing out of her face. “What? Plain? But.. but I wore the blue silk you told me he likes…”

“I know, I know,” you pulled her into a tight embrace, wrapping your arms around her shaking shoulders. Over her head, your face was a flat, unbothered mask.

“He was so incredibly harsh about it. I tried to defend you, truly I did. But he is a dragon. I am only telling you this because I look out for you.”

A ragged sob escaped Taliya’s throat, her tears instantly soaking into the fine green silk of your gown. “But I love him,” she wept, fingers digging into your back. “I don’t care if he’s cruel. I just want him to look at me.”

You held her for a long time, patting her back with rhythmic, exercised gentleness, listening to her heart break and feeling only bad enough to stay.

The day of the tourney arrived bright.

The stands were a chaotic sight, snapping banners from every corner of the realm.

You sat in the front tier of the noble pavilions, looking radiant as Taliya settled in beside you.

Despite everything you had told her about Aerion’s disdain, a stubborn and desperate hope still lingered in her chest.

Her eyes were red and puffy, but she refused to look away from the lists.

In her lap, her hands tightly clutched a beautiful hand-woven ribbon. It was dyed the deep rich blue of the Tully colours, meant to be given as a favour. Her knuckles were pale from how hard she was gripping it.

“Maybe if he sees me today..” her words was barely audible over the trumpets, “He will look this way and realize… realize he was wrong about me.”

You hummed in false agreement, keeping your gaze fixed ahead.

The horns blew, signaling the start of the final joust. Aerion rode out onto the field, and a collective breath left the crowd.

His armour shined brutally under the sun. He handled his black stallion with a terrifying, effortless grace as he unhorsed his opponent in a single devastating pass, the splintering of wood echoing through the arena.

The crowd went into a frenzy of cheers. Aerion paraded his horse around the ring, soaking in the applause with a proud smirk.

Then, he reined his stallion right in front of the royal pavilion, halting directly below where you and Taliya sat.

Taliya gasped as she instantly stood up, her knees shaking as she pressed herself against the wooden railing. With jittery hands, she held out the blue ribbon, letting out a nervous giggle.

“My Prince…” her voice was completely lost in the roar of the crowd.

Aerion didn’t even so much as spare her a glance. His eyes completely bypassed Taliya, ignoring her outstretched hand and the blue ribbon as though she was nothing but dust.

His burning gaze locked straight onto you.

An arrogant, possessive smile broke on his face. He lifted his lance, tilting the tip flawlessly toward you, demanding your attention in front of the entire audience.

“My Lady,” Aerion’s voice rang out, clear and commanding over the noise of the arena. “Will you grant me your favour for the melee?”

The crowd turned to look at Taliya, then back at you and Aerion. Whispers instantly began to erupt through the stands.

Beside you, Taliya froze. She looked as though she might faint.

The blue ribbon slipped from her numb fingers, fluttering down into the dirt of the arena below to be forgotten.

You could feel the absolute horror, the crushing weight of betrayal radiating from her. You could hear the gasp that left her lips as her world completely shattered.

Yet, you did not look at her. You pretended not to see her face at all.

Your lips curved into a pleasing smile before you stood up elegantly, unfastening the delicate green ribbon from your wrist.

You stop walking, forcing Maggie to stop too. “I didn’t come here to talk to guys. I came here because you said, and I quote, ’If you don’t come with me I’ll tell Professor Lawrence you’re the one who accidentally broke his microscope.’“

“Blackmail is just another word for effective persuasion.” Maggie grins, completely unrepentant. “Come on, let’s get you a drink. A non-alcoholic one,” she adds quickly when she sees your face. “I know, I know. 4.0 GPA. Pre-med. Future doctor. You’ve mentioned it.”

“Once or twice,” you mutter, but you follow her anyway.

The kitchen is somehow even more crowded than the living room. Red Solo cups litter every surface, and there’s a girl sitting on the counter who looks like she’s about three seconds from passing out. You make a mental note to check on her in a few minutes — instincts already kicking in, apparently.

“Maggie!” A tall guy with dark hair and an easy smile pushes through the crowd. “You made it!”

“Logan, hi!” Maggie lights up in a way that makes you wonder why she really wanted to come to this party. “This is my roommate, Y/N. Y/N, this is Logan.”

“Nice to meet you,” Logan says, and he seems genuinely friendly. “Want a drink? We’ve got beer, jungle juice — which I don’t recommend unless you want to hate yourself tomorrow — or there’s probably some Coke in the fridge.”

“Coke sounds perfect,” you say, grateful.

Logan grins. “A woman who knows what she wants. I like it.” He turns to rummage in the fridge, and Maggie elbows you.

“See? This isn’t so bad.”

You’re about to respond when a burst of laughter from the living room makes everyone turn. Through the doorway, you can see a guy sprawled on the couch — not just any guy, you realize, but the guy. Even you, with your library-heavy social life, know who Dean Di Laurentis is. Member of the hockey team. Walking, talking definition of “big man on campus.” And currently, very occupied.

There are two girls with him. One blonde, one brunette, and they seem to be taking turns kissing him and occasionally each other, which — okay, you definitely need to look away from that.

“That’s Dean,” Logan says, handing you a Coke. He doesn’t sound judgmental, just matter-of-fact. “He’s, uh … he’s having a good night.”

“He has a lot of good nights,” Maggie says, and you catch something in her tone — not jealousy, exactly, but maybe a kind of weary resignation that this is just how things are.

You take a sip of your Coke and try very hard not to look at the couch again.

You fail.

***

Dean’s having a great time. Or he should be having a great time. Rachel — or is it Rochelle? — is doing this thing with her tongue that’s usually his favorite, and the other girl (he definitely didn’t catch her name) has her hand in his hair, tugging just right, and yeah, this is exactly how Thursday nights are supposed to go.

Except.

Except he can’t stop looking at the girl in the kitchen.

She’s not his usual type. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater that looks like it came from the clearance rack at Target, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail that’s starting to come loose. She’s not trying to catch his attention. She’s not trying to catch anyone’s attention. She’s just standing there, looking vaguely uncomfortable, holding her Coke like it’s a life preserver.

And Dean can’t look away.

“Dean?” Rachel-or-Rochelle pulls back, pouting. “Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere, babe,” he says automatically, flashing the smile that usually works. “Just thought I heard something.”

But his eyes drift back to the kitchen. The girl’s talking to Logan now, and she’s smiling — really smiling, not the practiced, flirty smile he sees at these parties, but something genuine and a little shy. Logan says something that makes her laugh, and Dean feels something weird in his chest.

Huh.

“I need a drink,” he announces, extracting himself from the tangle of limbs with practiced ease. “Be right back.”

“Dean!” Both girls protest, but he’s already moving.

Logan spots him first. “D! Good party, man.”

“Yeah, it’s alright.” Dean’s looking at the girl now, really looking. She’s got these eyes — he can’t tell what color they are in the shitty lighting, but they’re watching him with something that might be wariness. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Y/N,” Logan says. “Maggie’s roommate. Y/N, this is-”

“Dean Di Laurentis,” you finish, and your voice is different than he expected. Clear and direct. “I know who you are.”

“Good things, I hope,” Dean says, turning on the charm. It’s automatic, like breathing.

“That depends on your definition of good.”

Logan chokes on his beer. Maggie looks like she’s trying not to laugh. Dean just stares at you for a second, genuinely thrown.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s fair.”

You take another sip of your Coke, and Dean notices your hand is steady. Not nervous. Just unimpressed.

“Are you having fun?” He tries again.

“Not particularly.”

“Want me to show you around? Give you the grand tour?”

“I think I can navigate four rooms on my own, thanks.”

Maggie makes a strangled noise. Logan’s grinning so wide it looks painful. Dean can feel his own smile shifting into something more genuine, more interested.

“You’re not a fan of parties,” he observes.

“You’re very perceptive.”

“So why are you here?”

You glance at Maggie. “Effective persuasion.”

“That sounds like a story.”

“It’s really not.” You set your Coke down on the counter. “Maggie, I’m going to check on that girl who looks like she’s about to fall off the counter. Then maybe get some air.”

“Want company?” Maggie asks, but you shake your head.

“I’m good. You stay, have fun.”

You move past Dean, and he catches a whiff of something clean and simple — not the heavy perfume most girls wear to these things, just soap, maybe? Shampoo? Whatever it is, it’s driving him crazy.

“Nice meeting you,” you say to Logan. To Dean, you just nod. Polite. Distant.

And then you’re gone, navigating through the crowd with single-minded determination toward the drunk girl on the counter.

“Dude,” Logan says.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.

“She just …”

“Yeah.”

“That never happens to you.”

“I know.”

Logan’s laughing now. “Oh man, this is beautiful. This is the best thing I’ve seen all semester.”

“Shut up.” But Dean’s watching you help the drunk girl off the counter, watching the way you’re gentle and efficient, getting her to sit down, checking her pupils. “Who is she?”

“I literally just met her five minutes before you did.”

“Maggie!” Dean turns to your roommate, who’s watching him with undisguised amusement. “Tell me about Y/N.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m asking nicely?”

Maggie snorts. “That’s not as compelling as you think it is.” But she relents, maybe because she’s a good friend, or maybe because she’s curious about what’ll happen. “She’s pre-med. Crazy smart. Like, scary smart. She has a 4.0 and she’ll probably keep it all four years. She studies constantly. She’s literally never had a boyfriend.”

“Never?” Dean’s eyebrows go up.

“Never. She went to all-girls schools before Briar. I don’t think she’s even been kissed.”

Logan whistles low. “And you brought her here? To our party?”

“I thought it would be good for her! You know, broaden her horizons.”

“Pretty sure her horizons just got an eyeful of Dean and the twins making out on the couch,” Logan points out.

Maggie winces. “Okay, yeah, that might have been poor timing.”

Dean’s not really listening anymore. He’s watching you crouch down next to the drunk girl, talking to her in a low, calm voice. Someone hands you a water bottle and you help her drink it, supporting her head like you’ve done this before. Like you know exactly what you’re doing.

“She’s going to be a doctor,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.

“That’s the plan,” Maggie confirms.

“Huh.” Dean tilts his head, still watching. “I like her.”

“Dude, she shut you down in like thirty seconds flat.”

“I know.” Dean’s grinning now, a real grin, not the practiced one. “It’s amazing.”

Logan and Maggie exchange a look.

“This is going to be a disaster,” Logan predicts.

“Oh, absolutely,” Maggie agrees.

But Dean’s already moving.

***

You manage to get the drunk girl — her name is Amy, apparently — to drink some water and eat a few crackers someone scrounges up from somewhere. Her friends finally surface from whatever corner they’ve been in and promise to take care of her. You make them promise to take her back to her dorm, not let her drink any more, and check on her every few hours.

“Are you a doctor?” One of them asks.

“Pre-med,” you say. “But still, seriously. Keep an eye on her.”

“We will. Thank you so much.”

You escape to the backyard before anyone else can need medical attention. The air is cold — it’s early October in Massachusetts, and you can see your breath — but it’s a relief after the heat and noise inside. There are a few people out here, but they’re mostly in clusters, talking and laughing. You find a spot on the porch steps and sit down, pulling your phone out of your pocket.

Three new emails. One from your advisor about next semester’s schedule, one from your organic chemistry professor about the exam next week, and one from your mom with the subject line “Just Checking In!” which means she’s worrying about you again.

You’re composing a response in your head when someone sits down next to you.

“You’re good at that,” Dean says.

You don’t jump, but it’s close. “At what?”

“Taking care of people.” He’s got a fresh beer in his hand, but he doesn’t look drunk. Just comfortable, like he owns the space he’s in. Which, technically, he kind of does. “That girl looked rough.”

“She’ll be fine as long as her friends actually watch her.” You pocket your phone. “Shouldn’t you be inside? With your … company?”

“They’ll survive without me for a few minutes.” He takes a sip of his beer. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

The question catches you off guard. Not because it’s rude — it’s not, really — but because it’s direct. Honest.

“I don’t know you,” you say carefully.

“But you know of me.”

“Everyone knows of you.”

“And what does everyone say?”

You look at him properly for the first time since he sat down. He’s objectively attractive — you’re not blind — with the kind of face that probably gets him whatever he wants. Blond hair that looks like he’s been running his hands through it, sharp jawline, eyes that are actually kind of distracting in the porch light. And he’s looking at you like he’s genuinely interested in what you’re about to say.

“They say you’re a great hockey player,” you offer.

“True.”

“That you’re charming.”

“Also true.”

“That you go through women like most people go through socks.”

He laughs, and it’s a real laugh, surprised and genuine. “Okay, ouch. But probably fair.”

“You asked.”

“I did.” He’s still smiling, though. “What else?”

“That you’re rich. That your family owns hotels or something.”

“My mom’s family. Hotels, some restaurants, a few other things. But that’s them, not me.”

“Isn’t it, though?” You tilt your head. “You live in this house. You throw these parties. You don’t exactly seem to be struggling.”

“No,” he admits. “I’m not. I’m lucky as hell. But I also work my ass off on the ice. I’m getting a degree in political science that I’ll actually use. And my parents would kill me if I turned into some trust-fund asshole who thinks money solves everything.”

There’s something in his voice that makes you think he’s being honest. Or at least, honest about this.

“Why do you care what I think?” You ask.

“I don’t know,” he says, and he sounds almost surprised by his own answer. “You’re different.”

“Different how?”

“You looked at me like I was just some guy. Not the captain of the hockey team, not Dean Di Laurentis, just … some guy.”

“You are just some guy.”

“See?” He grins. “That. Nobody talks to me like that.”

“Maybe they should.”

“Maybe.” He takes another sip of his beer, looking out at the backyard. There’s a group of guys playing beer pong, and someone’s playlist is drifting through an open window. “Maggie says you’re pre-med.”

“She talks a lot.”

“She’s a good friend. Trying to hype you up.”

“I don’t need hyping up.”

“No,” Dean agrees, looking at you again. “You really don’t.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes your heart do a weird little flip, which is annoying. You don’t do heart flips. You do studying and lab work and carefully planned career trajectories.

“I should go,” you say, standing up. “I have studying to do.”

“It’s Thursday night.”

“So?”

“So don’t you ever take a break?”

“This was my break.” You gesture vaguely at the house. “Party attendance: checked off the list. Now I can go back to my regularly scheduled programming.”

Dean stands too, and you’re reminded that he’s tall. Taller than you expected. “Can I get your number?”

“Why?”

“So I can text you.”

“Why would you text me?”

“To ask you out.”

You blink. “No.”

“No, I can’t have your number, or no, you won’t go out with me?”

“Both.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Because I’m not interested in being another notch on Dean Di Laurentis’s bedpost.” The words come out sharper than you intended, but you don’t take them back.

Something flashes across his face — surprise, maybe, or hurt — but it’s gone quickly. “That’s not what I-”

“Yes, it is.” You’re not angry, just tired suddenly. Tired of this conversation, this party, this whole night. “Look, I’m sure you’re used to girls falling all over themselves for a chance with you. And that’s fine. That’s their choice. But I have plans for my life, and they don’t include getting my heart broken by a guy who’s just looking for his next conquest.”

“You think that’s all this is?”

“Isn’t it?”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he finally says, and points for honesty again. “Maybe. Probably. But I’d like to find out.”

“Well, I wouldn’t.” You pull your phone back out. “I’m going to call an Uber. Have a good night, Dean.”

“Let me at least walk you to the front-”

“I’m fine.”

“Y/N-”

“Seriously. I’m fine.” You soften slightly, because he does look genuinely concerned, which is almost worse than if he were just annoyed. “Thank you for the conversation. It was … enlightening.”

You make it to the front of the house before Maggie finds you.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Home. I’m Ubering.”

“Already? We just got here!”

“You just got here. I’ve been here for an hour and I’ve already hit my social quota for the week.” You show her your phone screen. “Car’s three minutes away.”

Maggie looks back toward the house, then at you. “Did something happen? Did someone-”

“No, nothing like that. Everyone was fine. I’m just tired.”

“Dean was talking to you.”

“Dean talks to everyone.”

“Not like that, he doesn’t.” Maggie’s eyes are bright with curiosity. “What did he say?”

“He asked for my number.”

“And?”

“And I said no.”

Maggie’s mouth falls open. “You said no? To Dean Di Laurentis?”

“Is that really so shocking?”

“YES!” Maggie’s practically shouting now. “He never asks for numbers! He doesn’t have to! Girls just throw themselves at him!”

“Well, I didn’t throw myself anywhere except toward the door.” Your Uber’s pulling up. “Look, stay, have fun with Logan. He seems nice. Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”

“You’re really leaving.”

“I really am.”

Maggie hugs you suddenly, fierce and quick. “You’re crazy. But I love you.”

“Love you too. Be safe.”

You slide into the Uber, give the driver your address, and lean back against the seat. Through the window, you can see the house, still bright and loud and full of people having the time of their lives.

And standing on the front porch, watching your car pull away, is Dean.

***

“So let me get this straight,” Garrett says the next morning over breakfast. He’s making pancakes, which is the only reason Dean’s awake before noon on a Friday. “You asked for her number, and she said no.”

“Yep.” Dean’s nursing his coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. He didn’t sleep well. Kept thinking about eyes he still can’t quite place the color of.

“And then you asked her out, and she said no to that too.”

“Correct.”

“And then she called an Uber and left.”

“You’ve got it.”

Tucker wanders in, looking even more hungover than Dean feels. “Who left?”

“This girl Dean’s obsessed with,” Garrett says cheerfully.

“I’m not obsessed.”

“You’ve mentioned her thirteen times since I woke up.”

“I have not.”

“You literally started the conversation with ‘So there’s this girl.’”

Tucker perks up slightly. “A girl turned down Dean? This I have to hear.”

“There’s nothing to hear. She’s just … different.”

“Different how?” Tucker’s pouring himself coffee now, settling in.

Dean tries to explain it. The way you looked at him like he was just another guy. The way you handled drunk Amy with competence and care. The way you called him out without being mean about it, just honest. The way you smiled at Logan’s joke, genuine and unguarded.

The way his chest did something weird when you walked away.

“Oh man,” Tucker says when he’s done. “You’re screwed.”

“I’m not screwed.”

“You’re so screwed,” Garrett agrees. “This is amazing.”

“This is not amazing. This is annoying.” Dean drops his head to the table. “Why can’t I stop thinking about her?”

“Because she’s the first girl who’s ever said no to you,” Logan says, appearing in the doorway. He’s somehow showered and dressed already, looking fresh and put-together in a way that makes Dean want to throw his coffee at him. “It’s basic psychology. We want what we can’t have.”

“It’s not just that.”

“Then what is it?”

Dean doesn’t have an answer. Or rather, he has too many answers, none of which make sense.

He’s attracted to you, obviously. But he’s attracted to lots of girls, and he usually stops thinking about them approximately five minutes after they leave his bed.

He’s intrigued by you. Your intelligence, your focus, your complete lack of interest in impressing him.

He’s challenged by you. You saw through his charm in about thirty seconds and called him on his shit without being cruel.

And he wants to see you again. Not just hook up with you — though yeah, okay, he wouldn’t say no — but actually see you. Talk to you. Figure out what color your eyes are. Learn what makes you laugh.

“I’m in trouble,” he says to the table.

“Finally figured that out, did you?” Garrett slides a plate of pancakes in front of him. “Eat. You’ll need your strength.”

“For what?”

“For winning over the first girl who’s ever seen right through you.”

Dean picks up his fork, but he’s not really thinking about pancakes.

He’s thinking about you in the library, probably. Studying. Focused on your 4.0 and your medical school dreams and your carefully planned future.

A future that apparently doesn’t include him.

Well.

Dean Di Laurentis has never backed down from a challenge in his life.

He’s not about to start now.

***

You don’t think about Dean at all on Friday.

(That’s a lie. You think about him three times during organic chemistry, twice during your shift volunteering at the campus health center, and once during dinner when Maggie asks how you’re doing and gives you a look that suggests she knows exactly what you’re not saying.)

You definitely don’t think about him on Saturday.

(Another lie. You think about him when you see a hockey jersey in the bookstore. When someone in the library mentions the game tonight. When you’re trying to fall asleep and your brain helpfully replays the conversation on the porch, the way he looked at you when you walked away.)

By Sunday, you’re annoyed with yourself.

“I met him for like twenty minutes,” you tell Maggie, who’s watching you with barely concealed amusement. “Why is he taking up this much space in my head?”

“Because he’s hot and rich and into you?”

“He’s not into me. He’s into the challenge.”

“Okay, but what if he’s into both?”

“Maggie.”

“Y/N.” She mimics your tone perfectly. “Would it kill you to consider that maybe, just maybe, you made an impression on him too?”

“It doesn’t matter if I did. I have a plan. Medical school, residency, building a career. No time for distractions.”

“You sound like a robot.”

“I sound focused.”

“You sound scared.”

That stops you. “I’m not scared.”

“No?” Maggie tilts her head. “Then why are you so determined to write him off before you even give him a chance?”

“Because I know how this story ends. Girl meets charming hockey player. Girl falls for charming hockey player. Charming hockey player gets bored and moves on to the next girl. Girl is left with a broken heart and ruined GPA.”

“That’s one possible ending,” Maggie allows. “But it’s not the only one.”

You don’t have a response to that.

Your phone buzzes. Unknown number.

Unknown: hey, it’s dean. got your number from maggie (don’t be mad at her, i can be very persuasive). just wanted to make sure you got home okay thursday night.

You stare at the screen.

“Did he just text you?” Maggie leans over, reading. “Oh my god, he texted you!”

“You gave him my number?”

“He asked very nicely! And he seemed genuinely worried about you!”

You read the text again. And again.

You: I got home fine. Thank you for checking.

You hit send before you can overthink it.

Three dots appear immediately.

Dean: good. i was worried you might have gotten lost in the library and been shelving yourself with the medical textbooks

You: That’s not how libraries work

Dean: you sure? you seem like the type who’d be very organized about it. probably alphabetized by author

Despite yourself, you smile.

You: I’m more of a Dewey Decimal girl

Dean: knew it. so listen, i know you said you’re not interested, and i respect that. but i was thinking

Dean: what if we were friends?

You blink at the screen.

You: Friends?

Dean: yeah. no pressure, no ulterior motives. just friends. we could study together, grab coffee, whatever friends do

You: You want to study with me

Dean: i’m taking business finance as an elective this semester and it’s kicking my ass. you’re smart. seems like a win-win

You: And this has nothing to do with trying to change my mind about going out with you?

Dean: scout’s honor

You: Were you even a scout?

Dean: no but i’m honest when it counts. so what do you say? friends?

You look at Maggie, who’s reading over your shoulder and nodding frantically.

This is a bad idea. You know it’s a bad idea.

But there’s something about the way he texts — casual, funny, not trying too hard — that makes you want to say yes.

You: Fine. Friends. But if you try anything-

Dean: i won’t. promise. when are you free?

You: Tuesday afternoon. Library, 2pm

Dean: it’s a date. i mean a friend date. a friend meeting. a platonic gathering of two people who are definitely just friends

You: You’re ridiculous

Dean: you’re smiling though aren’t you

You are. You don’t respond.

Dean: see you tuesday, friend

You put your phone down and find Maggie grinning at you.

“Don’t,” you warn.

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You’re thinking it very loudly.”

“I’m just thinking that this is going to be interesting.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Uh huh.”

“We are!”

“Okay, babe. Whatever you say.”

But as you go back to your studying, you can’t quite shake the smile off your face.

And in a house across campus, Dean is grinning at his phone like he just won the championship.

“Friends?” Garrett asks, reading over his shoulder.

“Friends,” Dean confirms.

“Right. Because that’s going to work out exactly as planned.”

“It will.”

“Dean, buddy. You’re already gone.”

Dean doesn’t argue.

Because Garrett’s probably right.

But as far as Dean’s concerned?

This is only the beginning.

***

Three weeks of “friendship” with Dean Di Laurentis has taught you several things.

One: He’s actually smart. Not just hockey-smart or street-smart, but genuinely intelligent. Your Tuesday study sessions have evolved into genuine collaboration, and he’s helped you understand financial models for your Healthcare Economics elective while you’ve kept him from failing Business Finance.

Two: He’s funnier than you expected. Not in a trying-too-hard way, but in a quick, observational way that catches you off guard and makes you laugh when you’re supposed to be studying.

Three: He’s a terrible liar.

“So, as my friend,” Dean says, drawing out the word in a way that tells you he’s about to ask for something, “you should come to my game Friday night.”

You don’t look up from your organic chemistry notes. “Should I.”

“Yes. Friends support friends. It’s in the friendship handbook.”

“There’s a handbook?”

“Absolutely. Chapter three, section two: Thou shalt attend thy friend’s athletic events and cheer loudly.”

“I don’t cheer loudly.” You flip a page. “I barely cheer quietly.”

“You could learn.” He leans back in his chair, and you can feel him watching you. “Come on, Y/N. You’ve never been to a game.”

“I’ve never been to a lot of things.”

“Which is exactly why you should come. Broaden your horizons. Live a little.”

“You sound like Maggie.”

“Maggie’s a smart woman.” He pauses. “I’ll buy you nachos.”

Now you look up. “Are you trying to bribe me with stadium food?”

“Is it working?”

You consider. You’ve been to the library every Friday night since school started. You’re ahead on all your reading. And there’s something in the way Dean’s looking at you — hopeful and a little uncertain — that makes your resistance crack.

“Fine,” you say. “But I’m not wearing a jersey.”

His face lights up. “You don’t have to wear anything-” He stops, recalibrating. “That came out wrong. You can wear whatever you want. Just come.”

“I’ll come.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You try to sound casual about it, like this isn’t a big deal. Like your heart isn’t doing that annoying flutter thing again. “As friends.”

“As friends,” he agrees, but his smile suggests he’s already won something.

***

Friday night, and Garrett is giving Dean a look.

“You know she’s going to see right through whatever you’re planning, right?”

They’re in the locker room, suiting up. The game starts in forty-five minutes, and Dean’s been checking his phone every three seconds like you might cancel.

“I’m not planning anything,” Dean lies.

“Dude, you’ve been weird all week.”

“I’m focused.”

“You’re distracted.” Logan pulls his jersey over his head. “Which is going to get you checked into the boards if you’re not careful.”

“I’m fine.”

“Is she actually coming?” Tucker asks, lacing his skates.

“She said she would.”

“And you believe her?”

Dean does, actually. In three weeks of friendship, you’ve been nothing if not reliable. If you say you’ll be somewhere, you show up. Usually with coffee for both of you and color-coded notes that make his business homework actually make sense.

“She’ll be here,” he says.

And right before the game starts, when he skates out for warm-ups and scans the crowd, he sees you.

You’re in the student section, sitting next to Maggie, wearing jeans and a navy blue sweater, looking simultaneously interested and slightly overwhelmed by the chaos around you. Your hair is down tonight, and even from the ice he can see you’re taking it all in with those analytical eyes.

Then you see him looking, and you wave.

It’s a small wave, almost shy, but it does something to his chest that makes him nearly miss the puck Garrett sends his way.

“Focus!” Garrett yells, skating past.

Right. Focus. Hockey. Winning.

He can think about you later.

***

Hockey is violent.

This is your main takeaway fifteen minutes into the first period. You’ve seen clips before, obviously, but watching it live is different. The speed, the impact, the way bodies slam into the boards with a sound that makes you wince.

“Is this legal?” You ask Maggie over the roar of the crowd.

“What, the checking? Yeah, totally legal.”

“Someone’s going to get a concussion.”

“Probably!” Maggie’s grinning, completely unbothered by this fact. “That’s hockey, babe!”

You watch Dean skate backward, cutting off an opposing player with casual efficiency. He’s good — even you can tell that. Fast and smart, always seeming to know where the puck is going before it gets there. And when he steals it and sends it flying up the ice to Logan, who scores, the arena erupts.

“LET’S GO BOYS!” Maggie’s screaming, and you find yourself clapping, caught up in the energy despite yourself.

Dean skates past your section during the celebration, and even with his helmet on, you can tell he’s looking for you. When he finds you, he taps his stick on the ice.

“Was that for you?” Maggie demands.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“That was totally for you!”

“We’re friends.”

“Uh huh. And I’m the Queen of England.”

You don’t answer, but you’re smiling.

The game is close — tied 2-2 going into the third period. You’ve started to understand the rhythm of it, the strategy. Dean’s not a flashy player, but he’s essential. He breaks up plays, protects the goal, makes the kind of smart, unglamorous decisions that keep the other team from scoring.

“He’s really good,” you say to Maggie during a stoppage.

“One of the best defensemen in college hockey,” she says proudly, like she had something to do with it. “NHL scouts come to watch him play.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. There’s talk he might sign with a team. Go pro.”

This information sits strangely with you. The idea of Dean leaving, going off to some NHL team in some other city. Not that it matters. You’re friends. And friends can be happy for each other from a distance.

Right?

With two minutes left, Logan scores again. The arena goes insane. Briar wins 3-2, and the team piles on each other in celebration, sticks raised, the student section chanting “HAWKS! HAWKS! HAWKS!”

And you’re on your feet with everyone else, cheering for reasons you’re not entirely ready to examine.

***

Dean’s high lasts through the handshake line, through the initial celebration, right up until they get back to the locker room and he remembers his plan.

His stupid, impulsive, absolutely terrible plan that he’s been thinking about all week.

“Okay,” he says to Garrett, who’s the only one he’s told. “I’m going to do it.”

“Don’t do it.”

“I’m doing it.”

“Dean, this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever thought of, and you once tried to longboard down the library steps.”

“That was Tucker’s idea.”

“You still did it!” Garrett grabs his shoulder. “Dude, just ask her out like a normal person.”

“I’ve tried that. She said no.”

“So try again!”

“I need an edge. Something that’ll-” He stops. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand you’re about to give yourself an actual injury to fake an injury, which is literally insane.”

But Dean’s mind is made up. He’s been thinking about this since Tuesday, when you mentioned your volunteer shift at the campus health center. How you’d patched up a guy who’d split his lip playing basketball, how you’d been gentle and efficient and completely in your element.

He wants to see you like that. Focused on him. Those careful hands on his face. Just the two of you, without the “friendship” buffer.

Is it manipulative? Maybe.

Is it ridiculous? Definitely.

Is he going to do it anyway?

Absolutely.

He waits until most of the team is in the showers. Then, before he can think better of it, he grabs his stick and-

CRACK.

“JESUS CHRIST!” Logan appears from around the corner just in time to see Dean lower his stick, blood already dripping from his lip. “DID YOU JUST HIT YOURSELF IN THE FACE?”

“Maybe,” Dean says, tasting copper.

“ON PURPOSE?”

“Keep your voice down-”

“GARRETT! TUCKER! DEAN JUST SMASHED HIMSELF WITH HIS STICK!”

So much for subtlety.

Within seconds, he’s surrounded by half the team, all staring at him like he’s lost his mind.

“Why?” Tucker asks, genuinely baffled.

“It’s not that bad,” Dean says, even though his lip is throbbing and there’s definitely blood on his jersey now.

“You’re bleeding everywhere!” Garrett’s looking at him with something between horror and reluctant admiration. “This is about that Y/N, isn’t it?”

“What?” Logan asks.

“Y/N! He’s trying to make her go all Meredith Grey on him!”

“By giving himself an actual injury?” Logan looks impressed despite himself. “That’s … that’s actually kind of genius?”

“It’s psychotic,” Tucker corrects.

“It’s both,” Garrett decides. “Dean, you’re an idiot.”

“Noted.” Dean grabs a towel, pressing it to his lip. “Now can someone go tell her I need medical attention?”

“You need psychiatric attention,” Garrett mutters, but he’s already moving.

***

You’re waiting outside the locker room with Maggie and a handful of other girlfriends and friends when Garrett emerges, looking harried.

“Y/N? Dean’s asking for you.”

Your stomach drops. “Why? What happened?”

“Took a stick to the face during the game. His lip’s split. He’s bleeding pretty good.”

You’re already moving. “How bad? Is he dizzy? Nauseous? Did he lose consciousness at any point?”

“Uh-”

“Never mind, I’ll check myself.” You push past him into the locker room, medical training overriding any sense of propriety.

Dean’s sitting on the bench in his hockey pants and undershirt, holding a rapidly reddening towel to his mouth. When he sees you, he lowers it, and — yeah, that’s a decent split. Upper lip, maybe half an inch long, still bleeding freely.

“Hi,” he says, and it comes out mushy because his lip is already swelling.

“What happened?” You’re already kneeling in front of him, tilting his head toward the light. Your hands are gentle but firm on his jaw, and Dean’s trying very hard to focus on not revealing that this is exactly what he wanted and not on how close you are or how good you smell or-

“Took a high stick in the scrum in front of the net,” he lies. “Didn’t even feel it until after.”

“Adrenaline,” you murmur, examining the cut. “You’re lucky it didn’t get your eye. Did you bite through? Let me see your teeth.”

He opens his mouth obediently.

“Okay, no tooth damage. That’s good.” You look around. “Do you guys have a first aid kit in here?”

“There’s a full medical setup in the training room,” Logan offers. He’s watching this with undisguised amusement, and Dean makes a mental note to murder him later.

“Show me.”

Five minutes later, you’ve got Dean sitting on a training table, supplies laid out with the kind of organization that makes him smile despite the pain. You’ve washed your hands twice and put on gloves, and now you’re back between his knees, carefully cleaning the wound.

“This is going to sting,” you warn.

“I can handle—OW.”

“I warned you.” But your voice is soft. “Stay still.”

He stays still.

“You know,” you say, working carefully, “hockey is incredibly dangerous. Repeated head trauma, chronic traumatic encephalopathy, not to mention acute injuries like fractures and lacerations-”

“Are you giving me a lecture right now?”

“Yes.” You don’t look up from your work. “Someone needs to. You’re all insane, throwing yourselves into walls and each other for fun.”

“It’s not for fun, it’s for glory.”

“Glory isn’t going to help you when you can’t remember your own name at forty.”

“Wow, you really know how to make a guy feel better.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel better, I’m trying to make you be smarter.” You lean back, examining your work. “You might have a scar.”

“Chicks dig scars.”

You give him a look. “Did you seriously just say that?”

“I’m concussed, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“You’re not concussed. I already checked.” But you’re fighting a smile. “Though I’m starting to think you have a different kind of brain damage.”

“Ouch.”

“Hold still, I’m not done.” You’re applying something to the cut now, some kind of adhesive. “You’re going to need to keep this clean. No kissing anyone for at least a week.”

“There’s only one person I want to kiss anyway,” he says before he can stop himself.

Your hands pause. Just for a second. Then you continue working. “Dean.”

“Sorry. Friends. I know.”

“I’m serious about the kissing thing. If this gets infected-”

“It won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Then you’ll just have to check on me. Make sure I’m being good.”

You step back, pulling off your gloves. “You’re never good.”

“I’m good at hockey.”

“You just got hit in the face.”

“Occupational hazard.” He touches his lip carefully. “How bad does it look?”

“Like you got hit with a hockey stick.” You’re packing up the supplies now, not looking at him. “Which you did. Because you play a violent sport with no regard for your personal safety.”

“You’re really worried about me.”

“I’m worried about anyone who voluntarily puts themselves in danger repeatedly.”

“But especially me.”

Finally, you look at him. Really look at him. And there’s something in your eyes that makes his heart race faster than any game ever has.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Especially you.”

The moment stretches. Dean’s very aware that you’re still standing between his knees. That your face is close enough that he could lean forward and kiss you if his lip wasn’t split open. That you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure out a particularly complicated equation.

“Y/N-”

“I should go.” You step back quickly. “Keep it clean. Ice for the swelling. If you develop a fever or the pain gets worse, go to the health center.”

“Will you be there?”

“Dean.”

“What? It’s a legitimate question. I want to make sure I see a qualified professional.”

“Any of the nurses can handle a split lip.”

“But you handled this one.”

“Because Garrett came and got me.”

“Lucky me.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“You like it.”

“I tolerate it. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

You’re saved from answering by Garrett sticking his head in. “Everything okay in here? Dean still alive?”

“Barely,” you say. “He needs to be more careful.”

“Good luck with that,” Garrett says. “He’s the least careful person I know.”

“I’m careful,” Dean protests. “I’m very careful.”

“You just got hit in the face with a stick.”

“That’s—yeah, okay, fair point.”

You gather your bag. “I really should go. Maggie’s waiting.”

“Let me walk you out,” Dean says, hopping off the table.

“You should stay here and rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“Dean-”

“Y/N.” He matches your tone exactly, and you huff out a laugh.

“Fine. But if you pass out, I’m leaving you where you fall.”

“That’s fair.”

He walks you out of the training room, past his teammates who are all very obviously pretending not to watch, through the locker room and out into the hallway where Maggie’s waiting.

“Oh my god,” Maggie says when she sees his face. “That looks painful.”

“It’s not that bad,” Dean says.

“It looks awful,” you correct. “He needs to rest and ice it.”

“I need to take you home first.”

“We have an Uber-”

“Cancel it.” He’s already pulling out his phone. “I’ll drive you.”

“Dean, you just played a full game and took a stick to the face. You should not be driving.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, you’re-”

“Stubborn?” Maggie suggests. “Determined? Completely gone for you?”

“Maggie!” You elbow her.

But Dean’s grinning now, despite the pain it causes. “All of the above.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but you don’t argue when he leads you to the parking lot.

His car is exactly what you’d expect — a sleek black Audi that probably cost more than your entire college tuition. He opens the passenger door for you, which makes Maggie practically swoon in the back seat.

“Such a gentleman,” she stage-whispers.

“Shut up,” you whisper back.

The drive to your dorm is short, but Dean takes the long way, which doesn’t escape your notice.

“You missed the turn,” you point out.

“Did I?”

“Dean.”

“I’m concussed, remember? No sense of direction.”

“You’re not concussed!”

But you’re laughing, and he counts that as a win.

When he finally pulls up to your dorm, Maggie tactfully announces she needs to “check the mailroom” and disappears, leaving you alone in the car with Dean.

“Thank you,” you say. “For driving us. And for inviting me to the game. It was … actually really fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Even though you scared me with the whole bleeding thing.”

“Sorry about that.”

“No, you’re not.”

He grins. “No, I’m not.” He pauses. “So, would you come to another game? As friends?”

You’re quiet for a moment, looking at him. His split lip, his hopeful eyes, the way he’s trying so hard to be patient when patience is clearly not his strong suit.

“Dean,” you say carefully. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This. The friendship thing. The study sessions. Tonight. Why?”

He could lie. Should lie, probably. Keep up the pretense that this is all casual, all friendly.

But he’s tired of pretending.

“Because I like you,” he says simply. “I’ve liked you since the moment you told me I go through women like socks. I like how smart you are. How focused. How you don’t take any of my shit. I like that you see me as just some guy, not the hockey captain or Dean Di Laurentis. Just me.”

You’re staring at him.

“And I know you have plans,” he continues. “Medical school and saving lives and all that. And I know you think I’m just going to break your heart and mess up your GPA or whatever. But I’m not asking you to change your plans. I’m just asking for a chance to be part of them.”

“Dean-”

“I know. You want to just be friends. And if that’s all you can give me, I’ll take it. But you asked why I’m doing this, and that’s why. Because you’re worth it.”

The silence that follows is the longest of Dean’s life.

Then you unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Your lip,” you say.

“What about it?”

“I said no kissing for a week.”

“You did say that.”

“So this is a terrible idea.”

“Probably.”

“It could get infected.”

“I’ll risk it.”

You lean across the console, and Dean stops breathing.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you whisper, your lips inches from his.

“Okay,” he whispers back.

“We’re still just friends.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I mean it, Dean. This is-”

He kisses you.

Or you kiss him.

Honestly, he’s not sure who moves first, but suddenly your hand is in his hair and his hand is on your waist and you taste like mint chapstick and something sweet and he never wants to stop.

You pull back after a moment, breathing hard.

“Your lip,” you gasp.

“Don’t care.”

“It’s going to start bleeding again.”

“Still don’t care.”

You kiss him again, softer this time, mindful of the injury. It’s gentle and sweet and somehow more intense than anything Dean’s ever felt.

When you finally pull away, you’re both flushed.

“I should go,” you say, not moving.

“Probably.”

“Maggie’s waiting.”

“Definitely.”

Neither of you moves.

“This was a one-time thing,” you say.

“Sure.”

“I’m serious, Dean. This doesn’t change anything.”

“Of course not.”

“Stop smiling.”

“Can’t help it.”

You kiss him one more time, quick and impulsive, then scramble out of the car before he can pull you back.

“Ice your lip!” You call back. “And text me if anything changes!”

“Yes, doctor,” he calls after you.

He watches you disappear into your dorm, probably to face Maggie’s interrogation. Then he touches his lip — which is definitely bleeding again — and grins so wide it hurts.

Worth it.

Completely, absolutely worth it.

His phone buzzes.

Garrett: so did your insane plan work?

Dean: better than i could have imagined

Garrett: you’re an idiot

Dean: yeah but I’m an idiot who just kissed y/n

Garrett: WHAT

Tucker: WHAT

Logan: FINALLY

Dean’s still grinning when he drives home, still grinning when he gets into bed, still grinning when he finally falls asleep.

And in your dorm room, you’re lying in bed, fingers touching your lips, trying to convince yourself that this was a mistake.

Trying.

Failing.

“So,” Maggie says from her bed. “Just friends, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s what I thought.”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy replaying the kiss in your mind. The way Dean looked at you. The way he said you were worth it.

The way you’re starting to think he might be worth it too.

Your phone buzzes.

Dean: for the record, that was the best worst idea you’ve ever had

You: I told you it was a terrible idea

Dean: terrible ideas are my specialty

You: I’ve noticed

Dean: so … still friends?

You stare at the message for a long time.

You: we’ll see

Dean: i’ll take it

Dean: sweet dreams, friend

You: goodnight Dean

You put your phone on your nightstand and stare at the ceiling.

What have you gotten yourself into?

And why does it feel so much like exactly where you’re supposed to be?

***

The shift from library to living room happens gradually.

First, it’s just one Tuesday when the library’s too crowded and Dean suggests his place. “It’ll be quieter,” he says, which is a lie because Tucker and Logan are playing video games at top volume, but his room is quiet, and you get more done than you have in weeks.

Then it becomes a regular thing. Tuesdays and Thursdays at The Boy’s House, sprawled across Dean’s bed with textbooks scattered around you, his desk chair pulled close so he can see your notes.

“This is dangerous,” Maggie says when you tell her.

“We’re studying.”

“In his bedroom.”

“It’s more comfortable than the library.”

“Uh huh. And how long before ‘studying’ becomes something else?”

“We’re taking things slow,” you say, which is true. Since the kiss in his car three weeks ago, there’s been more kissing. A lot more kissing. But always with boundaries. Always with you pulling back when things get too intense, and Dean letting you, patient in a way you didn’t know he was capable of being.

“You’re falling for him,” Maggie observes.

“I’m not falling for anyone. I’m focused on my goals.”

“You can do both, you know.”

“Can I?”

Maggie just looks at you, and you don’t have an answer.

***

Dean’s failing at the whole “just friends” thing spectacularly.

“You’ve got it bad,” Garrett says, watching Dean reorganize his desk for the third time. You’re coming over in twenty minutes, and he’s acting like the President is visiting.

“I’m just cleaning.”

“You never clean.”

“I clean.”

“You literally have a service that comes once a month to clean because you never clean.”

Dean throws a pillow at him. “Get out of my room.”

“Gladly. This is painful to watch.” But Garrett pauses at the door. “You know you’re going to have to actually talk to her about what you are, right? This weird limbo thing can’t last forever.”

“We’re taking it slow.”

“You’re taking it glacial. And one of you is going to crack.”

Dean knows this. Feels it every time you bite your lip in concentration, every time you absently touch his arm while explaining a concept, every time you look at him like you’re trying to solve an equation that doesn’t have an answer.

But he’s trying to be good. Trying to be what you need, which apparently is a friend who kisses you sometimes but doesn’t push for more.

Even if it’s killing him.

The doorbell rings — you always ring the doorbell instead of just walking in like everyone else — and Dean takes the stairs two at a time.

You’re standing on the porch in leggings and an oversized sweater, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair in a messy bun. You’re not wearing makeup. You look tired.

You look perfect.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey.” He steps aside to let you in. “Rough day?”

“Organic chem exam. I think I aced it, but my brain feels like mush.”

“Want to reschedule?”

“No, I need to focus on something else or I’ll obsess over every answer.” You’re already heading up the stairs to his room, comfortable now in a way that makes his chest tight. “Please tell me you have coffee.”

“Made a fresh batch ten minutes ago.”

“You’re a saint.”

“I’m really not,” he mutters, following you up.

***

Two hours later, you’ve made significant progress on Dean’s Business Finance case study and your Healthcare Economics paper. You’ve also consumed an entire pot of coffee and are now lying across Dean’s bed on your stomach, ankles crossed in the air, reading an article on your laptop.

Dean’s at his desk, supposedly working on his own assignment, but mostly just watching you. The way you scrunch your nose when you read something confusing. The way you absently twist a strand of hair around your finger. The way you’ve made yourself completely at home in his space.

“I can feel you staring,” you say without looking up.

“Can’t help it. You’re very watchable.”

“That’s not a word.”

“Sure it is. I just used it.”

You finally look at him, and you’re smiling. “You’re distracting me.”

“Sorry.” He’s not sorry.

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re right, I’m not.”

You shake your head, but you’re still smiling. You go back to your article, and Dean goes back to pretending to work.

Ten minutes later, he notices you’ve stopped scrolling.

“Y/N?”

No answer.

He turns in his chair. You’ve fallen asleep, face pillowed on your arms, laptop still open beside you. Your breathing is deep and even, and there’s a small crease between your eyebrows like you’re concentrating even in sleep.

Dean stands slowly, carefully. He should wake you. Let you go home. But you look so peaceful, and he knows you’ve been running yourself ragged with classes and volunteering and somehow still making time for him.

He gently closes your laptop and sets it on his nightstand. You don’t stir.

He should really wake you.

Instead, he finds himself carefully pulling the throw blanket from the foot of his bed and draping it over you. You make a small sound, shifting slightly, and his breath catches. But you just burrow deeper into his pillow.

Dean stands there for a long moment, just watching you sleep in his bed, and something in his chest cracks wide open.

He’s in love with you.

The realization should terrify him. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t do love. He does fun and casual and uncomplicated.

But you’re none of those things, and he doesn’t care.

He’s in love with you.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

You sleep on, oblivious.

Dean grabs his spare pillow and a second blanket. He should sleep on the floor. Or in the living room. But the thought of being away from you, even just downstairs, is impossible.

So he lies down on top of his covers, careful not to jostle you, keeping a respectful distance.

He’ll just close his eyes for a minute.

Just a minute.

***

You wake up warm.

That’s the first thing you register. Warm and comfortable and-

Your eyes fly open.

Dean’s bedroom. Dean’s bed. And Dean is-

Oh god.

Sometime in the night, you’ve migrated together. Your back is pressed against his chest, his arm is wrapped around your waist, and his face is buried in your hair. You can feel his breath on your neck, slow and steady.

He’s still asleep.

You should move. Extract yourself carefully. Pretend this never happened.

But he’s so warm, and you’re so comfortable, and when was the last time you felt this safe?

“Y’wake?” Dean’s voice is rough with sleep, and you feel it rumble through his chest.

“Yeah.”

“What time is it?”

You crane your neck to see his alarm clock. “Six thirty.”

“In the morning?”

“Yeah.”

He groans, but his arm tightens around you. “Too early.”

“I should go.”

“Why?”

“Because I fell asleep here. In your bed.”

“So?”

“So that’s not … we’re not …”

“We’re not what?” His thumb starts tracing absent circles on your hip, and you’re pretty sure he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Dean.”

“Hmm?”

“We should talk about this.”

“About what? Two friends having a sleepover?”

“Friends don’t usually sleep like this.”

“Maybe they should. It’s very comfortable.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“You say that a lot.”

“Because it’s consistently true.”

He shifts, and suddenly he’s propped up on one elbow, looking down at you. His hair is a mess, and there’s a crease on his cheek from the pillow, and he’s looking at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

“You drool when you sleep.”

“I do not!” You swat at him, but he catches your hand.

“Okay, you don’t. But you do make these little snoring sounds.”

“I don’t snore!”

“They’re cute. Everything about you is cute.”

Your heart does that annoying flutter thing. “Dean-”

“I know. Taking it slow. Being patient. I’m being good.”

“Are you?”

“I’m trying.” His eyes drop to your lips. “It’s really hard when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to kiss me.”

“I-” You stop. Because he’s right. You do want to kiss him. You want to do more than kiss him. You’ve been wanting to for weeks now, and the wanting is starting to override the carefully logical reasons you’ve built up for why this is a bad idea.

“Can I kiss you?” Dean asks, and his voice is soft. Careful.

“We’re in your bed.”

“I noticed.”

“If we start kissing in your bed, it’s going to lead to other things.”

“Not if you don’t want it to.”

“That’s the problem. I’m starting to think I do want it to.”

Dean goes very still. “Y/N-”

“I should go,” you say quickly, sitting up. “I have a class at nine and I need to shower and-”

“Hey.” He catches your hand again. “Don’t run.”

“I’m not running.”

“You’re definitely running.” But he lets go, giving you space. “I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

The drive back to your dorm is quiet. Not uncomfortable, just weighted. Like you’re both thinking the same thing but neither of you knows how to say it.

When he pulls up to your building, you unbuckle your seatbelt but don’t get out.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Last night … it was really nice.”

He turns to look at you, and something in his expression makes your breath catch. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You lean over and kiss him, quick and soft. “I’ll see you Thursday?”

“Thursday,” he confirms.

You make it halfway to the door before he calls your name.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“You can fall asleep in my bed anytime you want.”

You smile. “Good to know.”

And you definitely don’t spend the entire day thinking about the way he held you. The way you fit together. The way you’ve never felt safer than you did waking up in his arms.

Definitely not.

***

Thursday becomes a repeat of Tuesday. You study, you talk, you laugh. And when you start to fade around eleven, Dean just hands you a t-shirt.

“You can’t sleep in jeans,” he says. “They’re not comfortable.”

“Dean-”

“I’ll turn around. I promise.”

He does, facing the wall while you change quickly, and when you climb into his bed wearing his shirt and your underwear, he doesn’t comment. Just lies down on top of the covers again, maintaining that careful distance.

Until you wake up tangled together anyway.

It becomes a routine. Study sessions that run late. You, falling asleep in his bed. Dean, sleeping above the covers. Both of you waking up intertwined.

“This is ridiculous,” you say one morning, still wrapped in his arms. “You’re sleeping on top of the covers.”

“I’m being respectful.”

“You’re being uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine.”

“Dean.” You turn to face him. “Just get under the covers. We’re going to end up cuddling anyway.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

That night, when you start to fade, Dean just lifts the covers.

“Come here,” he says, and you do.

You fit against him like you were designed for it. His arm around your waist, your head on his chest, legs tangled together.

“This okay?” He murmurs into your hair.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “This is okay.”

And it is. It’s more than okay.

It’s perfect.

THE UNBOWED

The first time you sailed into King’s Landing, the city emerged from the morning mist; red towers standing proudly above all else, making you feel so small in comparison.

You had come by ship for the voyage was far quicker by sea but it was not any less lonely. You were supposed to be accompanied by your cousins – daughters of Prince Maron. However, they had fallen ill with fever shortly before departure and the maester, cautious as ever, insisted they remain behind. 

Both of your cousins were devastated, meanwhile you felt a little lost and unsure. As a Dornish Princess who had never been to King’s Landing, you had a feeling that you would find yourself in a place that was completely different from what you were used to. And you were anxious about failing to fit in.

Your father was the youngest sibling of Queen Myriah and Prince Maron and you were his only daughter who had recently turned twenty years old. You had a feeling that this whole trip had been planned for you and your cousins to find husbands from Westeros. Perhaps King Daeron had to do something with this as well because he hoped to strengthen the alliance between Dorne and the rest of the Kingdom even further.

The excuse for your invitation was Queen Myriah’s name day that was supposed to be celebrated exceptionally grand. For that occasion, you had been gifted with the most beautiful Dornish gowns from your grandsire. Although calling them gowns was an overstatement, you realised as you stepped out of the ship and all the people were staring at you.

You fixed the thin fabric around your breasts as if it would help. Even though King’s Landing was also quite warm, no woman there was wearing a dress as revealing as yours. You blinked a few times, feeling their burning gaze.

“Princess?” The knight sent to guard you extended his hand towards you. “The carriage is waiting, Princess.”

You nodded at him and took his hand. At least his eyes were kind because they were trained to remain as such around a Lady.

Aunt Myriah was the one to greet you. She didn’t say anything about your dress but she was dressed much more modestly herself and her gown was made of Targaryen colours, which was something that made you feel quite sad. However, you decided not to bring this up. Of course she still remained a Dornish beauty but you were standing out with your outfit without any ally by your side. If only your cousins were there… You’d feel more powerful in a pack.

The Queen hugged you and walked you around her part of the castle but then she was being called upon and she left you alone to wander on your own. So you did, staring at the paintings on the wall. Below you, at the courtyard, two men were practising their sword skills.

The fierce one had silver hair and you wondered if he was one of your cousins. The other one was more plain looking. He had dark hair and he reminded you a bit of the men back in Dorne. His fighting style was calmer and more precise but not any worse than the other man’s.

You watched curiously as you looked down while leaning on one of the pillars when a young woman approached you while looking you up and down. You glanced at her. She was pretty; with curly ginger hair and piercing blue eyes.

“Who are you?” She asked, unsurely. The question sounded nearly like an accusal and you wondered if she had taken you for a whore.

“I could ask the same thing,” you smirked at her, still leaning on that pillar.

“I am Lady Jena of House Dondarrion. Prince Baelor’s betrothed,” she announced, a little annoyed.

“I am Princess (Y/N) Martell. Prince Baelor’s cousin,” you explained with a shrug and her eyes widened when she realised her mistake.

“Oh! Forgive me, Princess. I knew you would be coming but I did not expect that–”

“I know,” you assured her. “I have already realised that my dresses stand out here.”

Lady Jena cracked a smile and stood next to you as she looked down.

“I do wonder which one will win,” she changed the subject. Her eyes were full of admiration as she stared at the dark-haired man. You assumed he was your cousin Baelor.

“Which one usually does?” You inquired.

“Maekar, he is very strong. But also fussy, therefore Baelor often lets him win just to please his brother. He is very kind-hearted, my Prince,” Lady Jena explained to you.

“Is your union a love match?” You asked. She blushed, finding your question very straightforward. But you were from Dorne and you didn’t find anything wrong with this.

“Not really, no. It was an arrangement,” she explained. “But it is impossible not to adore him. Oh, look! He won!” She clapped her hands and you looked down.

The silver haired man – your cousin Maekar – was laying on the ground now. He was cursing and his brother laughed. At the sound of the clapping, he looked up. His face softened at the sight of Lady Jena and then his mismatched eyes found yours.

You held your breath. 

By the dining table you were sitting next to your Aunt. You asked her about Lady Jena. Apparently the betrothal between her and the Prince was not yet official. She was Queen Myriah’s lady-in-waiting.

“You could be my lady-in-waiting as well, sweet (Y/N),” your Aunt smiled at you. “Would you like that?”

“I am honoured, Your Grace,” you nodded. “But allow me to decide after I spend some time here. I am not yet sure if I would be able to feel at home here.”

“Of course, take your time,” she nodded.

King Daeron was asking you many questions about Dorne and about his sister who was your Uncle’s wife. You were more than glad to answer all his questions.

You were glancing at your cousins throughout the dinner. The youngest, Maekar, was still grumpy. You wondered if it was because of the duel with his brother or was it truly his nature.

The two in the middle seemed to live in their own world. One of them had a book on his lap he was reading throughout the meal. His name was Aerys.

The eldest – Prince Baelor – was smiling at you and you were smiling back, shyly.

After the meal, he approached you and you bowed your head.

“My Prince,” you greeted him.

“Please, spare the courtesy. We share the same blood,” he held your hand and leaned in to place a kiss on the back of it.

“Cousin,” you fixed yourself and he smiled.

“That’s better,” he teased. “It is a shame my other cousins could not come from Dorne.”

“A shame indeed. However, their health is the most important.”

“Of course,” Baelor nodded. “Are you excited for my mother’s name day? We are planning a small tournament.”

“I love tournaments,” you nodded.

“It brings me joy to see you here, truly,” Baelor’s smile widened. “You brought the Dornish smile with you, cousin.”

“You are way too kind,” you chuckled nervously and approached Maekar next. He was standing around and pretending he did not care about you but if it was true, he would have left the room already like Aerys and Rhaegel. “Cousin?” You smiled at him.

“Princess,” Maekar looked you up and down. “Are you not too cold?”

“Indeed, it does feel a bit chilly when you happen to be around,” you answered, hearing Baelor snort with laughter behind you. Maekar clenched his jaw and rolled his eyes.

“Either way, it is nice to meet you,” the Prince bowed his head.

“The pleasure is mine,” you smiled at him. 

“Forgive me, my brother is very straightforward," Baelor whispered.

“That is quite alright. I like that about people,” you admitted.

You could feel her eyes on you. Lady Dondarrion. She was gritting her teeth as she kept following you around the Keep.

Her betrothal to the Prince was supposed to be announced after the Queen’s name day so your aunt’s spotlight wouldn’t be stolen by her son’s announcement. Lady Jena had every right to call herself his betrothed already, though. The marriage contract was already prepared by her Lord Father and the King.

You didn’t understand why she felt the need to follow you around. After all, Prince Baelor was hers. And the fact he was spending most of his time with you was simply caused by the fact that you two were cousins who wanted to get to know each other more.

He loved to listen to your stories of Dorne. He promised to visit one day soon. And he was probably the only person – except for your Aunt – who was not looking at your revealing dresses with contempt. In fact, he would tell you every day that you looked beautiful.

You watched him train every day as you followed his every move with your eyes, smiling to yourself. He was an exquisite knight.

“Not many princelings and heirs to the throne are actually good knights,” you teased him.

“I am only what is expected of me,” he would answer with a slight blush, humble as ever.

You couldn’t help it but your heart was beating faster at the sight of him. The soothing sound of his voice was bringing heat to your cheeks and you were beaming with pride whenever you managed to make him laugh. A chill would travel down your spine whenever he wrapped his arm around your elbow to lead you somewhere. 

Still. He was not yours. And Lady Jena did not have to worry about the loyalty of a man as honourable as him.

In the meantime, your Aunt was introducing you to a lot of noble Lords and knights around the castle, only proving your suspicion that you had been sent to her to find a match. 

Some of them were handsome, some of them were rich, some of them were very kind despite their judging looks caused by your outfits. You were nice to them but in your head you kept comparing them to your cousin Baelor and none of them was even half as good.

“Why was Lady Dondarrion chosen for Baelor?” You asked your Aunt one evening when you were alone with her in her chambers, brushing her hair.

“We are trying to bring the realm together with marriages. Your uncle has already brought Dorne to the kingdom, now other houses wait for their alliances with the Targaryens,” she explained. “Many people are not happy with them on the throne so we seek alliances. Also, the Dondarrions are enemies of the Martells, do you remember? That means dealing with two birds with one stone.”

“I see,” you hummed to yourself. “I have also noticed the King is not so fond of marrying within the family.”

“Daeron prefers to extend his influence through royal marriages,” Queen Myriah told you. “Why are you asking?”

“Just curious,” you shrugged.

You loved the gardens because they reminded you of home and you liked to hide between the rose bushes while you sunbathed and listened to the people walking around, unaware of your presence. You had learned a lot of gossip this way. 

That day was no exception. You had already heard two knights confessing their love for one another – something not shocking at all for a Dornish woman. Still, it felt good to know their sweet little secret.

As you watched the clouds pass you by, feeling the sun warming your skin and smelling the roses, you felt pretty content. You began to seriously consider Queen Myriah’s proposal to stay here as her lady-in-waiting.

“Have you been invited to talk to her?” A young man’s voice interrupted you. You furrowed your brows. You recognised that voice. It belonged to one of the Lords you had been introduced to.

“Thankfully not yet and I hope I will not be. I believe they decided I was not worthy of her time,” another man snorted. “You were invited, though. How was it?”

“Boring,” the first man answered. You realised it was Lord Clegane.

“Can you even imagine if I took her home to my father? He would think I brought a whore from an Essosi brothel,” he laughed and the other man followed.

“Do you think she is a maiden? I highly doubt that. I have heard they don’t care about those things in Dorne,” the other man asked.

Your heart skipped a beat when you had your confirmation that the conversation was about you.

“Well, if she is not, I would not mind to bed her. But I would be a fool to marry her. Good luck to the King if he truly wishes to marry her off,” Lord Clegane chuckled cruelly and they both walked away.

You sat up as tears filled your eyes. It felt humiliating to find out that you were an object of such cruel gossip amongst the men. Perhaps the Red Keep would never be your home and it would be for the better to go back to Dorne as soon as the name day’s celebrations would end.

You waited a moment to make sure they would not see you and you walked out of the bushes onto the main path to hurry back to the castle. On the way to your chambers, you bumped into Baelor and Lady Jena walking together.

The sight of them being so close felt like another slap. You glanced at her with envy; her beautiful face, her proud posture, her elegant gown. She was a proper Westerosi Lady and you were nothing but an outsider; a stranger.

“Princess? Is everything alright?” Baelor asked, his voice full of worry at the sight of your face and dried out tears upon your cheeks.

“I am quite fine, thank you, cousin,” you mumbled out and walked away as fast as possible.

The celebrations were supposed to start on the next day and you found your solitude in the gardens again. While other ladies fussed about their dresses, you focused on creating a wreath. Your fingers worked delicately as your eyes focused on picking the most beautiful flowers.

To your surprise, Prince Maekar joined you while he sat next to you and watched the movement of your hands with a grumpy expression on his face.

“Why are you here all alone?” He inquired.

“Lady Jena made sure I have no friends amongst your mother’s ladies-in-waiting. Besides, I prefer it this way,” you shrugged.

“And what are you doing exactly?” He asked.

“A wreath, can you not see, cousin?” You smirked to yourself.

“What for?”

“It will be a favour I shall give to a knight of my choice on the morrow,” you explained.

“Who will that be?” Maekar scoffed, squinting his bright Targaryen eyes at you.

You finally looked up at him as the warm breeze brushed your hair. His face softened a little at the sight.

“You,” you said, quietly.

Of course you wished it was for someone else but you knew he was not yours. You wanted to make something nice for Maekar because he probably would not receive any favours or so your Aunt had told you.

“Me?” Maekar chuckled nervously. “Gods, why?”

“Perhaps out of pity,” you teased him and he laughed again.

“Give it to the one you truly care for,” he lowered his voice as his face became serious. Your heart skipped a beat.

“I have no idea what you’re implying,” you lied.

“Yes, you do. There are many things that can be said about you but not that you are stupid,” Maekar insisted as you looked down at the wreath between your fingers. “I shall go now. I wouldn’t want Baelor to see us together like this.”

“Why?” You asked, furrowing your brows.

“You know why,” was all he replied before walking away.

You looked up to watch him leave and then you spotted Baelor standing a few paths away. He was staring at you and his brother with his hands clasped behind his back. You waved at him shyly with a smile and he nodded his head before walking away as well.

You sighed.

You were sitting in the royal box by your Aunt’s side. King Daeron was sitting on her other side and you were all waiting for the tournament to begin. Prince Aerys was next to you but he was reading a book instead of watching. You found it a bit adorable in a way as you teased him from time to time by covering the words on the page he was reading.

Your jesting was only to hide your nervousness, though. Your hands were sweaty as you played with the wreath of flowers in your hands. 

“As my guest and the most important Lady at court after me, you will be the one to offer your favour,” Queen Myriah whispered to you with a smile.

“Everyone will be staring at me,” you sighed.

“As they should. You’re a Dornish flower and you should be proud of it,” she encouraged you.

“They stare and they judge.”

“I have survived it, too,” she reminded you, gently.

“You adjusted yourself to their customs, Your Grace,” you glanced at her elegant and humble gown.

“Some days I regret it. When I look at you, for example,” Queen Myriah fixed your hair strand. “You make me feel so homesick, my sweet.”

You eventually cracked a smile at her.

“It is time for Princess (Y/N),” King Daeron whispered and you nodded before standing up and approaching the railing.

A dozen knights on their horses were standing below you in a line. You extended your hand with the wreath and hesitated, swallowing thickly.

Maekar’s bright eyes caught yours and you tilted your head at him. He nodded gently as he glanced at his brother. You took a deep breath in.

You knew it was improper. You had seen Lady Jena earlier on that day bragging about the new silk ribbon she had been planning to give to her betrothed.

But their engagement was not yet announced and you had your privilege as the Princess of Dorne and the royal guest.

“Cousin,” you looked at Baelor. He seemed to be a bit surprised but he smiled. “May you receive my favour,” you threw the wreath down and he caught it with his lance.

“Princess,” he bowed his head.

As you went back to your seat, you could feel Lady Jena’s burning gaze on you from the box nearby. You ignored it and sat down next to your Aunt.

Both her and the King were glancing at you as well, so you pretended to find something interesting in Aerys’ book to ask him about it.

The tournament was supposed to take two days. At the end of the first one, Baelor was the only knight who had won every single joust, which placed him at the top of the lists. 

You were on your way to your chambers in the evening when you heard raised voices coming from Queen Myriah’s room. The doors were ajar and you spotted Lady Jena gesticulating with her face flushed.

“I felt disrespected, Your Grace!” She exclaimed.

“I am sure my niece did not mean anything wrong,” the Queen explained and you felt nauseous in an instant as you realised the argument was about you.

Without thinking twice, you pushed the door open as you cleared your throat. Everyone turned around to look at you and your cheeks burnt at the sight of more people than you had expected. Queen Myriah and Aunt Jena were there, yes. But also King Daeron, Lord and Lady Dondarrion, Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar. 

Lady Jena gave you a hateful glance as she squeezed the ribbon she was holding even tighter. It was the very same she had wanted to give to Baelor but ended up giving to none to show off her loyalty.

“I could not help but overhear,” you explained. “I wish to be present when my person is being discussed.”

“Of course, my dear, come join us,” Queen Myriah nodded and you stood by her side. “Lady Jena here believes you gave your favour to Baelor just to spite her.”

“That is nonsense,” you shook your head. “I am a Princess of Dorne, I give my favours to whomever I wish,” you answered and Lady Jena scoffed.

Oh, now you truly wanted to spite her. And so you did.

“I could give my favour even to Lady Jena’s Lord Father if I wished to do so,” you smirked.

Maekar chuckled proudly but Lady Jena and her mother turned crimson red while Lord Dondarrion gasped. Queen Myriah sighed and so did King Daeron. Baelor remained quiet, watching the scene unfolding in front of his mismatched eyes.

“This is outrageous!” Lady Jena spat out.

“Please, let us calm down,” Baelor finally spoke up. “The engagement is not yet announced, so there is no scandal. It is socially acceptable to receive a favour from a cousin.”

“Then announce it! Announce the engagement!” Lady Jena insisted. “How long do I have to wait?!”

“Jena, we have an arrangement–” her father tried to reason with her.

“Very well then,” Queen Myriah interrupted him. Everyone looked at her. “I know it is my name day’s celebration but I do not mind sharing the spotlight with my eldest son. It is no secret he most likely will become a victor. We will announce that the woman he chooses to crown as The Queen of Love and Beauty will be his betrothed.”

“I like the idea,” King Daeron nodded. “It will look nearly spontaneous and very romantic. The smallfolk will adore this tale. It is much better than an announcement of an arranged union.”

“That is so generous,” Lady Dondarrion bowed her head at the Queen. “Darling, are you content now?” She asked her daughter.

But Lady Jena was not sure about it. She was breathing heavily while looking at you angrily. She squinted her eyes.

“I am,” she nodded, her piercing blue eyes still upon you. “However, I am still not convinced about the Princess’ intentions.”

“That is an accusation!” You defended yourself.

“You have given me plenty of reasons to accuse you!” Lady Jena insisted.

“Oh, have I? Why so? Because I am from Dorne?!” You snapped at her.

“Well… Yes!” Lady Jena raised her voice and everyone went silent in an instant.

The Dondarrions gasped as all heads turned to glance at your Aunt. She blushed slightly but her warm eyes turned unusually cold. Her greying hair and a humble dress with the Targaryen sigil embroidered on her chest made it so easy to forget that she was a daughter of Dorne as well.

“F-forgive me,” Lady Jena looked down.

“I think it will be best if we all go to sleep now,” King Daeron clapped his hands and everyone agreed as they bowed their heads at him and the Queen.

Lady Jena left the room first, accompanied by her parents in a hurry. Maekar left after them and then you did as well.

You felt Baelor walking behind you. You were left alone in the hall when the heavy doors closed behind him.

You sighed.

“I am the reason behind all this mess, I am so sorry. I did not mean to,” you turned your head around to look at his face. You expected him to be stern but his expression remained soft as ever when he was looking at you.

“You are not to be blamed,” he assured you and put his hands on your bare shoulders, revealed by your Dornish dress. A chill travelled down your body and straight to your core, especially when the cold metal of the rings on his fingers brushed your hot skin. “You are simply being yourself,” he whispered. “Unapologetically… So do not be sorry. It is unlike you to be.”

“I am a Martell,” you chuckled, nervously.

“Do not forget that so am I,” he leaned in to whisper right into your ear before letting go of your shoulders and walking away.

Whatever it meant what he had just said, it made you feel dizzy. You had to snap out of it, though. On the morrow his engagement to Lady Jena would be announced.

You went to your chambers with a heart so heavy in your chest that you nearly collapsed halfway there.

The last joust took place between Baelor and Maekar as everyone watched while holding their breaths.

To you, it would not make a big difference. Perhaps a small part of you hoped Maekar would win so Baelor wouldn’t become a champion and his romantic betrothal to Lady Jena would not take place like it had been planned. You could see her sitting in a box nearby; her knuckles turned white from clenching her fists out of stress. 

You studied her profile as your heart twisted inside your chest. She was so beautiful and noble. So were you, of course, but in a Dornish way. And you were in King’s Landing, not at Sunspear. Your type of beauty was nearly invasive here.

Already accepting your defeat, you decided to hide behind what was known to you. Unapologetically yourself, as Baelor had called you, you had chosen the most Dornish outfit possible this morning. The orange fabric of your dress was thin and flowy, dancing in the slight breeze. Not only your shoulders and a good part of your back were revealed but even your navel decorated with a golden chain was visible through an extremely sheer chiffon covering your belly. Delicate golden chains were also in your hair, clinging whenever you moved your head. 

You were sure that all those people were thinking that you were making a spectacle of yourself. And they were right. It was your armour so all they could see was a proud Dornish Princess instead of a hurt and heartbroken young woman forced to watch the man she loved choosing another.

Sudden outburst of enthusiasm from the crowd brought you back to reality. You turned your head away from Lady Jena’s profile as you stood up and clapped like all the rest. You looked down and spotted angry Maekar clumsily standing up from the ground as his older brother was smiling triumphally and bowing his head at the cheering crowd. 

The King raised his hand to silence everyone as Baelor’s squire approached him while holding a beautifully decorated wreath made of flowers and jewels. It was no ordinary crown for The Queen of Love and Beauty. It was a proper diadem and you held your breath, bracing yourself for what was to come.

“I wish to congratulate both of my sons. You have fought well,” King Daeron announced. “Prince Baelor remains the champion, however,” he added and people cheered once more. “To celebrate this victory and the Queen’s name day, my son wishes to make his Lady Mother delighted and choose a bride for himself.”

The crowd gasped at first and then they clapped even louder as they whistled. You smiled to yourself. Baelor was truly loved by them and you could not blame them.

You looked at Lady Jena again. She was blushing already, nearly jumping out of her seat. And you had to admit, as you smiled sadly, that she would make an excellent Queen by your cousin’s side.

Baelor took the crown from his squire’s hands as he approached the boxes on his horse to be able to reach higher. The crowd held their breaths while the King and Queen were staring at their eldest son lovingly.

Baelor’s horse passed the box in which Lady Jena was sitting and he stopped right in front of the royal one. His mismatched eyes found yours as nausea hit you in an instant.

Why was he doing this? Why was he teasing you so? You had not taught him so cruel.

“Princess (Y/N) Nymeros Martell of Dorne,” he started as everyone – including you – froze in disbelief, “in the sight of the old gods and the new, I crown you Queen of Love and Beauty.”

The silence was heavy but Baelor did not seem to care. He extended his hand with the diadem towards you. Your cheeks were burning and you felt so dizzy that you nearly fainted when you approached the railing. Everyone was staring at you. 

Some eyes were shocked, some were curious, some angry and offended. But his eyes – his beautiful mismatched eyes – they were staring at you with nothing but love and devotion.

And because of that, you decided to ignore the rest of the world just like he was doing at the moment. He risked everything for you, therefore you could not turn away now. You gently took the crown from his hand and carefully placed it upon your head, making sure the chains in your hair wouldn’t tangle or break.

“You honour me, my Prince,” you managed to breathe out. Baelor smiled widely at the sight.

Maekar was the first one to break the silence of the crowd as he started to clap his hands as loudly as he was able to. The rest followed him, awkwardly and shyly until they eventually cheered for their Prince and his new betrothed.

Lady Jena gasped and sobbed, leaving her box in a hurry with her offended and outraged parents.

But you were only staring at him and he was only staring at you as if nothing else existed; as if the whole world was yours. Because even if the consequences would be severe, Baelor was not going to give up on this. He had been following his father’s advice and orders his whole life dutifully and loyally.

But this one thing he wanted to decide for himself.

“Why?” Was all King Daeron asked his son. He was visibly disappointed and hurt that his chivalrous son had done something like this in front of the whole Realm.

“No one knows the marriage contract between Lady Jena and I had been prepared already. There was merely gossip she had been spreading herself. No one thinks it is a scandal,” Baelor explained, calmly.

“The Dondarrions will make sure the whole Realm knows the backstory,” Daeron pointed out and pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed. 

“We will find a way out of this. We will offer them something else,” Baelor said. “Father… I could not… Especially after last night. How could I marry a woman who spoke such things about my mother and her family?”

“I understand,” Daeron sighed. “But… (Y/N) is your cousin. Your marriage could create a powerful union and yet you chose to mix your own blood.”

“It does create a powerful union. It strengthens the alliance with Dorne,” Baelor smiled. “After having not one but two Queens on the throne, the Martells will never rebel against us.”

“Of course. But the rest might complain about us favouring them.”

“I will make sure my children will not marry in Dorne, I promise,” Baelor assured, already feeling his heart beating faster at the mention of his possible children with you.

“You cannot promise that. If your children are truly yours, then no one will be able to tell them what to do,” Daeron finally chuckled. “Why her, though? Why Princess (Y/N)?”

“She is strong yet gentle. Stubborn and brave yet delicate when no one’s looking. But I am looking. I have been looking very carefully those past few weeks,” Baelor explained. “And… I love the dresses,” he teased as his father sighed.

“And who is that?” Dunk asked as he stared at the young Targaryen knight by his tent. He had short dark hair with one silver streak and a pair of mismatched eyes like his father but Duncan could not see that from afar.

There was a woman standing next to him, she had a red flowy dress that stood out amongst other noble women. She was holding a helmet under her arm and fixing the young knight’s hair.

“It is Prince Valarr, the eldest son of Prince Baelor, second in line to the Iron Throne,” Egg explained.

“And the woman?”

“The woman is his mother, Princess (Y/N) Martell,” Egg said and Dunk swallowed thickly as he squinted his eyes to see her better. He should have known that. After all, everyone knew Prince Baelor’s wife was from Dorne. “Prince Valarr is a mummy’s boy,” Egg giggled.

Princess (Y/N) finished fixing her son’s hair and kissed his forehead before watching him mount his horse. Then, she handed him his helmet.

“She is as beautiful as they say,” Duncan mumbled out as Egg smirked.

“Yes, she is. They call her The Unbowed,” the boy told him.

Duncan nodded as he watched her walk away from her son’s tent. She went to the royal box to take a seat next to her husband as they watched their firstborn joust. 

Dunk spotted that the Prince and the Princess were holding hands.

The locker room buzzed with low voices and nervous energy. Players paced, adjusted gloves, tightened goggles, cracked knuckles. The scent of polish, sweat, and adrenaline filled the air. Green and silver glinted off every surface, and somewhere above, the distant roar of the crowd was beginning to rise.

You stood in front of your team, arms crossed over your chest, chin held high, calm as ever.

And when you spoke, the room snapped to attention.

"Alright. Listen up."

Voices cut off immediately. All eyes turned to you.

“You hit hard. You fly clean. No stunts unless I call them. You’ve worked your asses off for weeks—rain, snow, bruises, broken brooms—and today, it pays off.”

You paced slowly, gaze locking with your Beaters, your Chasers, your Keeper. One by one. Like loading a weapon.

“We’re going to show them—without a single inch of doubt—who’s taking the Quidditch Cup home this year.”

You let that hang, the tension curling in your teammates’ shoulders like springs wound tight.

Then your voice dropped, sharp and cutting:

"We're going to send those bleeding badgers crying back to their mummies."

That broke the tension. Laughter and jeers rippled through the room, players bumping shoulders, fists meeting palms with dull thuds of anticipation.

You smirked.

Held out your hand.

“Let’s turn those badgers black and blue.”

One by one, gloves slammed down over yours.

“Slytherin!”

You were carried into the infirmary without protest by Mulciber, allowing him to gently lower you onto the bed. Without saying much else, you interlaced your fingers neatly over your lap, settling in as you waited for Madam Pomfrey to arrive.

She seemed preoccupied with the other beds, where four more occupants were already receiving care.

“Nasty fall, (L/N)?” Potter’s voice broke through the quiet, a teasing edge to it, “Would hate for you to miss out on Quidditch for the rest of the season.”

You smirked, “You’d love that, wouldn’t you, Potter? But sadly, no—just caught a nasty Bludger to the side when I grabbed the Snitch. So, I guess you Lions have no choice but to lose to us eventually.”

Your eyes flicked past him to the bed beside where Remus Lupin lay, looking far worse off than the rest of the Marauders—pale and sweaty, with Madam Pomfrey fussing over him. Without realizing, your lips pouted, curiosity flickering as you wondered what had gone wrong to land all four of them in the hospital wing.

Before you could study his wounds more closely, your line of sight was blocked by another presence.

Black.

Compared to the others, he looked almost unharmed, hands on his hips as he stared down at you with a cocky smirk.

“You haven’t given me an ounce of your attention, princess,” He said, voice dripping with amusement, “Only bantering with my best mate and mooning at Moony. Should I be offended?”

“Wasn’t aware I owed you my attention, Black.”

His grin widened. Typical.

It wasn’t the first time your sharp tongue had reeled him in like this, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Sirius Black didn’t know how to leave well enough alone—and you had no intention of making it easy for him.

Merlin, he lived for it.

Before he could come up with something clever in return, Madam Pomfrey appeared at your side with a soft cluck of her tongue and a no-nonsense look in her eyes.

“Caught a Bludger, did you?” She muttered, her tone clipped as she summoned a vial and some bandages from a nearby shelf, “You lot play like it’s war.”

“I think anyone can admire the dedication to the game, Madam Pomfrey.” You replied mildly.

“Not when it might break your ribs, Miss (L/N).” She snapped.

Then, more gently, “Lift your shirt. Let’s see the damage.”

You didn’t hesitate—casually unbuttoning the lower half of your Quidditch jersey and lifting your shirt just enough to reveal the mottled bruise blooming along your side. It was ugly—deep and dark with angry purple edges, already beginning to swell.

His eyes darted instinctively toward the injury, then immediately away—head turning sharply to the side, jaw tight. His entire body went rigid, as if even the suggestion of your bare skin had turned his brain to static.

You smirked, voice syrup-sweet, “What’s the matter, Black? Shy?”

“I’m many things,” He muttered, ears tinged faintly red, “but I am trying to be respectful. For once.”

Your eyes flicked to him just once. He was still looking away—but his jaw was tight, his shoulders tense, and you could feel the heat of his focus even if it wasn’t on your bare skin anymore.

When Pomfrey finally stepped back, she wiped her hands briskly on her apron and nodded, “You’ll bruise badly, but the swelling will ease by morning. Try not to exacerbate it for the time being."

"Understood. Thank you." You replied, voice even.

You slid off the edge of the bed with fluid grace, smoothing your jersey back into place with a flick of your fingers.

You nodded once toward her retreating form in quiet thanks, then turned to go.

You were hardly surprised when Sirius followed you out.

After weeks of this little push and pull—this dangerous game you’d both been playing—you weren’t even remotely surprised that he’d finally snapped the leash you’d had so delicately wrapped around his neck.

So now, here you were. Back pressed to the cold, rough stone of a quiet Hogwarts corridor, Sirius’s arms caging you in like he was the predator in this scenario.

But the truth was clear.

You were the one in control.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. You just blinked at him—slow, deliberate, almost lazy. And though your expression was frustratingly unreadable, there was something ghosting over your lips that drove him mad. A smirk that wasn’t a smirk. A glimmer of smugness that you refused to make obvious. It was maddening. Intoxicating.

Had it been anyone else he’d backed into a wall like this, they’d have giggled, blushed, reached up to tangle their fingers in his hair with wide eyes and parted lips.

But not you.

Your hands were tucked neatly behind your back like you were entertaining a child’s tantrum, waiting for him to exhaust himself. Always poised. Always untouchable. Always in control.

And God, it was driving him insane.

What he wouldn’t give to be caught in the eye of your storm—while the world bent and broke around you, you’d remain untouched, divine. He wanted to be yours. Completely. Worshipfully. Pathetically.

“What do you say we stop pussyfooting around and go on a date, (L/N)?” He asked, his voice low and rough with the effort it took to sound casual.

At that, you smiled—finally, a real smile, sly and slow like honey sliding down a knife.

“Sorry, Black,” You said, tone sweet as poison, “I don’t think I’d be interested.”

His brow twitched. “That’s not what you’ve been signalling these past few weeks.” He muttered, leaning in—just enough to try and catch your lips with his. Only to feel your finger press firmly to his mouth, stopping him dead.

He stared at you, lips brushing your fingertip, pupils blown. His breath caught, chest rising sharply. His eyes dropped to your mouth again and he clenched his jaw tight enough to ache—because if he didn’t, he might actually whine. Might beg.

“Why not?” He asked, voice hoarse and low, barely more than a whisper now.

You tilted your head, your smile that of a cat watching a bird flutter too close to the ground.

“I’m a very jealous woman, Sirius,” You said, voice light, playful—deadly, “And I have a reputation to uphold. Can’t have you embarrassing me with all your… side chicks.”

He swallowed hard. The words hit like a slap and a caress. His brain fogged. The rush of blood thundered in his ears, and the air between you crackled.

You pouted suddenly, lips pursed in a way that made his knees threaten to buckle. And then—casually, cruelly—you reached up and gave his cheek a light pat.

“Sorry, puppy.”

And with that, you slipped out from under his arm like water through fingers, walking away without looking back.

Sirius stood frozen, throat dry, staring as your hips swayed down the corridor.

Utterly wrecked.

Something changed after that night in the corridor.

Well—he did.

Not immediately, of course. First, he sulked. Dramatically. Unproductively. For a good day and a half.

He spent most of it brooding in the Gryffindor common room, staring into the fireplace like it had personally betrayed him, ignoring three different girls who tried to sidle up beside him and ask what was wrong. (The fourth didn’t bother asking—just sat herself on his lap. That earned her a single-word dismissal and a truly withering look.)

But after that?

He changed.

The flirting stopped. The lingering touches in alcoves, the smug little smirks in the corridors, the midnight broom closet rendezvous—all gone. He stopped accepting folded notes spritzed with cheap perfume and sealed with lipstick kisses. Stopped tossing winks like knuts. Stopped acting like every hallway was a catwalk and every girl in Hogwarts his audience.

The last girl he even entertained—a sweet, overeager Hufflepuff fifth-year who tried to earn his attention by helping him with Transfiguration homework—had burst into tears when someone joked that she must have “turned him gay.”

He just wasn’t interested anymore.

Because for once in his life, Sirius Black didn’t want meaningless sex.

He wanted you.

And the castle knew it.

Even though you hadn’t spared him so much as a glance since that night in the corridor. Even though you walked past him in the Great Hall like he was furniture.

Everyone still knew.

Which meant, of course, all eyes had turned to you.

Wondering when you’d notice.

Wondering when you’d give in.

Or whether, as Sirius feared most of all…

You never would.

You loved partying.

Loved the bass so loud it rattled your ribs, the way lights flickered like spells mid-duel, the sway of bodies pressed close on the dance floor. You loved shaking ass with your friends, loved the wild screams and clinks of raised glasses. Loved the moments where you stepped back, drink in hand, watching it all unfold—cataloguing the gossip in real time. Who was kissing who. Who shouldn't be. Who’d be crying in the bathroom by midnight.

But there was a distinct difference when the party was thrown in your honor.

The moment you stepped into the Slytherin common room, the room erupted. Cheers ricocheted off the walls, your little black dress catching the green and silver lights just right, and your open jersey—your surname stitched in bold—billowed like a cape.

You’d never been prouder of that name.

Not until Remus’s voice boomed over the speakers earlier that day, full of awe:

“(L/N) has made the miraculous catch of the Snitch—Slytherin wins!”

The memory played over and over in your head as your teammates lifted you onto their shoulders, parading you through the room like the queen you were. You laughed, kissed the golden Snitch in your hand, and smudged your lipstick across it with zero shame.

The party moved on around you, wild and electric, and you eventually found yourself perched on a velvet ottoman, nursing a drink and watching the chaos unfold with your usual sharpened gaze—until the Marauders appeared.

“Good game, (L/N),” James grinned, raising his cup, “That was some mighty flying. Looking forward to beating you in the finals.”

You scoffed, but smiled, “Thanks, Potter. Though I can’t see you being this cordial when Slytherin mops the floor with you.”

Then your gaze slid to Sirius, who hadn’t spoken yet.

“I’m surprised this is the first time you’ve come over tonight, Black,” You purred, circling your finger around the rim of your glass lazily.

He grinned, wolfish and easy, “Didn’t want to be just another forgettable face in a crowd of nobodies.”

You chuckled, “Sure you didn’t just forget about me? Busy fending off your admirers, I’m sure.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to that gravelly register that drove you mad, “Sweetheart, everyone here knows there’s only one person I have eyes for.”

You were about to volley something back—something sharp and slick and just flirtatious enough to make him twitch—when the atmosphere cracked with a loud crash and an even louder voice.

“IT WAS A FLOP!”

Across the room, Ravenclaw’s captain, Muccullen—clearly drunk and still stinging from his loss today—was making an embarrassing scene.

“I would’ve caught that damn Snitch if the snakes didn’t play dirty!” He barked, sloshing firewhisky onto the carpet.

You barely blinked. Just raised a brow, unimpressed, letting his tantrum unfold like a child kicking their legs in a supermarket.

“(L/N) thinks she’s all that,” He continued, voice rising, “but that stupid bitch just got lucky!”

Now that made your brow twitch.

You weren’t planning to dignify it with a response. But then Sirius was suddenly in front of you, jaw tight, a quiet fury radiating off him like a pulse.

“Watch your mouth.”

Muccullen blinked slowly, swaying. “If it isn’t her mangy mutt,” He slurred, sneering, “You’re just as pathetic, Black. Chasing after her like a dog when she doesn’t even want you. Face it—the only reason she gets anywhere in life or on that bloody broom is ’cause that slag keeps guys like you wrapped around her finger.”

That much was true. Sirius was so tightly wrapped around your finger you could flick it and he’d bark.

Which is why Muccullen shouldn’t have been surprised when Sirius grabbed him by the collar.

You stepped forward then, calm and unbothered, resting a single hand on Sirius’s arm.

“Down, boy.”

His grip loosened—just barely. But it was enough.

You turned your gaze on Muccullen, voice cool and dangerous.

“You really know how to ruin a party, don’t you, Muccullen?” You said smoothly, “I won today because I was faster. Simple as that. You don’t want to get pummeled by Bludgers while chasing the Snitch? That’s a conversation to have with your Beaters. Go sober up. Losing on the Quidditch pitch is one thing. This? This is just pathetic.”

Sirius shoved him back as he let go, and Muccullen stumbled off with the grace of a wounded troll.

You exhaled, turning to Sirius.

And yeah… he looked hot.

Leather jacket clinging to broad shoulders. Hair a bit mussed. Breathing heavy like he wanted someone to give him an excuse to finish the fight. All for you.

He looked good defending your honor. Too good.

You sipped your drink with finality, “Well. On that note, I’m gonna turn in for the night.”

Sirius visibly deflated, like a puppy who’d been told no to a treat.

“Yeah, my roommates are gonna be partying all night,” You added, giving a theatrical sigh, “Figured I might enjoy the empty dorm for once.”

You nodded to Remus and James—who were both looking equally exhausted and wildly entertained—and started walking toward the staircase.

But you didn’t make it far before glancing over your shoulder.

Sure enough, Sirius was already staring.

You smirked. Winked. And then you lifted your hand, curled a single finger.

Come.

His face lit up. Like Christmas and fireworks and every wish he’d never said out loud just came true.

Behind him, James cackled. Remus shook his head, amused.

“Go on, lover boy!” James shouted, slapping him on the back.

And Sirius? He sprinted.

By the time he caught up, you were outside your dorm, and his arms were already curling around your waist as you let out a soft giggle.

He buried his face in your neck, breath hot, lips brushing your skin.

“You better take me out on a date tomorrow.” You murmured.

He smiled against your throat, “Anywhere. Anytime. Just say the word.”

Bonus:

If anyone had ever been afraid of the Marauders—afraid of Sirius Black, the uncollared dog of Gryffindor House, heir to the House of Black, all sharp teeth and dangerous smirks—all they had to do was witness how he behaved with his girlfriend.

The only girl who’d ever managed to train him.

It was almost comical, the way Sirius’s entire face lit up the second he spotted you in the Gryffindor common room. His smirk melted into a wide, boyish grin, wild grey eyes softening like morning light breaking through fog.

“Baby!” He practically shouted, immediately abandoning James mid-sentence and sprinting across the room like a man possessed.

Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees before your armchair, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his head in your lap like it was the safest place in the world.

You giggled—an uncharacteristic sound, at least to everyone else. But for Sirius, it was as familiar as his own heartbeat. You ran your fingers through his thick dark hair, nails scratching gently along his scalp, and Sirius all but purred, sighing into the space between your thighs like the tension had been holding him hostage all day.

“What are you doing here?” He mumbled, voice muffled against your legs.

“Class ended early,” You replied smoothly, a smile tugging at your lips, “and I wanted to see my favourite boy.”

Sirius groaned dramatically, turning his head to press soft, reverent kisses to the inside of your wrist, right against your fluttering pulse. Like he was grounding himself with the feel of your blood beneath his lips.

Across from you, James flopped onto the couch with a snort, “Merlin, (L/N), you’ve got him trained better than a show dog.”

You didn’t even look up from Sirius as you smiled, sharp and slow.

“Oh, she knows.” Remus added from his spot by the fireplace, flipping a page in his book with a smirk.

Sirius hummed, clinging tighter to your waist like he couldn’t stand to be even a millimeter away.

You leaned back in the armchair, letting him sprawl across your lap like a pampered prince, fingers carding through his hair as if you had all the time in the world.

“You’re clingy today.” You murmured, not unkindly.

“Missed you.” Sirius said simply, lifting his head just enough to look at you—like you hung the bloody moon.

You raised an eyebrow, tapping your nails against his jaw, “Did something happen?”

He pulled one of your hands to his mouth again, pressing a kiss to each knuckle like it was sacred ritual, “Nah. Just tired of pretending not to be obsessed with you.”

“Well, you’re doing a shit job of hiding it.” James snarked.

“I know.” He replied, unapologetic.

To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

@superlegend216

@kaisupremecy

@ilovefictionallmenn

@aviwritessometimes

@devilslittlehelper

@notfckincreative

@workof-a-rr-t

@insideoutjulie

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

@revesephemeres

@catiwinky

@goldfishinpainttubes

@psh-pjh

@honethatty12

@imkindofanaudiogeeksorry

@lilians17

@its-jennarose

Coming back to Hogwarts after a long summer of fun with his friends was always bittersweet. Lorenzo loved the castle—loved the way its magic still managed to surprise him, even though he’d grown up in a pureblood household surrounded by it all his life. He loved rooming with his friends, seeing them every day, laughing until curfew and sneaking out when they felt like it. He loved the independence, the freedom of living outside his parents’ reach. He loved Hogsmeade trips, the pranks, the nights that blurred together with mischief.

But the welcome feast always came with a reminder: tomorrow morning meant the return of classes, essays, and exams. The monotony of academic life loomed ahead. Lorenzo wasn’t looking forward to that.

For now, though, he lounged at the Slytherin table, waiting for the food to appear while watching the Sorting Ceremony. His eyes skipped over the first years’ faces, and he chuckled as a wave of nostalgia hit him. Some looked terrified, some confident, some wide-eyed with awe at the enchanted ceiling and floating candles. One by one, they were called to the stool. Cheers erupted with each new addition, and Lorenzo even offered a warm smile and polite claps for a shy little girl sorted into his house.

When the last eleven-year-old scurried off the stage, Lorenzo expected the feast to materialize. Instead, Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and glanced at her scroll again.

“(Y/N) (L/N).”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the Great Hall as an older student—one who had been sitting temporarily at the Hufflepuff table—rose and walked toward the front.

“Is she a transfer? From another school?” Draco whispered.

“Who gives a shit,” Mattheo muttered, eyes following you, “The new girl’s fit.”

“Forget the feast,” Theo drawled, “I’d rather have her for dinner.”

“Agreed,” Blaise chimed in smoothly, “She’s beautiful.”

Lorenzo frowned at that. Blaise rarely announced his interest so quickly, especially not in front of the rest of them. His gaze drifted back to you. Yes, you were beautiful. He wouldn’t deny that. But so was Daphne, or Astoria, or—Merlin help him—even Granger on her best day. So what was all the fuss about?

Onstage, you perched on the stool with a pink blush coloring your cheeks. The Sorting Hat slipped onto your head and murmured things only you could hear. For a moment, the hall was hushed, tense with curiosity. Then, with a booming voice, the Hat declared:

“SLYTHERIN!”

The Slytherin table erupted louder than it had all night. You slipped off the stool, thanking Professor McGonagall, and began your walk toward them. Students scrambled to make room, even Mattheo shoving at Lorenzo to budge over so you might sit beside him. From the other tables, Ravenclaws craned their necks, Hufflepuffs gawked, and Gryffindors all but drooled as you passed.

You hesitated for a moment, eyes scanning the table, before they lit up at the sight of Pansy.

“Hello, Pansy.” You greeted warmly.

“(Y/N)! Welcome to Slytherin. Come, sit!” Pansy beamed, sliding over. You quickly sat across from Lorenzo, and he noticed immediately how the group’s posture shifted—everyone unconsciously leaning toward you, as though you were a magnet.

“This is (Y/N),” Pansy announced proudly, “We met on the train. She’s a transfer from Beauxbatons.”

You smiled, inclining your head politely, “It’s nice to meet you all.”

“The pleasure is all mine, darling,” Mattheo jumped in smoothly, flashing his most practiced grin, “Mattheo. Mattheo Riddle.”

You chuckled and shook his hand, “A pleasure.”

Lorenzo leaned back, crossing his arms as Mattheo practically melted into his seat trying to impress you. Blaise was already leaning forward with that lazy grin of his, and even Draco — who usually acted like he was above such displays — was listening a little too intently.

He tried not to roll his eyes when Blaise leaned forward, elbow on the table, voice smoother than usual, “So, Beauxbatons, hm? Explains the accent. How do you find Hogwarts so far?”

“It’s… bigger,” You laughed softly, and the sound of it made half the boys at the table sit up straighter, “Different, but beautiful.”

Merlin. They were hanging on your every word like you’d just recited Shakespeare. Lorenzo drummed his fingers on the table, his irritation bubbling.

Merlin’s beard.

Theo had inched closer now, his grin lazy but his eyes sharp, like he’d just spotted his next favorite pastime. Mattheo, of course, was already trying too hard, throwing you a wink every other sentence. Even Draco—bloody Draco—was smiling politely at you, as if he hadn’t just sneered at the first years minutes before.

It was ridiculous.

It wasn’t like he didn’t notice you were… well, gorgeous. Anyone with eyes could see that. But the way the others reacted was downright embarrassing. Every time you tilted your head or smiled politely, it was as though you’d cast a collective Confundus over half the table.

Lorenzo stabbed a roasted potato with his fork, muttering under his breath, “She’s not a bloody unicorn.”

Unfortunately, Theo heard him, “You blind, Berkshire? Look at her—”

“I am looking,” Lorenzo cut in, voice sharp but quiet, “She’s pretty, sure. But so are half the witches in this school. You lot are acting like you’ve never seen a girl before.”

"Nah, mate. She's in a class all her own, no one else here can even measure up."

And that was when you noticed him.

Across the table, just beyond Pansy’s shoulder, his eyes met yours. Unlike the others, they weren’t hazy with infatuation or glassy with awe. They were sharp, steady, cutting right through you like he was trying to figure you out.

Your lips stilled mid-smile.

For a heartbeat, it felt like the rest of the hall blurred into static. The noise of Mattheo’s laughter, Theo’s chatter, the scrape of cutlery—all of it faded.

You tilted your head slightly, curiosity flickering in your eyes.

A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, almost involuntary. For just a moment, it felt like the two of you shared a secret that no one else at the table knew.

Then Pansy said your name and the moment snapped. You turned back, laughing at whatever ridiculous story Theo was spinning, but not before sneaking one last glance across the table.

Lorenzo was still watching.

***

Eventually, Lorenzo had come to a conclusion. The only reason everyone was falling over themselves for you was because you were new. The mysterious foreign girl from fancy Paris. That was all.

Never mind that he’d been to Paris more times than he could count and could firmly attest to the fact that Paris wasn’t shit. The city was overrated, the people were snobs, and the food? He’d had better at his grandmother’s table. If Paris was your only selling point, then Hogwarts was collectively delusional.

He assumed the fascination would wear off after a few days, once the novelty faded and everyone went back to their routines. But apparently, he’d been far too optimistic. Because if anything, the infatuation only seemed to increase.

Crowded hallways parted for you as if you were some sort of queen, while Lorenzo got shoved and elbowed like every other unfortunate soul. In Potions, students passed you the freshest ingredients without hesitation, while he was left picking through shriveled roots. In Herbology, you somehow ended up with the intact, pristine equipment, while his gloves had holes and his shears were always half-rusted.

And the worst part? You didn’t even seem to notice. You stuck close to Pansy, sharing her bench, chatting quietly, utterly oblivious to the chaos orbiting you. You didn’t gloat, didn’t preen, didn’t even bat an eye when half the room bent itself out of shape just to hand you something.

Which should have made it easier to ignore. But it didn’t.

Instead, something in him twisted tighter each time. A hot, coiling irritation whenever he saw someone pressing a perfect ingredient into your palm, or rushing to adjust your chair, or lingering too close just for the chance to brush against you.

And it was hypocritical, wasn’t it? He wasn’t exactly a stranger to pretty privilege. All it took was a charming smile from him, a tilt of his head, and half the girls in their year would fall over themselves to offer the same things. He’d accepted it plenty of times without a second thought.

So why, then, did it bother him so much to watch it happen with you?

Why did it feel different—sharper, almost personal—when it was you being handed things in the hollow of your palm?

Lorenzo didn’t have an answer. He only knew that every time it happened, something stirred in his chest, a restless frustration he couldn’t name. And he hated it.

***

Lorenzo wasn’t much of a Quidditch enthusiast, but he always made it a point to watch the first match of the season. His best mates were on the team, and if nothing else, it gave him a chance to shout himself hoarse at Gryffindors for an afternoon.

He didn’t bother leaving early—front row seats were a nightmare, bodies pressing against your back, threatening to knock you clean over the stands. He much preferred the upper rows where he could see everything without being jostled.

Maybe, if luck was on his side, he’d even snag a seat in the section usually reserved for Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy. They never missed Draco’s first match of the year, and his auntie Cissa always insisted he sit with them if space allowed.

He had just made his way down into the common room when Pansy practically lit up like a Christmas tree at the sight of him.

“Enzo! Thank Merlin you’re here!”

Before he could even respond, she was hurrying toward him, tugging someone by the wrist—someone he hadn’t realized was standing just off to the side. You.

“Do you mind just taking (Y/N) down to the pitch for me? She’s never been and I don’t want her to get trampled.”

Lorenzo blinked, only now noticing you hovering just behind her. You looked slightly embarrassed, as if you’d walked into a conversation mid-plot.

“Pansy, it’s fine, I can—” You started.

“Nonsense,” Pansy cut in, waving off your protest, “He’s going down there anyway. Just go together, what’s the big deal?”

For some reason, Lorenzo’s stomach soured at the idea. He shifted uncomfortably, hands sinking deeper into his hoodie pocket.

“Why can’t you take her yourself?” He asked flatly.

“I’ve got a meeting with Flitwick about future careers,” Pansy sighed, clearly annoyed, “Apparently this is the only time he’s free all week. And the others are already on the pitch. And—” She gave him a sharp look, “because I trust you.”

Lorenzo frowned. What did trust have to do with walking someone to the bloody Quidditch pitch?

Lorenzo’s brows knit together, but he sighed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, “Fine.”

“Perfect!” Pansy chirped, already steering you toward him, “Have fun, (Y/N)! Cheer enough for the both of us, please!” She gave you a quick hug and darted off before either of you could argue further.

That left the two of you standing there in the flickering green light of the common room. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Lorenzo exhaled through his nose, turned toward the exit, and muttered, “Come on, then.”

You shifted under his gaze, then offered a small, polite smile, “We don’t have to go together if you’d rather not. I can find my own way.”

He sighed, running a hand over the back of his neck, “It’s fine. I’m headed there anyway.”

You nodded, lips pressing into a small smile as you fell into step beside him.

The walk stretched long and quiet. The air was crisp, the chatter of distant students drifting down the stone corridors, but between the two of you, silence reigned. You tried, a few times, to break it.

“So… do you play?” You asked lightly.

“No.”

You waited a beat, hoping for elaboration. None came.

“Oh. Do you… like Quidditch, then?”

“Not really.”

You exhaled softly, giving up after that, and the walk settled into an awkward sort of quiet. Students kept glancing at you both as they passed, some slowing to offer you a smile or a wave, but Lorenzo didn’t even acknowledge them. His long strides carried him forward without pause, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, expression unreadable.

When you finally broke out onto the grassy slope leading down to the pitch, the noise hit in full force—cheering, laughter, the echo of whistles. Bright banners rippled in the wind, green and silver clashing violently with red and gold. Crowds jostled at the entrance to the stands, fighting for good seats.

You faltered, momentarily overwhelmed by the chaos. The crush of bodies, the sound, the color—it was a lot, all at once.

Without thinking, Lorenzo’s hand shot out, closing around your wrist before someone could slam into you from behind. He tugged you sharply out of the way of a group of Gryffindors barreling past, his grip firm, grounding.

You blinked up at him, startled. He was still frowning, but his hand lingered a second longer than necessary before he let go.

“Try not to get run over.” He muttered.

***

Slytherin had won, of course.

The common room was practically vibrating with celebration—emerald banners strung across the walls, tables piled high with butterbeer bottles and Honeydukes wrappers. Music blared from a charmed gramophone in the corner, and the laughter of students shook the stone walls, carrying over the clatter of goblets and cheers.

The party hadn’t officially started until a couple of hours after the match, which gave you and Pansy just enough time to slip away. After her meeting with Flitwick, she had met you at the pitch and guided you back to the common room herself, leaving Lorenzo behind to congratulate Mattheo, Theo, and Draco on a match well played.

By the time they’d showered and returned to the common room, ready for a proper celebration, the party was already in full swing. The moment they entered, the room erupted into cheers, drinks raised, friends hollering over the music.

Pansy had changed into a little black dress that hugged her figure, and you were dressed in Slytherin green, the silky fabric catching the light just right. Heads turned as you both moved through the crowd, the usual hum of admiration for you amplified by the festive atmosphere.

Lorenzo noticed immediately. Not the way the silk of your dress clung to your curves, not the glint of your jewelry that made it look like droplets of water were teasingly sliding down your neck, not even the way your hair caught the lamplight—though, of course, all of that was impossible to miss.

No, it was something else entirely.

It was the way you stayed close to Pansy, quietly observing from the circumference of the party instead of pushing yourself into the throng, even though the center of the room seemed like your natural habitat.

Lorenzo, for his part, had left the pitch and returned in a crisp shirt and dark trousers, looking as effortlessly composed as ever. He moved through the crowed of people with his disarming smirk, a drink in one hand, a girl's waist in the other. Just like the drink, the girl was cycled through the second he got a good enough taste.

Meanwhile, you found yourself staring at the long table lined with bottles of contraband liquor. Firewhisky, mead, enchanted vodka that shimmered like starlight in its glass—and at the center, a giant crystal bowl of alcoholic fruit punch that smelled suspiciously like it could floor a grown wizard with one sip.

Your fingers hesitated over the options before you quietly reached for a slim can of sparkling seltzer—meant as a chaser more than an actual drink. You popped it open, the soft hiss of carbonation disappearing under the music, and let the cool fizz sit on your tongue.

Instead of throwing yourself into the crowd like most of your housemates, you drifted toward the edge of the common room. From there, you could watch the mess of bodies on the makeshift dance floor, their laughter blurring into the bass-heavy beat. Theodore found you not long after, his smirk tilted just enough to be teasing as he dropped into conversation with you.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself.” He commented sarcastically, nodding toward the chaos in the middle of the room.

You laughed softly, shoulders relaxing. Theo was easy company, his wit sharp but his presence calm, and for a while you let yourself enjoy the quiet exchange.

But soon enough, his attention was claimed elsewhere—cheers erupting as a group of students dragged him away toward the fireplace, insisting he down a row of shots to celebrate blocking the most bludgers that day. You gave him a small wave, lips quirking, and then you were alone again, seltzer can still cold in your hand.

That was when a tall seventh-year slipped into the vacant spot beside you.

His grin was broad, practiced in the mirror too many times, and his eyes glittered with the glassy haze of firewhisky. He leaned in before you could step aside, the smell of alcohol curling off his breath.

“So,” He drawled, voice low in your ear to compete with the music, “is it true French girls kiss better, or is that just a rumor I should test for myself?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness, and instinctively stepped back. But he followed with a half-step forward, crowding you against the back of a velvet armchair. His grin widened, confident in the way boys often were when intoxication blurred the line between charm and intrusion.

Your hand came up to press lightly against his forearm, the gesture gentle, even polite, as you tried to maneuver away. “Haha, that's really more of a myth.” You said, your smile tight but disarming, hoping to diffuse without sparking a scene.

Still, he leaned closer, mistaking your poise for invitation. His hand braced on the back of the chair beside you, effectively boxing you in.

“C’mon,” He said, his voice dripping with cocky amusement, “don’t play coy. One little kiss—it’s a party, isn’t it?” His hand braced on the chair behind you, effectively caging you in, his body heat uncomfortably close.

You shifted, trying to keep the situation from escalating. “Can you move away from me, please?” You replied evenly, eyes darting toward the crowd, “Just because it's a party doesn’t mean I owe you anything.” You pressed more firmly against his arm this time, angling to slip away.

He only grinned wider, his other hand ghosting toward your waist as though he could steer you back against the chair. “Don’t be like that, sweetheart,” He slurred lightly, the words playful in tone but weighted with assumption, “You’ll like it, I promise—”

And that was when another hand clamped firmly around his wrist, halting his movement midair.

The boy’s hand hovered just inches from your waist when another, firmer hand caught his wrist midair.

“Judging by your ex-girlfriends’ accounts, I don’t think you should make promises you can’t keep.” A smooth, low voice drawled over the music.

The seventh-year blinked, squinting at Lorenzo, swaying slightly on his feet. “Who—who asked you, huh?” He slurred, voice rising with alcohol-fueled bravado, “I was just… just trying to be friendly!"

He tried to lean back toward you, a careless, drunken grin plastered across his face, “C’mon, you want to kiss me, don’t lie.”

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. He didn’t flinch, didn’t raise his voice, but the weight behind his presence was enough to make the boy falter. The grip on the wrist didn’t loosen; it was firm, inescapable, unyielding.

“You’re drunk. And annoying. Back off,” Lorenzo said evenly, voice calm but edged with warning, “Now. Before I make you regret it.”

The boy stumbled backward, muttering incoherently, clearly unsure if Lorenzo was serious—or if he wanted to test him. He disappeared into the crowd without another word.

You were still shivering slightly, adrenaline leaving your body in uneven waves, when Lorenzo finally released your wrist. The music thumped around you, but the edges of it felt sharp, almost overwhelming after the tension of the encounter.

“Next time someone like that bothers you,” He said, voice low but firm, “Just make a scene. Don’t wait for someone to show up and come save you. You're a witch, are you not? Hex his balls off.”

You gave a small, nervous laugh, trying to steady yourself, though your hands trembled a little, “I—I’m fine. I just… got a little startled, that’s all. Really.”

But Lorenzo wasn’t convinced. Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your still shaking shoulders, the weight warm and grounding. His eyes softened slightly as he added, “No. You’re done for tonight. Go to bed.”

“I’m… okay,” You tried again, tugging slightly at the edges of the jacket, “I want to stay. It’s… it’s the first house party. I just....want to fit in, you know?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment he stared at you, the chaos of the party around you fading into background noise, "Can't say you were doing much of that by standing in the corner completely sober."

You sighed, looking up at him, caught between the desire to protest and the strange comfort of his jacket around you, “Perhaps you’re right.”

Lorenzo’s eyes softened ever so slightly, “Just… go rest tonight. You’ve already made an appearance, and everyone else is already sloshed—they won’t even remember if you left early.”

You glanced up at him, eyes catching his in the dim light of the common room. There was something about the way you were looking up at him, something that was hidden behind your eyes that he couldn't quite place but that was way deeper than anything the two of you shared. Something that made the chaos behind him fade into background noise.

"Okay," You whispered, "Thank you, Lorenzo."

***

The next morning, before breakfast, you hovered outside the Slytherin boys’ dormitory with Lorenzo’s jacket folded neatly over your arm. You stood there, staring at the door, debating with yourself. Really, why were you making such a big deal about it? You were just returning his jacket. It wasn’t something that needed to be so thought over.

You could even wait until you saw him at breakfast and hand it over casually, like it didn’t mean anything at all.

But the thought of doing it in front of everyone, of the curious stares and inevitable whispers, twisted something in your stomach. No—better to get it over with now.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you knocked.

There was a pause, some muffled shuffling inside, and then the door creaked open. Lorenzo appeared, still tugging on the cuff of his shirt, his tie hanging undone around his neck. His dark hair was messy in a way that didn’t look careless so much as deliberate, and he blinked at you with mild surprise.

“(Y/N)?” His voice was rougher than usual, freshly woken, the question hanging somewhere between confusion and curiosity.

The sound seemed to spark interest from the room behind him—three other heads popped up almost comically, like meerkats.

“Good morning.” You said softly, shifting the jacket in your arms like it might shield you from the weight of all their stares.

“Good morning, (Y/N)~” Mattheo purred, leaning lazily against the bedpost. His unbuttoned shirt hung off his broad shoulders, exposing the lines of his abs with theatrical nonchalance. The smirk on his lips told you he was very much doing this on purpose.

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. With a deliberate shift, he leaned against the doorframe, his frame blocking most of their view of you. His voice came low, smoother than usual but clipped at the edges, “Did you need anything?”

“Um—no, just…” You shifted, clutching the jacket tighter against your chest before finally holding it out with both hands, “I wanted to return your jacket.”

His eyes flicked down to the bundle in your arms, then back to your face. Something unreadable passed across his features. “You could’ve just given that back in the Great Hall.” He said evenly, though his voice carried an undertone of confusion.

You swallowed, feeling heat crawl up your neck, “I didn’t want anyone to misunderstand.”

That caught him. His brow furrowed slightly as he reached to take the jacket, fingers brushing against yours in the exchange. The touch was brief, accidental, but it sent a ripple of warmth through your skin, like a spark finding kindling.

“Misunderstand what?”

The question startled you, making you blink up at him. Surely he knew. Surely a boy like Lorenzo—social, sharp, always aware—understood the game people played at Hogwarts. How the smallest gesture could spiral into whispered speculation by lunch, exaggerated into something entirely different by dinner.

“Um… nothing,” You mumbled quickly, dropping your gaze, your voice thinner than you meant, “Just… misunderstand.”

“Right,” He said quietly, “Thanks.”

***

The library was quieter than usual, a soft hum of enchanted quills and the occasional rustle of parchment filling the high-ceilinged room. Your eyes bounced around the crowded space, books clutched tight against your chest as you searched for an open spot.

Unfortunately, every table seemed taken—clusters of students hunched over their notes, quills scratching, parchment piled high. Some weren’t even studying, just leaning close to whisper and laugh with their friends, and you found yourself quietly frowning. Why would anyone choose to chatter here, of all places, instead of their common room? And why did one student think it fair to take up an entire table for four?

Your gaze kept drifting until it landed on him.

Lorenzo.

He sat alone at a table tucked into the far corner, posture perfectly straight, brow furrowed over a thick stack of textbooks. His quill moved sharply across the page, deliberate and neat, and the way he leaned into his work made it clear he didn’t want to be disturbed. The other three chairs at his table sat empty, almost daring you to consider them.

You hovered where you stood, indecisive.

He wasn’t your biggest fan—that much was obvious—and you weren’t sure what he would make of you interrupting while he was so focused. On the other hand… it wasn’t as though his table was overflowing with notes. And if you sat with Lorenzo, you knew one thing for certain: he wouldn’t chat you up like half the others in this room.

Taking a small breath, you gathered your courage and stepped closer.

“Um… excuse me,” You said softly, keeping your voice polite, almost tentative, “Is this seat… taken?”

For a moment, Lorenzo didn’t look up. His quill continued its steady scratching across parchment, jaw tight in concentration. You began to wonder if he’d even heard you—or worse, if he was deliberately ignoring you.

Then, slowly, his eyes lifted, dark and sharp, fixing on you with that unreadable expression of his.

“Depends,” He said, voice low and even, “Are you planning to talk the whole time, or can you actually study in silence?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I— I can be quiet.” You promised quickly, shifting the weight of the books in your arms.

His mouth twitched, the faintest smirk threatening at the corners, “We’ll see.”

With a lazy flick of his hand, he gestured toward the chair opposite him. You slipped into it carefully, placing your books down as quietly as possible, suddenly hyperaware of every sound you made—the squeak of the chair, the scratch of your quill, even the way you exhaled.

For several long minutes, you both worked in silence. Lorenzo’s handwriting was fast but precise, his notes neatly organized in a way that made your own look almost childish. You caught yourself sneaking glances more than once, and each time, he seemed to notice.

The library was hushed, the kind of quiet where even the faintest scratch of a quill seemed magnified. You glanced up from your own notes, eyes wandering until they landed on Lorenzo. He was hunched forward, one hand braced against his temple, the other drumming his quill against parchment. His expression was pinched, irritated.

You glanced over from where you’d been reviewing your own work and caught him muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “bloody useless assignment.”

You hesitated, then gathered your courage and padded over. “Stuck?” You asked lightly, tilting your head at the half-scribbled parchment in front of him.

He looked up sharply, quill still in hand.

He sighed, tossing the quill down, “Care of Magical Creatures essay. Three bloody feet on Veela, and I’ve only managed one. I don’t know what else Hagrid expects me to say—that they’re pretty and men lose their minds?”

The words made your stomach twist, but you forced a small, amused scoff to cover it.

You set the parchment down, the faintest nervous energy prickling under your skin. Then, with a scoff you hoped sounded natural, you leaned back in your chair, “I wouldn’t exactly consider them creatures. They’re human beings.”

Lorenzo’s eyes flicked up to you at that, a spark of surprise in them. He leaned back in his chair, studying you, "What's it to you? Interested in a job in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, are you?"

You shrugged, sliding into the empty seat beside him, doing your best to keep your voice casual even though your pulse was picking up. “Maybe I just don’t like the idea of reducing people to… exotic curiosities. Veela aren’t pets to be studied, they’re—” You stopped yourself before you went too far, quickly reaching for his parchment, “Anyway. Let me see what you’ve got. Maybe I can help you add something.”

His lips quirked slightly, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth, “If you’re volunteering to do my homework for me, I won’t stop you.”

You rolled your eyes, but the tight knot of nerves in your chest loosened just a little as you skimmed the page.

You leaned closer over his parchment, careful not to smudge his ink. Lorenzo’s handwriting was neat but scattered with angry little scribbles—crossed-out sentences and arrows pointing to half-formed ideas.

“So your premise,” You began, trying to sound casual, “is that Veela are basically… a scapegoat for men’s foolishness?”

He huffed, tapping the page with his quill, “Exactly! It’s ridiculous. ‘Oh, I cheated because she’s a Veela and I couldn’t control myself.’ It’s like blaming the weather for burning your house down. And of course, it doesn’t even make sense magically.”

You raised a brow, tilting your head, “How do you mean?”

“Veela magic doesn’t work on the person they’re in love with. The soulmate, or someone they truly care about. When it actually comes to enchanting someone they want to enchant, or someone who truly knows them, the magic doesn't work. What does that say about their allure?"

You couldn’t help a small laugh, shaking your head, “That’s… actually not a bad argument. You’re taking a real angle on it.”

"So you agree with me?"

“Not exactly,” You said, smoothing the paper flat, “It’s just… well, you’re right. Veela charm doesn’t work on the person they care about most. But if you look at it another way… maybe it’s a kind of self-preservation. Soulmates are protected by magic, by design. So a Veela can’t unintentionally—or intentionally—hurt the one person they’re most connected to. It balances the… ridiculous, one-sided effect of their allure.”

Lorenzo leaned back, running a hand over his face, “Wow… that’s actually… really insightful. I think I can actually finish this essay now.”

You grinned faintly, feeling a small spark of satisfaction, “Glad I could help.”

The quiet between you settled easily, almost companionable, and for the first time in weeks, Lorenzo’s usual inscrutable expression softened just a fraction.

You pretended to focus on his parchment, quill tapping idly against the margins, but Lorenzo wasn’t nearly as distracted as you hoped. His eyes flicked from you, to the room, and back again.

He saw the way you noticed.

Every time someone passed the table, their eyes lingered on you just a beat too long. Every time a chair scraped or parchment rustled, you glanced up with that same tiny flicker of unease before quickly lowering your gaze, arranging your expression into something neutral.

You weren’t encouraging the attention—far from it. If anything, it looked like you were trying to disappear into the seat, as though ignoring it might make it stop.

You caught yourself stiffening and quickly smoothed your expression into something casual, turning back to Lorenzo as if you hadn’t noticed at all. The trick was never to react. The more you acknowledged the staring, the harder they tried to get your attention.

And yet, Lorenzo could tell. The tighter way you held your shoulders, the careful curve of a half-smile when someone’s gaze caught yours, the way you deliberately didn’t respond because you knew it would only draw them closer.

“...Doesn’t that get exhausting?” He asked suddenly.

Your head jerked up, startled, “What does?”

He leaned back in his chair, smirk faint but his eyes sharper than usual, “All the staring. The whispering. You pretending you don’t notice.”

For a moment, your mask slipped—the tiniest crease in your brow, the quick dart of your eyes toward the nearby table where two Ravenclaw boys had been not-so-subtly glancing your way. Then, almost instantly, you forced a scoff and straightened.

“I think you’re imagining things, Berkshire.” You looked back at your book.

But his gaze lingered on you, heavy and thoughtful, long after you bent over his parchment.

***

You were nestled into your usual spot in the common room, quietly thumbing through a book. After an exhausting week filled with deadlines, helping Lorenzo with his essay had cut into your own study time, and you’d ended up staying up late that night to finish your work. The next couple of days had been a blur of yawns and half-finished notes, and finally today you were looking forward to some downtime: a warm cup of tea in hand, a quiet chapter to read, and the comforting hum of the common room around you.

Then Lorenzo appeared at the entrance, a cocky smile plastered on his face as he strode over with purpose. Your gaze followed him, curious.

He stopped a few feet away, holding a scroll just inches from your face. You recognized it immediately—it was the essay you had so graciously helped him with. The glaring red “O” on the top and the smug pride in his expression left no doubt: he was in an excellent mood.

Blinking, genuinely impressed, you leaned forward to glance at the paper. Every mark, every sentence flowed logically, clearly showing effort—and, of course, plenty of your input.

“An Outstanding?” You echoed softly.

“Indeed,” He said, chest puffed with pride, “Hagrid even said I was the only one in the class who didn’t talk about Veelas like creatures.” He paused, his eyes meeting yours, a teasing glint in his gaze, “I owe my striking transcript to you, obviously.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips, “I see. So now my help is officially ‘life-changing.’ I should start billing by the hour.”

Lorenzo chuckled, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, “Hmm… tempting. But somehow, I think my gratitude will suffice for now.”

Your cheeks warmed at the comment, but you quickly masked it with a casual shrug, “Just don’t let it go to your head.”

He grinned, clearly amused, and for a moment the room faded away. It was just the two of you, comfortable and teasing, the kind of closeness that only comes after trust and a little shared work—and maybe a hint of admiration.

***

The common room was unusually lively for a weeknight. A handful of Slytherins were draped across couches and chairs, laughing and trading stories as the fire snapped in the grate. You sat in the armchair that really just had enough space for yourself, feet pulled up onto the cushion as you absentmindedly played with the threads on the ends of your stockings. Outside, the lights flickered slightly as the giant squid swam back and forth past the windows.

Draco was going on about how his family had just bought a villa just outside Paris over the summer.

“Paris is the best,” Pansy sighed dreamily from her perch on the armrest, “The food, the fashion, the art—honestly, I’d move there tomorrow if I could.”

“Not me,” Blaise said from across the room, tossing a small coin into the air, “I’m sick of the place. Overrated. Clichéd, if you will.”

“That’s the charm, though,” Pansy insisted, curling her legs beneath her on the couch, “The fashion, the cafés… I’d move there in a heartbeat if I could. Honestly, (Y/N), why would you leave the great city of love and lights for dreary Scotland?”

Your chest tightened. The question was innocent enough, but answering honestly was… complicated. You gave a small, wry laugh and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Paris is… beautiful,” You said carefully, keeping your tone light, “I had a good time at Beauxbatons, but I felt like I needed a change. It’s… not as perfect as you guys think it is.”

A brief, awkward silence followed. A few of the Slytherins murmured under their breath, attempting to redirect the conversation—commenting on the weather, Hogwarts, anything to fill the quiet.

But Lorenzo, sitting across from you, tilted his head slightly. His sharp gaze caught the way your hand had trembled ever so slightly when you spoke, the faint blush climbing your cheeks, and the subtle flicker of tension in your eyes as they bounced around the room, gauging the reactions of others, calculating their expressions.

He knew there was more behind that casual shrug than you were letting on. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what it would take to draw it out of you.

Yet you remained seated, smiling softly, projecting calm and composure. For just a second, he thought he had just imagined the shadow of heartbreak cross your face.

***

The crisp autumn air carried the faint scent of baked goods and cider as you wandered through Hogsmeade, purse in hand, eyes scanning the shelves of Honeydukes. You had spotted a few rare chocolate treats imported from Paris, ones you’d adored as a child, and decided immediately that you needed them.

You counted the coins in your hand, but your mental math kept tripping you up. “Wait… if a Galleon is seventeen Sickles, and a Sickle is twenty Knuts—” you muttered in rushed French, frowning and pushing your hair behind your ear. The cashier watched, a quiet, amused smile playing at their lips as the different-colored metal circles in your hand blurred into incomprehensibility.

A shadow fell over your shoulder. “Need a hand?” Lorenzo’s voice was quiet, casual, but the warmth threading through it made your heart skip.

You blinked up at him, cheeks flushing, “I… I think so.”

He crouched slightly to get a better look at the coins, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “Here,” He said, arranging them neatly, “That’s one Galleon, fourteen Sickles, and seven Knuts.”

He handed the coins over to the shopkeeper with a flourish, and you collected your treats, your fingers brushing briefly against his as he passed the money. Your heart jumped, and he caught your glance, offering a small, almost shy smile before blending into the crowd of students.

You let out a soft laugh, holding your chocolates to your chest, “Thanks… I don’t understand how your currency works at all.”

He shrugged lightly, eyes flicking up at you with that familiar intensity, “It’s a bit tricky at first. Most first-years make the same mistake.”

You tilted your head, a soft smile playing on your lips, “First-years, huh? So… I’m hopelessly behind, then.”

He shook his head, amusement dancing in his dark eyes, “Not hopeless—just inexperienced. But… that’s okay. Consider us even after your help with my essay."

You laughed, "You're gonna have to do alot more than that if you want to thank me for your first O in seven years."

He leaned just slightly closer, the space between you shrinking, and his eyes softened in a way that made your chest flutter. “Oh, I can think of a few ways.” He said, voice low, teasing, but somehow intimate.

You raised an eyebrow, playful, but your pulse quickened. “Do tell." You challenged, holding your chocolate treats like a shield.

He smirked, but instead of answering, he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, brushing your cheek gently. Your breath hitched at the contact, and he gave a small, knowing smile. “Sometimes,” He said quietly, “actions speak louder than words.”

You cleared your throat, feeling heat crawl up your cheeks, "And what might that be?"

He let his gaze linger on you for a heartbeat longer, the corners of his mouth tugging into a mischievous, yet tender, half-smile. “Well…” His voice dropped a fraction, softer now, almost conspiratorial, "I could consider letting you be my study buddy from now on."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes at him, "You just want to steal more of my brilliant ideas."

He gasped, clutching his chest, "You wound me!"

***

The courtyard was alive in that golden, drowsy sort of way it always was when classes had just let out—students spilling across the flagstones in clusters, laughter echoing under the stone arches, the autumn sun slipping lazily between drifting clouds. You had tucked yourself into the shadow of an archway, parchment stretched across your knees, quill tapping absently against your thumb. It was one of the few places you’d found any peace lately, where the noise of the castle blurred into the background.

Peace never lasted long.

“(Y/N)!”

You looked up to find a Hufflepuff boy standing there, a small bouquet of daisies clutched awkwardly in his hands, their petals charmed to shimmer faintly in the light.

Your heart sank. You already knew what was coming. Already braced yourself—carefully smoothing the micro-expressions from your face, steadying your eyes so they wouldn’t flick nervously around the courtyard, doing your best to appear unbothered. Hoping, at the very least, that he would be discreet.

Lorenzo had only just stepped into the courtyard when he caught the tail end of it.

The boy’s cheeks were blotchy with nerves, but his eyes were hopeful when he blurted, “Would you… maybe want to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?”

The world seemed to still around you. You swallowed once, heavily, willing your gaze not to dart to the groups you could feel watching. Then, with practiced ease, you slipped on a polite smile and shook your head.

“That’s sweet of you,” You said gently, “but no. I’m sorry.”

The boy’s smile faltered. He muttered something like, “figured as much,” before shoving the bouquet into his bag and trudging off, shoulders hunched.

The whispers rose immediately.

“Merlin, that’s the tenth one this term—” “Honestly, does she think she’s too good for everyone?” “She could at least give one of them a chance. It’s not like she’s perfect.”

Each word landed sharp as glass. Your smile stayed fixed, your eyes carefully pinned to the parchment as though the ink mattered more than anything else. But your hand trembled faintly against the quill, and though you stilled it with a deliberate breath, Lorenzo saw.

He leaned against a column, a book in hand he hadn’t so much as cracked open, watching. He caught every whisper, every cutting comment, and the slight tightening of your fingers around the quill before you forced yourself to relax again.

It didn’t make sense to him. Couldn’t they see the way their words carved into you? The way you’d looked cornered when the boy had confessed? To Lorenzo, the cracks in your façade were plain as day. Did no one else notice—or did they simply not care?

He hadn’t liked you at first, either. He hadn’t liked how pretty you were, how people seemed to trip over themselves just to look at you, how effortless it all seemed. But even he could see this wasn’t your fault.

And you—Merlin, you carried it like it was nothing. Smile, shrug, carry on. But it wasn’t nothing. Not with the flicker of tension in your jaw, not with the way your eyes skittered briefly toward the whispering groups before forcing themselves back to your parchment.

You waited a little longer, biding your time until the whispers began to die down. Finally, you rose, gathering your things with deliberate leisure before heading toward the castle—quickly, though not too quickly. Controlled.

Lorenzo snapped his book shut with a quiet thud. Enough.

He crossed the courtyard with that lazy confidence he wore like a second skin and fell into step beside you.

He didn’t say anything at first, just matched your stride, hands tucked in his pockets, expression unreadable. The courtyard buzzed behind you, but it felt like the air between you carried its own kind of weight.

Finally, Lorenzo broke it.

“You know,” He drawled, voice deceptively casual, “you could’ve just said yes. Gone to Hogsmeade with him. At least then people would stop whispering about how you reject everyone who asks.”

Your steps faltered for half a second, and you turned your head to look at him, brows furrowed. “And then what?” You asked evenly, “Go on a date or two, let him think he has a chance, and then dump him? So everyone can whisper about how I led him on instead?”

Something flickered in his expression—quick, sharp, gone in an instant. He’d been teasing, half-serious at best, but the way you said it, so certain, so worn… it sounded like experience. Like you weren’t just imagining what they would say. Like you’d heard it before.

Lorenzo slowed, his usual smirk faltering as his eyes searched your face, “...Has that happened?”

You didn’t answer immediately. The words seemed to stick in your throat, something bitter pressing against your tongue. You forced a shrug, eyes forward, though your voice dipped quieter than before.

“Besides,” You said finally after a long beat of silence, so softly he almost missed it, “I like someone else.”

That stopped him. For a moment, Lorenzo felt something in his chest tighten—surprise, confusion, something he didn’t quite want to name. But he said nothing, only slipped back into step beside you, though this time his silence carried less ease and more thought.

“Oh?” His voice came out smoother than he felt, though it scraped in his throat like glass, “And who’s the lucky bloke?”

It felt like wringing words out of his chest, like something sharp was lodged there. His usual lazy smirk was gone, his lips pressed in something closer to a line.

You gave a small laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Doesn’t matter,” You murmured, eyes fixed ahead, “He doesn’t feel the same way.”

For a fleeting second, something in Lorenzo’s chest twisted. Too tight. Too sharp. He swallowed it down, burying it beneath the casual mask he always wore.

“His loss.” He said finally, hands shoved deeper into his pockets, but he couldn’t quite keep the edge out of his tone.

***

The walk back from the library was quiet, the crisp autumn air filling the courtyard as you and Lorenzo trailed along the stone paths, your books tucked under your arms. The sun was dipping low, painting the castle walls gold, and the occasional chatter of students heading to dinner drifted around you.

You had both planned to study until dinner, but that plan had been quashed the moment Daphne Greengrass’s boyfriend made a scene in the library, disrupting your session. Apparently, they had a row, and now he was desperately trying to make it up to her, much to the inconvenience of the other students.

“That was… quite hard to watch.” Lorenzo chuckled, shaking his head as you both recalled the fifteen-minute spectacle of Daphne laying into her boyfriend, effectively blocking the doorway.

“Poor guy.” You murmured, running a hand through your hair.

“Dumbass didn’t even bring her flowers,” Lorenzo said, smirking, “My mother always told me to get a girl a bouquet if you did anything wrong—or anything right, for that matter.”

You shrugged, a small, teasing smirk tugging at your lips, “Perhaps she doesn’t like them.”

He blinked at you, genuinely perplexed, “What girl wouldn’t like flowers?”

“Well…” You hesitated, adjusting the strap of your bag as you chose your words carefully, “I’d take a potted plant over cut flowers any day.”

Lorenzo arched a brow, skeptical, the kind of look reserved for girls who claimed one thing but wanted something entirely different. He’d known plenty of them—girls who said they didn’t need titles on a relationship but wanted exclusivity, who claimed they didn’t care about gifts but were secretly disappointed when he showed up empty-handed.

“You want a jar of dirt? God, you French are impossible to please.”

“I’m serious,” You said softly but firmly, “Bouquets don’t make sense to me. To have something pretty, you have to kill it. It’s like people don’t value what made it beautiful in the first place—they only care about possessing it, no matter the cost. If you truly wanted something beautiful…” Your fingers toyed with a loose thread on your sleeve, “…you’d let it keep growing.”

The way you spoke, glancing off into the distance as though seeing something he couldn’t, made Lorenzo feel like it wasn’t really about flowers at all. There was something deeper beneath your words, something carefully held back, and it tugged at him in a way he couldn’t quite place.

Every pause, every subtle gesture felt deliberate, and he found himself straining to memorize it—not just the words, but the way you said them, the weight behind them—even though he didn’t yet understand why he felt he needed to.

He didn’t know why he needed to hold onto it, why it felt so important, but he still tucked that tidbit into the back of his mind, waiting until he'd need to use it.

He chuckled, half-amused, half-intrigued, “Is that why you’ve rejected every single guy who’s come up to you? Because he didn’t hand you a succulent?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head, “I don’t expect anyone else to get it. I just… prefer things that last, I suppose.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I don’t expect anyone else to get it. I just… prefer things that last, I suppose.”

For a moment, Lorenzo was quiet. Then, in a tone stripped of his usual teasing edge, he said almost matter-of-factly, “I can respect that. Just because you want something beautiful doesn’t mean you have the right to possess it.”

The words caught you off guard. He wasn’t mocking you, wasn’t brushing you off—he sounded like he actually understood. Your chest gave a small, startled flutter, and you found yourself squeezing the strap of your bag. For the briefest second, you considered telling him. Maybe he really would understand.

But the moment passed as quickly as it came. You pressed your lips together, tucking the thought away, and only nodded before letting the silence stretch comfortably between you again.

***

The Great Hall was its usual blur of noise, laughter, and clinking cutlery, candles floating high above casting warm pools of light. You were looking forward to the meal, mouth practically watering at the thought of pancakes drowned in strawberries and cream. But the moment you stepped past the doors, your appetite vanished as though someone had ripped it from you.

The room shifted. The buzz of chatter seemed to die down at once, leaving only a faint rustle of robes and the sharp echo of your own steps. Every head turned. Dozens—hundreds—of eyes latched onto you, cold and heavy, pinning you to the spot like you’d been caught trespassing where you didn’t belong.

Why were they—?

A horrible chill crawled down your spine. This was too familiar. The air, thick with judgment. The stares, unrelenting. Your gaze flicked across the hall, trying to separate one expression from the next, but they all blurred together the longer you looked: vengeful smirks, disgusted scowls, wary frowns, indifferent curiosity—but they all blurred together the longer you looked, merging into a faceless audience with wide, domineering eyes. And you were center stage.

“…said she’s a Veela.” “Transferred from France.” “Veelas are common there.” “Now we know why everyone keeps fawning over her—”

Your throat constricted, bile burning the back of it. You took a cautious step backward, your mind scrambling. How much did they know? Was it only rumor? Was your face betraying the truth? You tried to smooth your features into calm indifference, but the anxiety rushing through you pulsed in your eyes, impossible to hide.

Run? Stay? Deny? Laugh? Which would damn you less?

Your eyes darted to the Slytherin table, searching desperately for your friends, for a safe place to sit before someone cornered you. But the moment you spotted them, your stomach sank, the sting of tears burning behind your eyes.

They were staring at you too.

Pansy’s lips were pressed thin, concern buried beneath a veneer of hurt. Theo and Blaise—sharp-eyed, critical, their thoughts written plain as ink across their faces. Draco and Mattheo wore faint masks of disgust. But they all shared that same thin veil of suspicion.

You could practically hear the questions unspoken but loud in their eyes: Did we only like her because of her Veela charm? Has she been using it on us this whole time?

Not again. Please, not again.

Your gaze slipped, almost against your will, to the last of them. Lorenzo.

You almost wished you hadn’t looked.

His gaze was unyielding, pinning you where you stood. He didn’t look away. He didn’t soften. Something simmered beneath the sharpness of his eyes—something that struck you harder than disgust or suspicion ever could.

Betrayal.

The crack in your chest spread, shattering something you didn’t even realize you’d been holding together. You tore your gaze away before the tears could spill and turned on your heel.

And you left.

***

Lorenzo sat in the back of the classroom, notebooks open but barely touched, mind elsewhere. He had barely eaten breakfast, the food tasteless as he replayed the scene in the Great Hall again and again—the whispers, the sharp stares, the way your shoulders had stiffened, the moment you'd finally fled.

The door creaked open, and you stepped in. Your steps were measured, careful, almost like you was trying to make yourself small, to avoid drawing attention. But even through the chaos of the classroom, he could see you—the way your fingers clutched your bag, the faint tremor in your hands as you scanned the room.

Still, you went to your place. To Pansy.

“Hey,” you said softly, the word small, almost pleading.

Pansy glanced at you, her lips parting as if she might answer—but then she pressed them together, eyes flicking to the rest of the room, to the stares and whispers that hadn’t stopped since yesterday.

“Not now.” She muttered under her breath, gathering her things.

You froze.

Lorenzo felt it, the way you stiffened, holding yourself upright with every ounce of strength you had left. He watched Pansy stand, watched her skirt the desk and take another seat across the room, her back deliberately turned.

And then he watched you.

Your eyes lingered on the empty space beside you for a moment too long before dropping to the desk, your hand hovering over the chair as if you weren’t sure whether to sit or flee. The rest of the class pretended not to stare, but the silence was thick with curiosity, with judgment.

You didn’t break—not outwardly. You lowered yourself into the chair, pulled your books from your bag, and kept your head down. But Lorenzo could see it. The way your throat worked as you swallowed. The way your fingers trembled as they straightened the edge of your parchment. The way your jaw tightened to hold yourself together.

It was like watching someone drown quietly in the middle of a crowded room.

And for reasons he still couldn’t name, Lorenzo’s chest ached with every second of it.

The door creaked again, and Professor McGonagall swept in, robes swirling, the usual stern expression softened only slightly by the hint of morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Lorenzo sat up straighter, though his attention never wavered from her. He watched as she carried a stack of parchment to her desk, the classroom settling into the usual quiet hum.

“You may take your seats.” She commanded, and everyone quickly complied. Lorenzo watched her settle behind the desk, and his attention immediately flicked back to you—the way you tried to keep your back straight, the faint slump in your shoulders, the rigid tightness in your hands as you set your bag on the desk.

“Today, we’ll begin by returning your essays on the care and handling of magical creatures.” She announced, her voice firm. The students shuffled nervously, anxious to get their grades back.

McGonagall began the lesson, distributing essays with quiet efficiency. When she reached her, she handed back her parchment with a brief, “Good work.” and Lorenzo saw the familiar red O in the corner.

A quiet swell of whispers started almost immediately.

“She only got it because she’s a Veela, I’m sure of it.” "I guess even professors are not above pretty privilege." "Beauty over brains with Minnie, I guess."

The second you heard those words, your hands unwillingly curled into the parchment, wrinkling your perfect essay. Your eyes turned downward, not wanting to look at the way the students had all turned around in their seats to stare at you.

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened. He wanted to stand, to defend you, to shout that you had earned it. He had personally seen just how much you studied, how much you valued your grades, how brilliant you were, a truly unique thinker.

He could feel your hands trembling ever so slightly as you gripped your essay. The smallest hitch of your breath, the subtle flicker of discomfort in your eyes—it made his chest ache. You were trying, as you always did, to maintain composure, to keep yourself from unraveling under the weight of the scrutiny.

But he tore his gaze away.

***

The common room was nearly empty, the usual warmth stripped down to a few glowing embers in the hearth. Shadows stretched long across the stone walls, flickering and bending with every pop of the fire. You had hoped to slip in quietly, make it to your bed without anyone noticing, but your plans crumbled the moment you saw him.

Lorenzo was there.

He leaned against the edge of the sofa, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the dying flames. His posture was rigid, unreadable, and for a moment you thought he might not even notice you. But the way his shoulders tensed as you approached made your stomach twist. You had hoped this encounter would be calm, a chance to explain, to smooth over the hurt—but his presence alone made your chest ache.

“Lorenzo…” You began softly, stepping closer. Your voice sounded small, even to your own ears, “Can we talk?”

He didn’t turn. His voice, low and strained, cut through the quiet, “I have nothing to say to you—and even less to listen.”

The words landed like a physical blow. Your heart stuttered, chest tightening painfully. You swallowed, your throat dry, “Lorenzo, please—”

“No.” His head snapped up, eyes flashing, “You don’t get to ask things of me. You hid this for months! How did you think we’d react? That we’d just… carry on like nothing happened? Without a single ounce of suspicion?”

Your breath caught. You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, a mixture of shame and fear that your secret had hurt him more than you had anticipated. You wanted to reach out, to explain, but your hands trembled in your sleeves. “I wasn’t trying to hide it from you. I just…” Frustration and exhaustion twisted in your chest, making it hard to find the right words.

“You just what?” His voice sharpened, cutting through the embers’ quiet crackle, “You just thought you’d keep it a secret while all of us—while I—began to care about you? How much of it was real, (Y/N)? Are my feelings real? Are you using your appeal even now? Is that the only reason I’ve noticed you at all?”

The words hit harder than you could have imagined. Tears pricked your eyes. “That’s not true, Lorenzo!” You said, your voice shaking, “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to treat me differently!”

He laughed, but it was hollow, bitter, and it made something inside you contract. Leaning back, he ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “Don’t kid yourself. You’ve been different since the second you stepped into the Hall. But things changed since then. We changed. I—” His hand fell to his face, and he cut himself off, the tension in his shoulders radiating frustration, “You should’ve told me before I started to—you didn’t even give me a chance. I thought you trusted me.”

“I do,” You said, voice barely above a whisper, trembling as you tried to steady your breathing, “I just… I didn’t want to lose you. People have been cruel about this before, and I didn’t want you—”

“That was my choice to make!” His voice cracked, and the anger in it was jagged, “Salazar, and now I’m sitting here thinking about all these months we’ve spent together, wondering how much of it was even real.”

“It was all real.” You whispered, tears spilling over, burning your vision as your throat constricted painfully. You wanted to reach out, to touch him, to make him see the truth behind your fear and your silence—but the words wouldn’t come.

His gaze cut to you again, piercing and cold, and you flinched under it, “And I’m supposed to what? Just trust you?”

You swallowed hard, your chest tight, “I thought… I thought you’d understand.”

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the soft crackle of the dying fire. You wanted to tell him everything, to make him see that your feelings—your friendship—had never been about magic, charm, or anything like that. But the words stuck in your throat, heavy and unsaid.

Instead, you pressed your lips together, taking a shaky breath, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He gave a laugh, bitter and hollow, shaking his head, “Great job.”

Before you could respond, he spun on his heel and stormed up the stairs, leaving you alone. Your hands flew to your face, muffling the sob that finally broke free. The quiet of the room, the dim light of the dying fire, and the shadows pressed down on you as your body shook with grief. You crouched there for a long moment, wishing somehow you could turn back time—or at least explain. But for now, all you could do was feel the weight of silence, the sting of misunderstanding, and the emptiness of the space he had left behind.

***

Dawn filtered through the tall windows of Dumbledore’s office, spilling soft gold across the polished floor. You sat in front of the headmaster's desk, shoulders hunched, hands twisting the edges of your robes, heart hammering with the weight of everything that had happened.

A sudden shimmer of magic announced the arrival of your parents. The second you had contacted them, they had immediately arranged to get a portkey ready to Hogwarts.

Before you could think, you were running into your father’s arms, burying your face against his chest. “Papa… I tried.” You whispered, voice breaking as hot tears slid down your cheeks.

He held you tightly, and for a moment the world outside didn’t exist. You felt the familiar strength of his embrace, the solid warmth that had always made the impossible seem bearable. But even through the comfort, one noticed the tight set of his jaw, the subtle furrow of his brow. For all his striking looks and presence, there was guilt there—because he had been the reason you were here, caught between worlds, exposed and vulnerable.

Your mother stepped closer, her hand brushing your hair, a quiet reassurance. You let yourself shiver into their warmth, letting the sorrow, fear, and frustration slip out in shuddering sobs. The morning light caught in your tears, and for the first time that day, you felt a fragment of relief, the sense that at least here, in this quiet, safe space, someone truly understood.

***

Pansy came barreling down the corridor, her heart hammering like a drum. Each step echoed sharply against the stone walls, her breaths coming in short, jagged bursts, leaving her gasping by the time she skidded to a stop in front of the Slytherin boys’ dormitory. Her knuckles flew against the door, the sound sharp and insistent.

The door creaked open slowly, revealing a few bleary-eyed boys, squinting at her in confusion. “Pansy? It’s… early. What’s going on?” Mattheo mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“She—she’s here, right? (Y/N)?” Pansy practically shoved the words out, desperation threading every syllable, her voice catching in a half-panic.

The boys exchanged puzzled glances. “Why would she be here?” Theo asked, still half-asleep, leaning against the doorframe.

Pansy whirled, fixing Lorenzo with an intense, almost pleading stare, “You two—you both have that weird… thing going on. Do you know where she is?”

Lorenzo froze. His breath hitched slightly at the mention of you. His mind immediately began replaying the last twenty-four hours in agonizing detail: your tear-streaked face, the tightness in your voice, the sound of your muffled sobs echoing up the staircase as he walked to his dorm.

He tossed and turned all night, the words he’d shouted at you replaying over and over. Was he any better than the others when he had treated you like that? Did he have the right to get upset? Were his feelings for you real—or had he just convinced himself they were? Did you even know how he felt? Perhaps you did, perhaps you had made him feel this way.

His jaw tightened, fingers flexing against his side as guilt coiled in his stomach. He shook his head slowly. “No. I haven’t seen her since yesterday.” He admitted, voice quieter than usual, weighed with unease.

Blaise, now more alert, leaned forward, curiosity and concern in his voice, “Wait—what’s going on? Why are you freaking out like this?”

Pansy’s hands flew to her face, tugging at her hair in anxiety, then she pulled them down as if trying to steady herself. Her eyes were wide, shimmering with unshed tears, “I… I don’t know. Her things… they’re gone. Her chest is empty, her desk is empty. I tried asking the others, but—nothing. She’s just… missing.”

A tense silence fell over the doorway, thick and suffocating. The boys exchanged uneasy glances, the gravity of her words sinking in. Lorenzo’s chest tightened painfully, the cold knot in his stomach making it hard to breathe. He stepped closer, heart hammering against his ribs, mind racing with a flurry of guilt and fear.

Enzo’s jaw clenched, furrowing his brow as the memory of last night replayed in his head for the millionth time. Had he pushed you too far?

Pansy’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, “What if—what if something happened? What if—because of the way we treated her? Fuck—I went to bed early last night just to avoid talking to her. What if something happened to her?"

The words hit him like ice. His chest tightened further, guilt and fear coiling in a spiral he could hardly control. He couldn’t shake the image of your small frame, trembling, your eyes glistening as you tried to hide your tears. His hands itched to reach out, to make things right—but you weren't there.

Lorenzo’s gaze hardened, jaw clenching as he swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat.

And that’s how Enzo and Pansy found themselves standing outside Professor Snape’s office that morning—a half-dressed, panicked lot huddled together in the dim corridor. Their robes were thrown on haphazardly over their pajamas, hair still mussed.

They pounded on the heavy wooden door again, the sound echoing off the stone walls, and yet none of them flinched at the thought of the torrent of wrath and fury they were about to unleash upon themselves.

The door creaked open, and Professor Snape’s shadow fell across the threshold. His expression was as unreadable as ever, dark eyes scanning each of them with a mixture of mild annoyance and measured calculation. “Yes?” He asked, his voice low, smooth, but brimming with authority that made the air itself feel charged.

Pansy stepped forward, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to force the words out before the panic strangled her, “Professor… we… we can’t find her. (Y/N). She’s—she’s gone!”

Snape’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, the faintest crease appearing between his brows. He let the silence hang for a moment, letting the panic in the students’ voices sink in before speaking, “Her parents picked her up this morning. She went home for the holidays.”

The words hit like ice. Pansy blinked, confusion and disbelief washing over her, “The holidays… aren’t for another week.”

“Yes. She went early,” Snape replied, his tone clipped, precise. He didn’t flinch at the wide-eyed shock on their faces, didn’t soften his words for their panicked pleas.

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened, the frustration building in his chest like a storm pressing against his ribs, “You just… let her go? Miss a week of school? You’re okay with that?” His voice cracked slightly, more from the helplessness gnawing at him than from anger.

Snape arched a brow, his gaze sharp enough to make even Lorenzo pause. “Mr. Berkshire, despite what you may think of Hogwarts, this is an institution that prioritizes the welfare and development of its students. Ms. (L/N) wanted to go home early, and her parents agreed it was in her best interest. Furthermore, international students cannot always schedule Portkeys according to their own timelines; we provide additional discretion and consideration in such cases.”

Lorenzo felt something cold wash over him. Right, you lived in France. Even if he wanted to visit you, to straighten things out. You weren't simply a hop, skip and a jump away. He wouldn't be able to apparate there.

Snape’s eyes glimmered briefly with a cold, almost imperceptible calculation. He stepped back slightly, his hands folding neatly behind his back, leaving them to absorb the weight of the decision without another word.

The two of them stood frozen in the corridor, a thick silence settling over the stone floor. Pansy let out a small, shaky breath, her hands twisting together nervously. “What...what did we do.” She whispered, voice barely audible.

Lorenzo sank to the nearest bench, chest tight, shoulders hunched, as guilt and helplessness coiled together in his stomach, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely clasped together.

He could still see the way you had looked at him the night before, tears welling in your eyes as he shouted, as he accused you. He had been so sure then, so certain he was in the right—but now the certainty wavered. Was it really you he cared about? Or was it the pull, the allure, the irresistible charm he could never explain?

That didn't make any sense.

If it truly were the veela appeal, the rest of his dormmates would have been banging on Snape’s door with him, wracked with guilt the way he was. But they weren’t. They weren’t the ones who had pushed you, who had shredded your confidence piece by piece, and yet here he was, drowning in guilt, replaying every word, every accusation. He should feel guilty—he had pushed too far, ignored the tears streaming down your cheeks.

And yet… you had wanted to talk to him, not the others. That had to mean something, right? That your connection was deeper than the one you had with the rest? That you trusted him, that he mattered more to you?

But what if that was exactly why you had used your appeal, carefully, deliberately, to keep him wrapped around your finger—to make him want to see you, to apologize to you even though you were the one who had hidden the truth?

And yet—the memory of you voice, the sight of your smile, the sound of your laugh that sent a strange, intoxicating thrill rushing through his veins—they weren’t magic. Not entirely. That was you. That had to be you.

Still, doubt lingered like smoke curling around his heart. He wanted to believe, to trust, to go to you and say everything he hadn’t been able to the night before. But how could he be sure his feelings weren’t… tainted?

He leaned back, shoulders tense, staring at the ceiling as if the answers could somehow be etched into the stone above, and wondered if he would ever truly know the difference between magic and the person behind it.

***

Lorenzo sat slouched low in the armchair nearest the fire, head tilted back against the crushed velvet, eyes locked on the ceiling as though the flickering shadows overhead might hold the answers he couldn’t find. His jaw was tight, thoughts looping endlessly in a vicious cycle—he liked you. He didn’t know if his feelings were real. He liked you. He didn’t know if you had used your veela appeal on him.

Merlin, he loved you—

A sigh slipped out, heavy and tired, cutting the silence.

Theo, sprawled across the sofa with a book he clearly wasn’t reading, glanced up. His sharp eyes lingered for a beat before he let the book drop onto his stomach with a loud thud, “Merlin’s beard, Enzo, you look like either end of a blast-ended skrewt. This brooding thing is starting to get pathetic.”

Lorenzo didn’t so much as twitch, “Mind your business, Theo.”

Theo smirked, undeterred, and sat up, elbows braced on his knees, “Oh, I am minding my business. You moping around affects the whole bloody dorm. I cannot listen to your pathetic, wistful little sighs anymore. It’s like being haunted.”

Lorenzo dragged a hand down his face, muttering, “Theo…” in warning, but Theo only shook his head with exaggerated pity, clearly enjoying himself.

“Relax,” He said, leaning back with a lazy stretch, “I’m just saying, stop acting like the world ended. You’ve got the rest of your lives together.”

That snapped Lorenzo out of his haze. His head jerked toward Theo, eyes narrowing, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Don’t fuck around with my feelings, you prat.”

Theo blinked, looking almost innocent, before he arched a brow, “You’re joking, right?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Lorenzo’s voice was sharp now, defensive, brittle.

Theo studied him for a long moment, then barked a short laugh, “Salazar, you’re denser than I thought. Don’t tell me you don’t know.”

Lorenzo’s brows pulled together, suspicion stirring, “…Know what?”

“That you’re her fucking soulmate, scemo.” Theo’s grin spread, slow and knowing, as if he’d just uncovered some great cosmic joke.

The words landed like a Bludger to Lorenzo’s chest. For a second, he just stared, breath stalling. Theo, of course, recognized the look of disbelief and pressed on.

“You were the only one at the opening feast who wasn’t immediately taken with her. Even Malfoy was tripping over himself that night. And you? You said she wasn’t prettier than fucking Granger.”

The firelight danced across Lorenzo’s face as his mouth opened, then shut again, something unsteady flickering across his eyes.

Theo leaned forward slightly, voice dripping with smugness, “Come on, man. You wrote that bloody paper in Hagrid’s class yourself. You know a veela’s soulmate is immune to their appeal.”

Lorenzo wanted to scoff, to tell Theo he was full of shit. But the denial stuck in his throat. Because the moment Theo said it, the memories rushed in—the way he’d been indifferent to you at first, how he hadn’t fallen under your spell like the others, how his feelings had only taken root as you drew closer. It wasn’t instant. It was gradual. Real. And that thought made his pulse quicken, his stomach clench.

Theo didn’t notice—or maybe he did and just didn’t care. He smirked wider, leaning back into the sofa like he’d just delivered gospel, “So quit sulking. Or at least go do it somewhere else—I cannot stand looking at your dumb mug for another second.”

***

The rain had just let up when the doorbell rang. You were curled up on the window seat in your father’s study, staring blankly out at the drenched garden, wondering who would visit in weather like this.

You padded toward the door, still in the soft cardigan you’d thrown on that morning, hair loose around your shoulders. You pulled open the heavy oak door.

And froze.

The last thing you expected was Lorenzo Berkshire standing on your front step, damp from the drizzle, his hair mussed from travel—but none of that made your breath catch.

It was the enormous potted rose bush he was clutching awkwardly in front of him, as tall as he was, the deep crimson blooms brushing his jaw.

“Hi.” He said, voice rough and uncertain in a way you’d never heard before. His usual sharpness, the polished wit, the shield of arrogance—it was gone.

You blinked, throat tightening, hands curling at your sides, “Enzo? What are you doing here? What on earth is that—?”

“I’m sorry,” He said, shifting the weight of the plant so it wobbled slightly in his arms, “I’m here to apologize. To beg for your forgiveness. And my mum always said flowers were the way to go, so…” He chuckled, though the sound was unsteady, holding the pot even higher though you could see his arms trembling.

The corners of your lips parted, but no words came.

“I’m so sorry, (Y/N),” He continued, voice raw, “I should never have said those things. I should never have treated you like that. I… I was just hurt because—”

“Because?”

“Because I thought my feelings for you weren’t real,” He admitted, stepping closer, letting the damp from his coat cling faintly to yours, “Since you came to Hogwarts, I saw people fawn over you, fall in love with you, even if you didn’t spare them a glance. When I found out you were a Veela, I thought… I thought what I felt was just like that. Shallow. Fake. That the feelings keeping me awake at night, driving me crazy… were all the same as theirs.”

He finally set the plant down, stepping closer still, the earthy scent of roses filling the space between you. “But I think I know now.” His dark eyes searched yours, vulnerable, “Am I… really your soulmate?”

A single, constrained nod, and relief softened the pained lines on his face.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked, voice breaking slightly.

“My whole life, I’ve been on the receiving end of endless and unwanted love and attention,” You whispered, emotions clogging your throat. “And the first guy I’ve ever—” You swallowed, trembling, "The first guy I’ve ever loved is the only one in the world who isn’t obligated to love me back. I… I was scared. You seemed so aloof… the only person who didn’t immediately fall for me but seemed the opposite. I was scared if I told you, you’d reject it. Say it wasn’t real… or go against it out of spite.”

Lorenzo’s heart sank. He could almost see himself, had he known earlier, dismissing the idea entirely—thinking the whole thing foolish, running from it, ignoring it. He swallowed the sting of that imagined scenario, leaning closer.

“And perhaps it was cowardly,” You added, your lip trembling, “but I just… I wanted to keep you in my life. Any way I could. Even if you didn’t feel the same.”

He cupped your cheek with a trembling hand, rough thumb brushing lightly against your skin, giving you the chance to pull away, to reject him. But you didn’t.

“I do,” He whispered, voice raw and breaking, “I do feel the same way, (Y/N). I have for months now. I love you.”

You searched his face, your breath catching as you found only sincerity there—sincerity tinged with pain, with regret, with something desperate and unguarded. Your heart began to pound against your ribs, hard enough to hurt, your eyes stinging as tears blurred your vision.

“Ever since that day in Hogsmeade,” Lorenzo continued quietly, voice trembling but steady, “maybe even before that… I began to see past what other people wanted to see. And I began to see you. Just you. And I loved what I saw. Those feelings have only gotten stronger with time.”

You blinked up at him, your fingers curling lightly into the sleeve of his coat. “Really?” The question came out small, almost childlike, as if you were afraid to believe it.

“Yes.” His answer was immediate, certain, “And I don’t think what you said that day was true.”

Your brows furrowed, “When I said what?”

“That the reason the Veela appeal doesn’t work on your soulmate is to protect them from it.” He drew in a shaky breath, thumb still tracing slow circles against your skin, “I think… it’s the opposite. I think it’s so that, when I did fall in love with you, you’d know. You’d know it wasn’t because of your bloody appeal but because of you.” His voice cracked softly on the last word, and his eyes burned into yours, fierce and unflinching.

“Because I’m not in love with the qualities everyone else can see.” His other hand rose to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you infinitesimally closer, “I see you. All of you. And I love you more because of it.”

For a heartbeat, you couldn’t speak. The room seemed to shrink to just the two of you—the scent of rain still clinging to his coat, the muted glow of the hallway lamp casting soft shadows across his face. His hands trembled slightly as they cupped your cheeks, as if afraid you might vanish the moment he let go.

Your chest heaved with a sob, and you collapsed against him, shuddering uncontrollably. Lorenzo wrapped you tightly in his arms, holding you as you cried and wailed, the sound raw and unrestrained. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, murmuring against your hair, wiping away each tear with painstaking care. Every droplet he caught felt like a confession, a promise that he was here, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

His face twisted into a sorrowful, yet tender, smile. He hated that he had ever been part of the reason for this pain, that his own doubts and fears had added to the weight on your shoulders. “I love you, (Y/N).” He whispered, voice breaking, almost reverent.

You sobbed harder, the words hitting you with a force that made your knees weak. The devotion in his voice, the first time you had ever received such genuine affection, filled you with such overwhelming joy, it felt heart-breaking.

You clung to him, to the warmth and the certainty of his embrace, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The sobs began to ebb, leaving a raw, quivering quiet in their wake. Your forehead rested against his chest, breathing mingling, hearts hammering in synchrony. Lorenzo’s hands tightened around you, fingers threading into your hair and along your back as if anchoring you to him, to this moment, to the certainty of his love.

Then, slowly, almost hesitantly, his lips brushed yours. A whisper of a kiss at first, testing the boundaries, letting you respond—or pull away. But you didn’t pull away. Instead, you tilted your head, pressing closer, letting the pent-up ache and longing of months spill into the contact.

The kiss deepened, desperate and unrestrained, a collision of relief, apology, and love. It was messy, imperfect, but painfully real, and it burned away the last of the fear and doubt that had clung to you for so long. Your hands found his shoulders, then his neck, holding him as tightly as he held you, as if letting go would undo everything.

When you finally broke apart for breath, your foreheads pressed together, eyes wet but shining, Lorenzo’s voice was a low, trembling murmur, "Do you...like the flowers?"

You managed a shaky laugh, resting your hands on his chest, "I love them, Enzo. Almost as much as I love you."

***

Bonus:

The Great Hall buzzed with the usual morning energy—floating candles casting golden light across the long tables, the scent of fresh pastries mingling with the crisp autumn air. You were perched on your usual bench, a steaming cup of tea cradled between your hands, when a small, neatly wrapped package slid across the table in front of you.

You blinked in surprise. “From my mom,” You murmured, peeling back the ribbon. Inside was a delicate little jar, filled with dried petals that still smelled faintly of roses. “She made potpourri from the fallen petals of the rose bush you gave me,” You explained softly, eyes flicking to Lorenzo, who had just plopped down beside you.

He hummed thoughtfully, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face as he leaned closer, resting his chin on your shoulder and taking a deep inhale. Not of the rose petals, but of you.

"What's that?"

You smiled softly, glancing at the short note tucked into the jar, recognizing your mother’s handwriting and her messy French. “In a nutshell,” You say, “she says, ‘She has eyes in the back of her head.’ I think she’s surprised… she didn’t meet my dad until she was twenty-three.”

Surprised was an understatement. Your parents had gone for a brief grocery run when they had gotten caught in the rain and by the time they had returned you had been curled up on the couch with a boy you had claimed to be your soulmate.

Your father almost had a heart attack.

You turned over the note and laughed, recognizing your father's messy scrawl.

"If you ever bring that boy in my house again, I will bury him underneath that stupid rose bush in the backyard."

***

To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

@superlegend216

@kaisupremecy

@ilovefictionallmenn

@aviwritessometimes

@devilslittlehelper

@notfckincreative

@workof-a-rr-t

@insideoutjulie

@tikitsune

@booklover2503

@whoreforfictionalmen18

@hzdhrtss

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

@revesephemeres

@catiwinky

@goldfishinpainttubes

@psh-pjh

@honethatty12

@imkindofanaudiogeeksorry

@lilians17

@its-jennarose

@h1mawarii

@lookalivesunshiiiine109

@ivygreenonbricks

@navs-bhat

@swiftlythejackson

@itznotsophia

@allielovesstars

@century13

@moremaple

Slytherin Boys Taglist:

@laufeysvalentine

@theodoresvalentine

@nottinmyheart

@caffeine-addict-slug

@usmell4

Fred Weasley was absolutely insistent that you and he were just friends.

Best friends, even.

“Like family.” He’d say with a laugh, ruffling your hair and tugging you into his side like you were an annoying little sister. Honestly, it made you roll your eyes so hard you were surprised you didn’t find a second brain back there.

Because everyone else knew Fred already had a younger sister—two years below you, in fact—but he never treated her the way he treated you.

In fact, he was practically blind to her antics. He waved off her detentions with a grin and said Hogwarts was meant for mischief.

And when she spent the better part of an hour snogging Dean Thomas in the corner of the Gryffindor common room? Not a word. Not a look. Just Fred, lounging like nothing was happening.

Even Ginny didn’t think a single year made such a difference—but Fred? Fred seemed to think it was a chasm. Enough of one to put you firmly in some sacred category: completely off-limits. Practically blood.

Your older brother? Please. He was clearly anything but.

You reached the base of the stairs and scanned the common room for your roommates, who were waiting to leave for the party in the Ravenclaw tower. You smoothed down your skirt and gave yourself one last look in the mirror.

You looked hot.

Not just hot—head-turning, legs-for-days, traffic-stopping hot.

Fred, who had been lazily chatting with your roommates (and turning down their offers to come along—claiming he was far too tired and absolutely couldn’t be hungover before tomorrow’s Quidditch practice unless he wanted to face Oliver Wood’s wrath), absolutely short-circuited.

He stared at you.

One second. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Then sputtered, “What in Merlin’s name are you wearing?!”

You turned in place, giving a little twirl, “Cute, right? What do we think?”

He narrowed his eyes, “I think you forgot the bottom half.”

Your friends broke into laughter. George just rolled his eyes, especially since Ron had walked out of the common room not fifteen minutes ago on his way to the same party—and Fred had told him that if he didn’t come back completely smashed, he was a pussy.

You crossed your arms, incredulous, “It’s a skirt, Fred.”

“It’s a postage stamp.”

“It’s called fashion.” You shot back.

“It’s called a crisis! You bend over and you're going to court!”

Your jaw dropped, “This is couture!”

Fred threw his hands up in exasperation, “Well, couture clearly means no pants in French!”

You rolled your eyes.

Fred stepped in front of you, arms crossed like he was about to fight someone, looking like he was about to have a stroke, "Go put on some pants, or you're not going."

You blinked at him, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He gestured vaguely at your legs like they offended him, "You can’t just go out dressed like that."

Your brows shot up, "Why do you even care so much?"

He didn’t hesitate, "Because you’re like a little sister to me!"

That earned a very loud groan from your friends. One of them actually facepalmed. George gave an exaggerated sigh and muttered under his breath, “Here we go again.”

"I'm not changing." You said, matching his energy with your arms crossed.

"Fine," Fred said, jaw tightening, "Then I’m coming with you."

You blinked again, "For what?"

He paused, "To supervise."

"Fred," George drawled from his seat, not even looking up, "You’re not a prefect. And this isn’t a Ministry investigation. It’s a party. You're being a real Percy."

Your friends exchanged looks and stifled more laughter. One of them leaned over and whispered, "If this is what having a brother’s like, I’m out."

"This is what it's like having a boyfriend but she gets none of the upsides." One whispered back.

Fred glared at them though they were hardly deterred, giggling louder now, “I’m being responsible.”

You just shook your head, turning toward the portrait hole, "Whatever. Keep up if you’re coming, mum."

Despite what Fred Weasley told everyone—including himself—you knew exactly how he felt about you.

He said it all the time, like repeating it would somehow make it true.

“You’re like a little sister to me.”

He’d ruffle your hair, wrap an arm around your shoulder, call you squirt. Like he wasn’t two seconds away from spontaneously combusting every time some poor boy looked in your direction for longer than a heartbeat.

And maybe he thought it was brotherly affection.

Maybe he genuinely believed that he was just being protective. Maybe he hadn’t noticed how his voice always changed around you—softer, warmer, less teasing. Maybe he didn’t realize that he never reacted this way when Ginny got into trouble, or when Hermione dragged Ron across a dueling mat.

But you noticed.

So did everyone else.

And every time Fred got all riled up on your behalf, trying to cover his nerves with shouting or sarcasm, it made you feel like the center of the universe. Like a sunflower turned toward its sun.

And because you were a menace—and because you were in love—you liked to test just how far you could push that brotherly façade.

Every Dumbledore’s Army meeting became your personal playground. Every duel, a performance. Every trip, stumble, or wince? Another chance to watch Fred's expression twist from calm to frantic in real time.

Today was no different.

You were paired with Zacharias Smith—a pompous, loud-mouthed git who was all talk and absolutely no skill. The second your names were called together, you spotted Fred across the room stiffen like he’d just been personally insulted.

But you simply smiled.

Smith was already getting cocky before the duel even started, twirling his wand with the confidence of someone who'd only heard about talent. Then he shouted an Expelliarmus—a bit too forcefully—and you seized your moment.

You gasped, staggered backward, and threw yourself to the floor with a dramatic thud, wand flying from your hand as you landed.

It wasn’t a bad fall. It barely even hurt. But that wasn’t the point.

Across the room, Fred froze mid-spell.

“Oi!” He shouted, already shoving past George and dodging Neville as he sprinted toward you.

His face was a picture of panic.

Your internal grin was feral.

He skidded to his knees beside you, eyes darting across your body like he expected to find a missing limb, “Are you alright?! What the bloody hell was that, Smith?!”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was always too easy. Like flicking a switch.

“I’m fine, Freddie.” You said, your voice soft and sweet, fluttering your lashes for good measure.

He didn’t even acknowledge it—too busy inspecting your arm, pulling up your sleeve to check for bruises like he was some kind of medic.

"That spell was way too aggressive," He growled, “He could’ve dislocated your shoulder, or—or cracked your wrist!”

You made a soft, wounded noise in your throat. (Maybe laid it on a bit thick, but who was judging? Certainly not Fred.)

“I’ll be okay,” You murmured, letting your bottom lip tremble just slightly, “My hero.”

Fred scowled. A full-on, brows-knitted, jaw-tightened scowl, “Don’t get soppy on me, squirt. You’re like a little sister. I gotta keep you safe.”

Little sister.

Right.

You tried not to roll your eyes.

Not like he said a word when Hermione accidentally launched Ron into a bookshelf twenty minutes ago and Fred had laughed so hard he almost cried. Not like he’d won a sickle betting against his own brother.

No, it was different when it was you.

When it was you, he sprinted. He shouted. He scowled like the world was ending.

You inhaled slowly and offered him your sweetest, most angelic smile, “Of course, Freddie.”

He didn’t look convinced. His eyes lingered a little too long on your face before he stood and offered you his hand.

You took it—warm, calloused, grounding—and let him pull you to your feet.

As he turned away to go yell at Smith again (Zacharias had wisely retreated to the far side of the room), you brushed off your robes and watched Fred’s retreating back with a sense of calm satisfaction.

You’d get him eventually. You were patient. And Fred Weasley had no idea what he was in for.

It was one of those rare warm afternoons in October—the kind that made you forget how quickly the season was changing. The sun hung low over the Black Lake, and a gentle breeze rolled off the water, ruffling your notes and carrying the faint scent of moss and sun-warmed grass.

You’d spread your books beneath a tree, determined to study for your upcoming exams. But, predictably, you’d spent more time watching the sky ripple across the lake than reading a single line. Still, it was peaceful. Quiet. A perfect moment.

Until it wasn’t.

A body dropped into the grass beside you with a dramatic sigh.

“Ugh,” Fred Weasley groaned, flopping onto his back like the world had wronged him, “I knew I’d find you out here being obnoxiously productive.”

You glanced over your shoulder, amused, “And here I thought I’d actually get some work done without distractions.”

“I know,” He said, shielding his eyes with one hand, “My devastating good looks are very distracting.”

You snorted, “Wow. Didn’t think anyone could love themselves more than Malfoy.”

Fred gasped, “That’s low. Even for you.”

You grinned, turning back to your parchment. For a while, the quiet settled between you again—comfortable and companionable. Sunlight filtered through the branches above, casting warm, dappled shadows over your notes. A few first-years skipped stones near the lake, their laughter drifting on the breeze. It felt like Hogwarts had slowed down—like the Tournament hadn’t upended everything, like you hadn’t spent the entire morning stressed about things you couldn’t control.

Fred sat up beside you, resting his arms on his knees. “Weird, innit?” He said, nodding toward the water, “No Quidditch this year.”

You nodded, “Yeah. I didn’t think I’d miss it, but… I kind of do.”

“No bludgers to the face every Saturday,” He sighed, “What a tragedy.”

You laughed, “You liked getting hit.”

“I like winning,” He corrected with a smirk, “There’s a difference.”

You exhaled a laugh, shaking your head.

Fred leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him, “Well, who needs Quidditch when there’s the Triwizard Tournament, eh?”

You wrinkled your nose, “I still can’t believe they’re actually holding that thing again. A student died last time. I mean—who would be stupid enough to enter?”

Fred rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand and giving you a lazy, mischievous grin, “Funny you should ask. George and I are entering.”

You blinked, “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious.”

Your mouth fell open, “Fred, you’re not even of age.”

“Technicality,” He responded, waving a hand, “We’ve got plans.”

“You’re mad,” You said, gaping at him, “Do you even know what the tasks are?”

“’Course not,” He said brightly, “That’s the fun of it. Life’s full of surprises.”

You raised an eyebrow, “Life’s also full of death, Fred.”

He grinned, “I think that’s a fair trade for a thousand galleons.”

You stared, “You want to risk dying for money?”

He gave you a look, “I want to open a joke shop.”

That shut you up.

He didn’t say it like a joke. There was a rare steadiness to his voice, something quiet and real beneath the usual chaos. He plucked a blade of grass and twisted it between his fingers, not quite meeting your eyes.

“George and I—we’ve been working on stuff for ages. Skiving Snackboxes, Canary Creams, that cough syrup that changes your voice pitch—we’ve got an entire catalogue in our dorm. No more sneaking around under Umbridge’s nose. We want real walls. A shop. Our names on the window.”

He paused, then added, “We’ve been looking at places in Diagon Alley. But they’re way out of reach. Even if we worked our arses off for the next ten years, we’d never make enough. The Tournament’s our best shot.”

You blinked, “Oh Godric. You’re actually serious.”

He finally glanced over at you, “Deadly.”

Your heart did a weird little lurch. Not just because Fred Weasley could be serious—which was a revelation all on its own—but because now you could see it. The dream behind the jokes. How much it meant to him.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” You asked quietly.

He shrugged, suddenly shy, “Dunno. Guess I didn’t want anyone laughing at it. It’s not exactly the career Mum had in mind.”

You nudged his shoulder gently, “Well, for the record? I think it’s brilliant.”

He looked at you then—really looked. The wind ruffled his hair, and the sharpness in his grin softened into something slower, more genuine.

“You do?”

You nodded, “Absolutely. I mean, if anyone can build an empire out of nosebleeds and puking pastilles, it’s you two.”

Fred beamed, and for a second, the world felt lighter.

“Thanks.” He said, quiet but full of meaning.

You smiled back and nudged his foot with yours, “You’ll still be an idiot, though.”

“Obviously,” He said, flopping onto his back with a groan—his head landing squarely in your lap, “Just a rich one.”

You looked down at him, sunlight catching in his eyelashes, his grin lopsided and smug. And you laughed—soft and full, like the sun had settled in your chest.

It was nothing and everything.

Just a moment. Just a feeling.

But it was these moments that truly made you believe.

You were never a just 'little sister' to Fred.

The Yule Ball was a glittering, dazzling spectacle—lights flickering off icicles, laughter rising above the string quartet, and students twirling like they belonged in fairytales. You, however, sat near the edge of the ballroom, nursing your second Butterbeer and watching the swirl of color and sound with a wistful smile.

You hadn’t come with a date. Not for lack of trying—well, trying in your own mischievous, joking way.

A few weeks ago, you’d cheekily asked Fred if he wanted to go with you. Just for laughs. You knew he was going with Angelina—everyone did—but you asked anyway, leaning across the common room table with a dramatic flutter of your lashes.

“Freddie, darling,” You’d purred in a mock-sultry voice, “would you do me the honor of escorting me to the Yule Ball?”

Fred had laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair, “Merlin, no. You’re like my little sister.” He said, ruffling your hair like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Ugh. Little sister. Would he ever give it a rest?

It still clanged around in your brain like a badly played triangle.

You’d rolled your eyes at the time and played it off with a sarcastic bow, “Guess I’ll be a single lady then.”

You could’ve gone with someone else—you’d been asked by a few boys from all three schools—but you couldn’t bring yourself to accept any of them. You’d considered it briefly, wondering if maybe it would make Fred jealous. Part of you hesitated because you didn’t want to give him another reason to believe you weren’t available—romantically or otherwise.

But, really… you didn’t want to go with anyone who wasn’t Fred.

So you came alone. In a dress you adored. Ready to have a good time with your friends instead of pretending to care about someone you’d barely remember in a year.

The small detail you’d failed to factor in?

Your friends hadn’t come alone.

So here you were—alone in a dress you actually loved, watching the dance floor glow with candlelight and spinning silhouettes.

You weren’t bitter. Not really.

…Okay. Maybe a little.

You were fine. You were great. You were single, glowing, unbothered—and just a little disappointed.

Fred had been dancing most of the evening with Angelina, stopping now and then to mess with George or shove cake in Lee’s face. But the moment he spotted you sitting alone, something shifted in him. His laughter faltered mid-sentence. The smile dimmed just slightly.

He watched you from the edge of the crowd. Your eyes followed the dancers, your foot tapping along with the beat. But you weren’t smiling like you usually did. You looked like you were waiting—for something. Or someone.

Fred excused himself from the group without a word and made his way toward you, face unreadable.

You looked up as he stopped in front of you.

“Fred?”

“You look like a lemon.”

You blinked. “Charming.”

He held out a hand, “Dance with me.”

You raised a brow, “And abandon my hard-earned reputation as the designated wallflower? You sure you want to ruin that for me?”

He smirked, but there was something softer beneath it, “Just so you’re not sitting here looking miserable. I mean, you looked like you wanted to dance. And you’re not a lemon. You’re… a pomegranate.”

You stared at him, “Wow. How could a girl possibly resist?”

You placed your hand in his, warmth zipping up your arm at the contact.

“Thanks, Fred. I didn’t want to sit here all night.”

“I’m rescuing you from a night of tragic wallflowering,” He said, placing one hand on your waist and taking the other in his, “A truly chivalrous act.”

“Right,” You said dryly, “Should I curtsy or just kiss your feet?”

He narrowed his eyes, “I could still leave you here, you know.”

“You won’t.” You said smugly.

You were on your third dance with Fred—completely unaware of time, music, or the fact that your feet were starting to ache—when someone tapped your shoulder.

You turned to see a Ravenclaw boy you vaguely recognized. “Hey—sorry to interrupt,” He said, smiling, “Would you like to dance the next one?”

You opened your mouth, startled, but Fred beat you to it.

“She’s booked for the night, mate." He said smoothly.

The boy blinked, “Oh. I just thought—”

Fred clapped a hand on his shoulder, laughing, “Appreciate you trying to put me out of my misery, really. But I couldn’t do that to you.”

The boy hesitated, then walked away.

You turned back to Fred, eyebrows raised, “Didn’t you just say you were dancing with me because I looked like a lonely?”

Fred shrugged, “I couldn’t, in good conscience, let him suffer through your dancing. Besides, you’d be bored with anyone else.”

You snorted, “I’m calling your bluff, Weasley. You just don’t want to admit you’re having fun.”

He gave you a wicked grin. “Maybe I am… but don’t let it go to your head.”

The night wore on, and you were breathless from laughter. Despite his usual disinterest in McGonagall’s dance lessons—apart from embarrassing his brother for dancing with her—Fred, to his credit, was a surprisingly good dancer. He had already spun you around twice, always managing to keep you steady even though, in these heels, it felt like one misstep away from disaster. But his latest antic nearly gave you a cardiac arrest.

“Ready?” He asked, eyes gleaming.

“Fred—what are you—?”

Then he dipped you.

Dramatically.

One strong arm behind your back, the other holding your hand as your head tilted back with a surprised squeak. You gripped his arms tightly, heart hammering.

“I could drop you,” He said casually, “Let everyone see you take a tumble in that pretty dress.”

“Fred Weasley, don’t you dare—”

He chuckled, voice low and steady, “I’d never let you go.”

Your breath caught.

He was close—too close. His voice was warm against your cheek, his grin lazy, his eyes crinkled at the corners. Like what he’d just said meant something.

You stared at him for a heartbeat too long.

Then, with a cheeky flourish, he pulled you upright again, smiling like it had all been a joke.

You didn’t say a word. Because if you did—if you pointed out how soft and sweet that had been—he’d ruin it. He’d backpedal. Say something like “Because you’re like my sister,” and you weren’t about to let that ruin the moment.

So you said nothing. You let him hold you a little too close. Let his fingers linger at your waist. Let yourself feel the weight of it—of him.

And then, slowly, the teasing faded. The jokes quieted. You were just dancing. Holding each other. His hand warm against your back. His eyes drifted to your lips just once and you had to stop everything in you from leaning into him.

At some point, your fingers brushed his collar, adjusting it just to touch him.

The both of you just lost in your own world.

Until the crowd began to thin. Until the music slowed. Until reality crept back in.

Fred glanced toward the edge of the ballroom.

“Oh, Merlin,” He breathed, “Angelina.”

You blinked, “Oh my God. You had a date.”

He winced, “I didn’t mean to leave her—”

“You left her the whole night, Fred,” You worried, still slightly dazed that the guy you had been crushing on forgot his own date for your company, “For your pomegranate.”

He looked sheepish, running a hand nervously through his hair. “That makes it sound worse.” He muttered.

“It is worse.” You said quietly, the concern in your voice barely masked by the soft glow of the ballroom lights.

Fred swallowed hard. “I’ll go talk to her,” He said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flickering with a mix of guilt and dread, “She’s gonna kill me.”

He found Angelina standing near the exit, her arms crossed, the faintest crease between her brows. She didn’t look angry—not really. Just… tired. Like she’d been waiting too long to say what she needed to say, and it had worn her down.

“Took you long enough.” She said coolly, voice steady but carrying a weight beneath it.

“Angelina, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” She interrupted, stepping closer, her gaze sharp and unyielding, “Just be honest with me.”

Fred blinked, confusion clouding his expression, “Honest?”

She nodded, her voice softer but no less firm, “The moment you saw her, you forgot I even existed.”

His cheeks flushed, a mix of embarrassment and something deeper, more complicated, “It’s not like that. She’s—”

“Don’t,” Angelina said sharply, cutting him off, “Don’t say ‘little sister.’ You’ve been using that excuse for ages. It’s not cute anymore. She’s not your sister. You didn’t spend the whole night laughing with her, dancing with her, looking at her like she hung the bloody moon because she was your sister.”

Fred opened his mouth, as if to protest, but no words came. The truth hung heavy in the air, unspoken but impossible to deny.

Angelina gave him a sad, almost wistful smile, “You know what? I hope she finally says something. Because you’re too stupid to realize you’re already halfway in love.”

With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, her silhouette swallowed by the crowd.

Fred stood frozen, watching the heavy doors swing shut behind her. The sounds of the ball—the music, the laughter—seemed distant, like they were happening to someone else.

Across the room, you were laughing with George, your eyes bright, your dress catching the light with every twirl. Your joy was undeniable, effortless.

Fred’s heart thundered painfully in his chest.

Oh.

Fred stumbled into the Gryffindor common room later that night, hair a complete mess, and his tie still hanging loosely from his collar like a badge of defeat. His usually cocky grin was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t going to sleep tonight. Not after Angelina. Not after you.

He hadn’t even managed to reach the part of his brain that could make sense of why the latter felt like it mattered more. The weight of it pressed on his chest in a way he wasn’t used to.

He made a beeline for the couch and flopped down face-first, letting out a long, weary sigh. Unfortunately, his relief was short-lived.

“Enchanté, loverboy.” Came a familiar voice.

Fred groaned without opening his eyes, “Go away, George.”

But George was already there, sprawled comfortably with a smug grin and a pillow in hand.

“Why should I?” George asked, grinning wide, “I’m genuinely enjoying your emotional meltdown. It’s been ages since I had this much blackmail material on you.”

Fred peeked one eye open, glaring, “You’re delusional.”

“Oh, am I?” George leaned in, his grin widening wickedly, “So, just to make sure I’ve got this right—you asked Angelina to the Yule Ball, spent exactly zero time with her, and then danced the entire night with someone you keep insisting is ‘just your little sister’?”

Fred scowled, sitting up slightly, “She didn’t have anyone to dance with—”

George gasped dramatically, clutching his chest, “Oh no! Poor darling (Y/N), tragically unwanted and left to fend off all those desperate wankers alone. Thank goodness you stepped up to do your familial duty and ward off all those other blokes with your death stare!”

“I didn’t—”

“And then there was the moment when you full-on blocked that Ravenclaw who asked her to dance—”

“He was creepy.” Fred interrupted, defensive.

“Was he?” George raised a skeptical brow, “Or did you just not like some other bloke getting close to what you think belongs to you?”

Fred sputtered, cheeks flushing, “She’s not mine!”

George leaned back, hands behind his head, looking like he’d just won the Quidditch Cup, “That’s not what your face said last night when she laughed at someone else’s joke.”

Fred blinked in surprise, “She did?”

George threw back his head and howled with laughter, “You absolute muppet. You’re in love with her.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are in love with her.”

Fred narrowed his eyes, “She’s like a sister.”

George chuckled, eyes sparkling with disbelief, “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”

The days after the Yule Ball stretched on with a strange sort of silence between you and Fred. It wasn’t the loud, obvious kind of silence that comes from a fight or an argument—it was quieter, more complicated. Like a door left slightly ajar, inviting but uncertain whether to open or close.

Fred wasn’t usually the type to get tongue-tied or awkward. He was a master of quick jokes, cheeky grins, and effortless charm. But in those weeks, whenever you were near, something tangled inside him—like a knot he didn’t quite know how to undo. His usual bravado wavered just enough that it made you catch him staring a little longer than usual or pause mid-joke, like he was rehearsing lines in his head that never quite made it out.

The common room felt different now when you sat near each other. The easy camaraderie you’d always shared was still there, but it was layered with something unspoken—something neither of you dared to say aloud. Conversations that used to flow effortlessly now stumbled into sudden silences.

He found himself watching you more, stealing glances when he thought you weren’t looking—the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you loved, the subtle way you bit your lip when you were deep in thought, the way your laughter made the whole room feel warmer. Every little detail seemed to grow in significance, like clues to a puzzle he didn’t realize he was trying to solve.

He kept telling himself it was safer to keep things as they were. Safer to laugh it off, to shove feelings aside and pretend they weren’t there.

Still, the more he tried to ignore it, the harder it became. Every shared glance, every accidental touch, every laugh felt like a spark. And sparks—no matter how small—have a way of turning into flames.

So the days rolled on, filled with stolen moments and unspoken truths, until the night of the twins' birthday.

You’d gone all out.

Of course you had. They were your closest friends—your brothers in chaos, your constants—and no amount of recent awkwardness between you and Fred was going to change that. You weren’t about to let a few strange, tense weeks ruin what had always been effortless. You had promised yourself you'd make their birthday unforgettable.

So you did.

The common room was full of warmth and flickering firelight, the remnants of cake crumbs and torn wrapping paper scattered across the floor like confetti. Laughter echoed off the stone walls, and the twins were basking in the glow of attention and affection from everyone who adored them.

George let out a low whistle as he unwrapped your third gift—a meticulously crafted set of self-replenishing joke parchment. His eyes lit up like a kid in Honeydukes.

“Blimey, (Y/N),” He said, grinning, “Trying to buy our affection?”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder, “Obviously. Isn’t it working?”

They were thrilled—joking, laughing, trading banter with anyone who approached. It should’ve felt perfect.

And yet… that other gift still burned a hole in your pocket.

The real one.

Your eyes found Fred across the room—red hair tousled, cheeks pink from laughing too hard, head thrown back as Lee told some ridiculous story. He was glowing in the way only Fred could glow, like he was lit from the inside.

And still, you felt that tug in your chest. The ache of what hadn’t been said.

When the noise began to settle and the party mellowed into pockets of low chatter, you crossed the room and gently tugged at his sleeve.

“Fred,” You said, just loud enough for him to hear, “Come with me?”

He blinked down at you, caught off guard. “Yeah. Alright.”

You led him toward the farthest corner of the Gryffindor common room, past the roaring fire and beyond the clusters of chatting students, until you reached the quiet nook beneath the grand stained-glass windows. The flickering moonlight spilled in, mingling with the soft glow of a single enchanted lamp, casting gentle shadows that danced along the stone walls. Here, removed from the laughter and bustle, it felt like the rest of the world had paused just for the two of you.

Your hands trembled slightly as you reached into your pocket and pulled out a small, worn box. It wasn’t wrapped. It wasn’t fancy. It didn’t sparkle or shimmer. But your heart was in it—completely.

Fred frowned a little, brow furrowing, “You didn’t have to—”

“Shut up and open it, Weasley.” You interrupted, pushing it gently into his hands.

He raised an eyebrow at you, amused but curious. Slowly, he lifted the lid.

Inside was a snow globe. The little snowflakes drifted gently over a miniature brick-and-mortar storefront, with a bright red ‘W’ hanging proudly above the door. As Fred looked closer, a tiny charmed figurine—obviously meant to be him—stepped onto the shop’s doorstep. The figure carefully put on his hat, then lifted it to reveal a small rabbit sitting playfully on his head. When he placed the hat back down and lifted it again, the rabbit was gone.

His fingers hovered over it, stunned. Not because it was extravagant—it wasn’t—but because it was him. It was the dream. His dream. Captured and preserved with such quiet devotion, it took the air straight out of his lungs.

“I made it,” You said softly, barely above a whisper, “I wanted you to know that no matter what… I’ll always be on your side.”

Fred stared at it.

Then at you.

His expression shifted like a storm—surprise first, then something softer. Something heavier.

You hesitated, “I know things have been weird these past couple weeks, but I just—”

Before you could finish, he stepped forward and kissed you.

There was no warning.

No hesitation.

Just Fred—urgent and messy and real. It wasn’t graceful, wasn’t the kind of kiss you saw in fairytales. It was all clumsy affection and months of unsaid things. You made a startled sound, but your hands moved before you could think—one curling into the front of his shirt to keep him close, the other gripping the side of his face.

You kissed him back with everything you had.

When he finally pulled away, breathless, his face was burning. His hands lingered on your waist, his forehead resting lightly against yours.

“Don’t say a word,” He muttered hoarsely, eyes squeezed shut, “Not. A. Word.”

You opened your mouth.

He jabbed a finger at you without even looking, “I mean it.”

You closed it again, biting back a wicked little smirk.

Fred groaned under his breath, dragging both hands through his hair as he turned back toward the others like a man marching to his execution.

The moment he stepped back into view, the common room erupted.

A chorus of laughter, wolf whistles, and mock applause rang out like someone had set off fireworks.

“FREDDIE!” Lee shouted, pointing, “You’ve got lipstick all over your mouth!”

George nearly fell off the couch, howling, “Finally, you absolute muppet!”

Fred turned back to shoot you a look—something between a death glare and a desperate plea for mercy.

You just leaned against the wall, arms crossed and smile syrup-sweet. “You told me not to say anything.” You called innocently.

His jaw dropped. George clapped him hard on the back.

“You’re doomed, Freddie. Doomed!”

Fred groaned again, eyes still locked on you, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to strangle you or kiss you all over again.

You just winked.

And Fred, cheeks flaming and heart pounding, couldn’t even pretend anymore.

He was absolutely, irrevocably, spectacularly in love with you.

And he always had been.

Fred didn’t talk to you for two whole days after the kiss.

Which was absolutely hilarious, considering he couldn’t stop staring at you.

Every time you caught his eye in the common room, he’d jerk his head away so fast you half expected him to get whiplash. His cheeks would flare bright red like he’d just walked through a blast-ended skrewt.

At breakfast, he knocked over his goblet of pumpkin juice—not once, but twice—sending sticky liquid splashing over the table. When he tripped on the stairwell on his way to Charms class, narrowly catching himself on the banister, you barely suppressed a laugh.

George caught on immediately, his grin spreading wider than the Great Hall on feast day.

“You’re a bloody mess,” George said gleefully, clapping Fred hard on the shoulder as if congratulating a champion, “And all because of one little kiss.”

Fred muttered furiously, burying his face in his hands, cheeks still flaming. “It wasn’t a kiss,” He insisted, voice muffled, “It was—it was—”

“What? CPR?” George teased with a wicked smirk, “Pretty sure you didn’t need to snog her to save her life, mate.”

Fred groaned loudly and pushed his hands away, blinking rapidly as if trying to erase the image from his brain.

This went on for days.

He’d catch your eye, panic, and look away like you’d cast a Confundus Charm on him. His ears would burn brighter than the Gryffindor common room fire, and he’d mutter under his breath whenever you passed by.

It was, frankly, kind of adorable.

George was having the time of his life.

On day one, he started pacing the common room, sighing dramatically like a Shakespearean actor. “Ah, young love,” he muttered, voice thick with mock sentimentality. “So fragile, so awkward, so completely bloody hilarious.”

Whenever Fred glanced your way—no matter how fleetingly—George would launch a strategic attack with Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, pelting him like a mischievous spellcaster.

Fred just huffed and tried to act nonchalant, but even someone as blind as him could see he was utterly, hopelessly smitten.

Meanwhile, you watched the whole spectacle with a quiet smile—knowing this was just Fred's pathetic way of trying to come to terms that you were actually the love of his life.

Fred wasn’t there for the DA meeting today. While he said he was just not feeling well, a part of you wondered whether he was trying to avoid you on purpose.

Without his ever-watchful, overprotective presence hovering nearby, you found yourself sharper—faster, smarter, more daring than you’d realized.

You sparred with Harry, and it quickly became clear: you were a natural. Your feet barely seemed to touch the ground as you ducked, weaved, and cast spells with precision and flair. Your counter-curses came swift and clever, each movement more confident than the last.

When you finally disarmed Harry with a clean, flawless flick, sending his wand soaring across the room, even Hermione couldn’t help but clap.

Harry grinned, breathless as he retrieved his wandm “Merlin, (Y/N), where have you been hiding that?”

Your heart raced, a triumphant spark lighting up inside you. You shrugged with a sly smile.

“Maybe I just don’t like showing off.” You said playfully.

Harry’s eyes narrowed playfully, suspicion flashing in them.

Then it hit him. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his wand and pointed it at you.

“Wait a minute,” He said, voice teasing, “You pretend to be useless around Fred, don’t you? So he’ll fuss over you?”

You batted your eyelashes and gave him your most innocent, wide-eyed look.

“Moi?”

Harry burst out laughing, shaking his head, “You are pure evil. Brilliantly evil.”

You just winked, utterly unapologetic.

You didn’t plan to storm into Fred’s dorm like a thundercloud, but after days of the cold shoulder, the sidelong glances, and the maddening silence, you’d finally reached your limit. Tonight, you were done waiting.

The door swung open before Fred could even answer, and he was caught somewhere between surprise and guilt. His usual easygoing grin was gone, replaced by a flush creeping up his neck and a nervous flicker in his eyes. The room around him was cluttered with scattered prototypes and half-finished joke shop inventions, mirroring the chaos you sensed in his mind.

He shuffled uncomfortably, running a hand through his untamed hair, his gaze flicking anywhere but at you. The words he tried to form tangled and tumbled inside his head, leaving him stumbling over silence. His posture was tense, shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself smaller, less exposed.

He was still rambling—stumbling over half-hearted excuses about how you were “like a sister,” how George was “just taking the mickey,” and how “it didn’t mean anything.”

That was when you snapped.

You grabbed him by the tie, yanked him forward, and kissed him like it was the only way to shut him up.

For a single, suspended, electrified second, Fred froze. Then he kissed you back, like he was catching up on something he hadn’t even let himself want until this very moment. His hands gripped your waist with a fierce uncertainty—unsure if he was pulling you closer or holding on for dear life.

He tasted like mint and adrenaline and something sweeter, something dangerous—because somewhere in that kiss, Fred realized he wanted to do it again.

Again and again and again.

But then you pulled away, chest heaving, lips swollen, and before he could stop himself, Fred chased after you, his mouth searching for yours on pure instinct.

You held him off with a hand pressed to his chest.

“This isn’t how you treat your little sister.” You whispered, voice soft but sharp—words that still landed like a hex.

Fred blinked at you, stunned, lips parted, like he’d just been hit by a bludger he never saw coming.

Had he really been calling you his little sister all this time?

Ew. What the hell was wrong with him?

“Yeah,” He finally said, “That’s… that’s not what this is.”

You tilted your head, that infuriating little smirk tugging at your lips—the one that always got him into trouble, even when he didn’t know why.

“Took you long enough to realize.” You murmured, voice all velvet and mischief.

Fred stared, mouth opening to argue—but he had nothing. Not a single retort. Because, bloody hell, you were right. He had taken too long. Too long pretending, too long denying, too long calling you his “little sister” when all he wanted was to kiss you again until he forgot every reason not to.

And now? Now he was properly wrecked.

Fred swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to your lips before settling on your smug little smile.

“Yeah?” He said, voice low, a little dazed, “What else am I late to, then? Might as well catch up properly.”

He stared at you, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. Then—just as he stepped forward again, a little more sure this time—

“Oi!”

The door slammed open.

George stood in the doorway, wide-eyed, munching on a half-eaten apple, “Didn’t realize we were hosting Snogwarts: The Reunion. Should I come back later, or are you two gonna keep traumatizing me?”

Fred groaned loudly, “Merlin’s bollocks, George, ever heard of knocking?”

George shrugged around a crunchy bite, “Ever heard of boundaries? That’s my bed you’ve shoved her onto!”

“Godric's bloody—George, do you mind?”

George took another loud bite, “Yes. But not enough to leave.”

You giggled, wrapping your arms around Fred’s shoulders, and he groaned again, forehead dropping to your shoulder like he was silently begging for mercy.

Later that night, Fred found you curled up in the common room, tucked beneath a soft blanket with a book resting in your hands. The fire flickered gently, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Without a word, he collapsed beside you with all the dramatic flair he was known for, letting out a long, theatrical sigh as if the weight of the entire Quidditch league was pressing down on his chest.

“I’m a disaster.” He declared, voice heavy with self-reproach.

You didn’t look up from your book, “Mhm.”

Fred ran a hand through his tousled hair, voice dropping to a low confession, “I panicked. That first time. The moment caught me off guard. I was trying to show you how grateful I was—and well, I thought kissing you was the best way to do that.”

You closed your book with a soft snap and finally met his eyes, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, “It was a good idea. Until you ran off with lipstick on your face and hid behind George for two days.”

He groaned, dragging his hands down his face in mock despair, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely." You said, amusement sparkling in your gaze.

Fred muttered, “I probably deserved that.”

“You do.”

He exhaled, steadying himself, “Look… I’m sorry. You’re not my little sister. You never were. I’ve been stupid and blind and oblivious, and I’m lucky you didn’t move on from a fool like me. I like you—more than is remotely reasonable.”

You smiled, a victorious glint in your eyes, “Say it again.”

Fred rolled his eyes, but the sharpness was gone, replaced by something softer, more real, “I like you.”

You tilted your head, voice gentle but playful, “Properly.”

He shifted closer, his heart pounding in his throat, “I like you, alright? I’ve liked you for ages. I just didn’t know how to say it… or what to do with it.”

Your smile softened into something warm, inviting, “Then show me.”

He did.

This time, the kiss was slower, deliberate. No panic, no rushing away. Just the warmth of his hands finding your waist, your fingers threading through his hair, and the quiet, electric certainty that everything was finally falling into place.

Bonus:

It was a brand-new day. Literally. But somehow, it felt metaphorically new too—like the kind of fresh start you didn’t even know you needed until it happened.

Fred Weasley strode into the Great Hall that morning, and when his eyes landed on you already seated at the Gryffindor table, casually sipping pumpkin juice like you hadn’t just rewritten the entire script of his life the night before, he nearly tripped over his own feet. He blinked, stunned.

You caught his eye, flashed a mischievous smirk, and patted the seat beside you.

He sat down slowly, unsure if this was real or some elaborate prank hatched by the combined mischief of Peeves and George.

“Morning.” You said, effortlessly snagging a piece of toast from his plate the second it appeared.

“Morning.” He echoed, eyes fixed on you, clearly unsure what to do with his hands—or how to behave now that the world had shifted on its axis.

“You sleep alright?” He asked cautiously.

You gave him a teasing look, “Better than you, probably. You kept tossing and turning. Too busy lying awake, replaying every moment from yesterday.”

His jaw practically hit the floor, “How did you know?”

“I didn’t. But now I do.” You quipped.

Fred groaned, “You’re the worst.”

“You’re the one who took three years to kiss me. I’m allowed to enjoy this.”

Before he could reply, George plopped down across from you both, grinning like a Kneazle with a bowl of gold coins in hand.

“Well, well, well,” George announced, sliding a crumpled parchment onto the table with theatrical flair, “What do we have here? Oh yes—that’s right! Three galleons, eight sickles, and a bag of Fizzing Whizbees. Collected over three bloody years.”

Fred blinked, “What is that?”

George’s grin widened, “The betting pool. Started it when I first noticed our dear brother here looking at you like a lovesick Kneazle but being completely useless about it. Most gave up after sixth year, but not me. I believed.”

You stared at him, incredulous, “You bet on us?”

“Of course I did. I’m not an idiot. Also, Lee Jordan owes me five chocolate frogs and the next round at Hogsmeade.”

Fred groaned, burying his face in his hands, “This is a nightmare.”

You patted his shoulder, barely holding back laughter, “Don’t worry, love. At least you’re finally winning something.”

He peeked at you through his fingers, utterly defeated, “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

You leaned in, planting a light kiss on his cheek, “Not a chance.”

Just like that, Fred Weasley—world-class prankster, confident flirt, and now completely and irrevocably yours—blushed bright red over eggs and toast. Meanwhile, George was already shouting across the table, “Oi, Angelina! Pay up! I told you it’d happen before graduation!”

“Well, well, Weasley,” Came Angelina Johnson’s voice from the far end of the table, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she set down her toast, “Not only did you break my heart, but now you’re making me lose a bloody bet?”

Fred groaned again, looking up just in time to see Angelina approaching with that infuriating grin firmly in place.

“I didn’t think it was possible to make this more awkward,” She said, sliding onto the bench beside George, “but you’ve really outdone yourself. I bet you thought you were clever, calling her your ‘little sister’ while sneaking off with her every chance you got.”

Fred’s cheeks flamed. “It wasn’t like that.” He muttered, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

You nudged him playfully, “I know Fred’s an idiot, Angelina, but you should’ve had some faith in me. There was no way I was going to graduate without pointing out that he’s clearly in love with me. Honestly, he should’ve figured it out last Valentine’s Day when he nearly had a conniption because Roger Davies asked me to be his valentine.”

Fred groaned again, but this time the sound was lighter, less burdened. He was too wrapped up in the warmth of having you by his side, teasing him—this time as his girlfriend—to care about anything else.

Bonus Bonus Scene:

It started innocently enough. (Okay, no. It really didn’t. Not even a little bit.)

You were at the Burrow for a family dinner—Molly, ever the doting mother hen, had insisted you come along. “You’re practically one of us, dear!” she’d said, completely unaware that you and Fred were teetering on the edge of indecency every time you looked at each other.

Fred had spent the entire afternoon teasing you with little touches—brief brushes of his hand at the dinner table, secretive smirks, and whispered comments that made you choke on your pumpkin juice while Molly gave you an oblivious, comforting pat on the back.

By the time dessert was cleared, you were practically vibrating with pent-up energy and barely able to keep your hands to yourself.

Fred caught your eye across the kitchen, his gaze locked with yours—and that was all it took.

You hadn’t even made it two steps into the hallway when he caught your wrist, pulled you into a shadowy alcove, and kissed you like he’d been starving for it all night.

You giggled into his mouth, clutching the front of his shirt, “Fred—someone will see—”

“Don’t care,” he muttered, his lips already trailing down your neck.

You melted against the wall, laughing breathlessly, tugging him closer.

Fred kissed you like a man who’d been waiting forever, hands roaming, mouth hot and urgent.

You were completely lost in the moment, lost in him—so much so that neither of you noticed the heavy footsteps approaching.

Until—

“FREDERICK GIDEON WEASLEY!”

You both jumped, nearly a foot in the air.

Fred stumbled back, his ears flaming bright red, wiping his mouth. (He was quite traumatized from the incident after your first kiss you see)

Molly stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, face the exact shade of a ripe tomato.

For a long, frozen three seconds, no one moved. No one breathed.

Your heart pounded so loudly it was all you could hear.

Fred looked like he was calculating a quick Apparition out of there.

Molly pointed a trembling finger at both of you, “WHAT—WHAT ON EARTH—YOU—AND—HE—YOU—KISSING!”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, but no words came.

Fred, somehow, found his voice first, “Uh... surprise?” he offered weakly.

“How long has this been going on?!”

Your cheeks burned as heat rushed up your neck, “Um... a while?”

Molly gasped as if you’d just confessed a crime, “A WHILE?!”

You winced. Fred winced.

Behind Molly, George peeked into the room, grinning so wide it looked painful.

Ron snorted from somewhere nearby.

Ginny was cackling so hard she had to lean against the wall.

Fred ran a hand through his hair, looking utterly defeated, as if willing the earth to swallow him whole.

“Mum,” He said, voice low but serious, “I’m in love with her.”

The room fell utterly silent.

Even George stopped laughing.

You blinked at Fred, stunned. He’d never said it like that before—not out loud, not so plainly.

Molly stared at him, then at you, then back at him again.

And then—much to everyone’s horror—she burst into tears.

“Oh, Fred!” She sobbed, “My little boy’s in love!”

You leaned in, grinning against the swell of your own heart, “Didn’t think you’d be the first one to say it,” You whispered, voice warm with mischief, “I was sure I’d have to drag it out of you in another three years.”

He chuckled, not pulling away, gazing at you in such a way that told you that had his mother not been in the room, you would've found yourself pressed against the wall once more, “Had to beat you at something, didn’t I?”

Bonus Bonus BONUS scene: (because I CAN)

The Three Broomsticks buzzed with weekend chatter—students crammed into booths, scarves trailing off shoulders, butterbeer steaming in their mugs. You were nestled between Hermione and Ginny, a little flushed from the warmth and the laughter, your empty glass pushed to the side.

“I still can’t believe he’s not here,” You murmured, stirring absentmindedly at a napkin, “Feels weird, doing all this without him.”

“Aw, you miss your boyfriend.” Ginny cooed dramatically, nudging you with her elbow.

You rolled your eyes, “Of course I do. But it’s more than that. He was everywhere last year. Loud, obnoxious, stealing sips from my drink, sticking notes to my back... It’s just quiet now.”

“He did write you, though,” Hermione offered, smiling, “Nearly every day, if I recall correctly. Your poor owl is exhausted sending your cute little love notes back and forth.”

You pressed your hand to your chest, mocking deep emotion, “Yes. A romantic sentence followed by ten paragraphs of commentary on the exact ratio of sugar to fizz in Fizzing Whizbees. I could swoon.”

“Well, it is Fred,” Ginny said, giggling.

“He said he might try to visit this weekend,” You admitted, eyes flicking toward the window as a group of third-years raced past outside, “But I haven’t heard anything.”

“Maybe he’s surprising you.” Hermione offered with a coy smile, lifting her mug.

“He’s not subtle enough for surprises,” You replied with a grin. “He’d probably drop from the ceiling shouting, ‘DID YOU MISS ME?’.”

At that exact moment, a familiar voice rang out from behind you.

“Well the ceiling was taken so I guess I'm doing this the old-fashioned way.”

You blinked, heart stuttering, and whipped around.

Standing just a few steps away, snow dusting his hair, cheeks pink from the cold, scarf looped loosely around his neck, and the most insufferable grin on his face.

You barely had time to register him before you were out of the booth and throwing your arms around his neck. He caught you easily, spinning you once before setting you down, laughing.

“You prat,” You breathed, hands on either side of his face, “You didn’t tell me—!”

“Would’ve ruined the surprise.” He said, eyes warm and crinkled at the corners.

Ginny raised her butterbeer like a toast. “You owe me five Sickles,” She told Hermione, “I said she’d cry.”

“I’m not crying!” You called back, affronted, though your eyes were definitely misty.

Fred beamed, “Give it ten minutes. I’m very moving.”

“Ugh, can't imagine why anyone would miss that.” Ginny muttered, grimacing into her drink.

And as Fred pressed a quick kiss to your lips and tucked you in closer beside him, it felt like everything had snapped back into place. The noise, the laughter, the warmth—Fred was back, and for a little while at least, the world was exactly as it should be.

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@haniscrying

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

@superlegend216

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

@revesephemeres

You don’t know what shape it will take whether it will come like a storm or a whisper, whether it will destroy you again or finally let you breathe. But you feel it in your gut, in your skin, in the way the air wraps around you tighter than usual.

In the hotel breakfast room, Toto watches you with a kind of quiet vigilance, as though he's bracing for a storm only he and you can see coming. His eyes linger too long, the way they did when you were fifteen and reckless and just starting to fall in love with what he thought were the wrong things. He’s not your boss today he’s your father and he looks at you like a man who’s lost his daughter once already and isn’t sure he can do it again.

You remember him pulling you into a long, fierce hug, voice low and firm against your hair as he murmured, “Don’t let him shake you.”

But it’s already too late for that. Because the shaking isn’t in your hands it’s in your core.

It only deepens when you walk into the driver’s briefing and see Max sitting there.

He’s late, but only just. Slipping into the room with the kind of casual dominance that would be insufferable if it wasn’t so earned. He doesn’t glance your way, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t speak, doesn’t offer the usual flicker of sarcasm or the teasing drawl he used to wield like a weapon only you knew how to disarm.

He simply sits, legs sprawled, arms crossed, eyes locked on the screen and the FIA representative ahead silent.

Completely, unnervingly silent.

It rattles you more than any argument, more than any scathing remark he could have thrown across the table, because silence, from Max Verstappen is never passive.

It is not absence. It is intention. It is control.

You feel the tremor of it ripple through you like a warning, like the crack of ice just before it breaks. Something is going to happen today. You don’t know what but you’ll feel it when it does.

Schiphol Airport - 2020

The terminal feels wrong, too quiet and too still. The usual buzz of rolling suitcases, announcements over the loudspeaker, the distant rush of boarding calls has been dulled to a strange hush. People move like ghosts: faces masked, eyes darting, fingers glued to phones as alerts flood in by the minute.

You stand near your Gate, a departure screen blinking overhead.

Flight Cancelled.

The blinking cursor on your own flight confirmation feels surreal. Everything feels surreal.

You shift your weight, adjusting the straps of your backpack, your knuckles white where they grip your boarding pass. A mother hurries past with a child in tow. A flight attendant shakes her head and speaks low into a walkie-talkie. Somewhere behind you, the television near the bar replays the same montage of closed borders, empty streets, headlines screaming words no one was prepared for: global pandemic. national lockdown. indefinite postponement.

You glance down at your phone.

No new messages.

Your thumb hovers over a contact that’s still pinned to the top of your chat list. Max.

You type:

Guess you get to rest for once.

A half-smile tugs at your lips. He always used to complain about the calendar, too many triple-headers, no off-season, never enough time to breathe.

You stare at the message. Backspace.

One letter at a time.

Until it’s gone.

You lock your phone and slide it back into your jacket pocket. Tell yourself it doesn’t matter he’s not expecting to hear from you, maybe he isn’t thinking about you at all.

Monaco - 2020

A different time zone. A different kind of silence.

Max stands in the middle of his apartment, one hand on the balcony door, the other wrapped around his phone. The TV plays the same loop of race cancellations, the same rising numbers, the same familiar images turned unfamiliar.

His eyes are fixed on one name at the top of the screen.

He types:

This is crazy right?

Stares at it. Then deletes it.

He turns off the screen and walks into the kitchen. Doesn’t send anything.

He doesn’t know you were just standing in an airport with the same thought. The same urge to reach out. The same ache of shared history folded into silence.

Two messages, both unsent, both invisible, cross somewhere between Amsterdam and Monaco, two digital ghosts suspended in the air like radio signals with no one left to catch them.

No proof they ever existed. Only the familiar echo of each other’s name on separate screens.

Friday - 10:13AM

Lewis catches you just outside the briefing room, one hand resting lightly on your arm as you pass.

“You good?” he asks, voice low but steady.

You pause, nod. “Yeah. Just—long week.”

His eyes hold yours for a second longer than casual conversation calls for. He’s not pressing, just checking, the way someone does when they’ve known you long enough to see through the automatic answers.

He nods once, like he’s heard what you didn’t say out loud. “Alright. Just… if you ever need to get out of the noise, or talk—or not talk—I’m around.”

You smile. “Thanks,.”

He gives your shoulder a squeeze. “Anytime. And hey don’t let George wind you up too much. He lives for it.”

You call after him, voice teasing, “I’m always here if you need to escape Ferrari gossip by the way.”

He throws you a grin over his shoulder. “Tempting offer. I’ll keep it in mind.”

You huff a laugh as he disappears around the corner. The tension in your chest eases just a little.

11:48AM – Mercedes Motorhome

You’re half-focused, fingers working on muscle memory as you snap the earpiece into place, adjust the volume dial on your comms, and tug your jacket collar flat. The familiar rhythm of prep should steady you it usually does but today your hands feel too tight, too deliberate, like they’re mimicking calm rather than living it.

Your phone buzzes once against the desk beside you.

You ignore it.

Then it buzzes again. Then again, with the sharp insistence of urgency that doesn’t ask it demands.

By the fourth buzz, you’re already bracing for it, stomach knotting, pulse skipping uneven beats beneath your skin. You pick it up with reluctant fingers, the cold edge of the device biting into your palm as you swipe down.

The first notification lights up the screen like a match in the dark:

@redflag: SOMEONE JUST SAW MAX AND JOS ARGUING BEHIND THE RED BULL GARAGE

Your breath catches before you can stop it. The next one flashes a second later.

@max4stappen: They said Max was yelling?? Jos stormed off???

The words hit like static, messy, loud, and familiar.

You keep scrolling, each line worse than the last.

Sky Sports News: “Tensions Flare in Red Bull Garage: Verstappen Senior and Junior Seen in Heated Conversation” Max left shortly after. No comment from the Verstappen camp.

@behindthevisor: Apparently Jos said something about “keeping your head on straight” and Max just… lost it?

And then…

@wolffwatchers: Did Jos mention her name? 👀

Your name.

They mean you. They always do.

You swallow hard, the motion suddenly difficult, as if the weight of it all is pressing against your throat.

The stream of reactions doesn’t stop. They keep coming, faster now speculation, secondhand reports, half-truths laced with emojis and punctuation marks that feel far too casual for something this volatile. You don’t click into them. You don’t have to.

The air around you seems to shift, like the moment before thunder cracks. The motorhome is quiet except for the low murmur of engineers and strategists in the next room, unaware or pretending not to be. The buzz of electricity hums faintly through the walls.

Max never loses it. Not like that. Not anymore. Not in front of the garage. Not with cameras nearby. Not with him.

You set the phone down, screen still alight with chaos, and try to refocus on your comms but the world has already tilted off its axis, and you feel it in your bones.

It’s already started.

11:26AM – Red Bull Garage

He knew it would happen eventually.

Maybe not today. Maybe not behind the garage with the whole paddock one overheard breath away. Maybe not in this exact way with voices raised and tempers frayed and every nerve in his body pulled taut like wire, but some part of him has been bracing for this for years.

Since Abu Dhabi 2019, he hasn’t known a moment of peace. Not really. Not when the weight of what he lost clings to every silence, every what-if he never said out loud. He’s tried to move forward. Tried to bury it beneath trophies and titles, under the pressure of performance and the grind of race after race, but grief doesn’t work like that. Neither does guilt.

Now it’s here. Boiling over in the place he swore would be the one part of his life he could still control. Jos started it as always, with something small. A throwaway comment lobbed like a spark toward gasoline.

“You’ve been distracted all weekend.”

The words hit harder than they should, maybe because they’re true, maybe because they sound too familiar, or maybe because Max is already hanging on by a thread. He turns sharply, jaw clenched, dragging his father out of sight behind the garage trying to get away from prying lenses and watching eyes.

Then he snaps.

“You think I don’t know that?” he bites out, voice pitched low but vibrating.

Jos folds his arms, unbothered. “Then focus. You let that girl derail and distract you once Max. Don’t do it again.”

There it is. That word. That fucking word again.

Distraction.

The same word that tore her apart. The same word she was never supposed to hear the one that sent her packing without a single goodbye when he didn’t even realise what he’d done until it was too late.

“Don’t talk about her,” he spits, barely managing to keep his voice from shaking with rage. “You don’t get to talk about her. Not now. Not ever.”

Jos tenses. “I’m trying to protect your career.”

Max lets out a humourless laugh. “No. You’re trying to control it. Still.” His voice rises with each word, years of buried resentment breaking through like cracks in a dam. “I’m a grown man you don’t get to decide who I care about. Who I—”

He catches himself but it’s too late. The air changes between them.

Jos glares. “She left Max she didn’t even say goodbye. That wasn’t me. That was her choice. You don’t think she’ll do it again?”

Max steps forward close enough now that Jos has to meet his eyes. “You really think she just walked away without a reason?” He scoffs. “You don’t know anything. You never have.”

Jos goes silent but Max doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. The truth is burning a hole inside his chest and if he doesn’t say it now, it’ll eat him alive.

“You don’t even know what you did,” he says, quieter now, but with more weight than anything he’s said all day. “You don’t even realise what your words do. What I let them do.”

Jos shakes his head, but Max cuts him off.

“Look maybe it was me too,” he says, voice raw. “Maybe I’m the one who stood there and said nothing while you said things about her, about how she was a distraction, how she’d ruin everything and I didn’t say a damn thing. I didn’t defend her. I didn’t stop you. I just… stayed quiet like that would somehow protect everything, if I didn’t rock the boat it would be fine. We’d be fine.”

He shakes his head, eyes flicking up to meet his father’s. “But I wasn’t fine, I let her walk away because I was scared of what you’d think if I fought for her.”

Jos doesn't reply, jaw set.

“So don’t pretend you had nothing to do with it,” Max says, low and steady. “You spent years making me doubt the one person who’s done nothing but be there for me.”

There’s a pause, Max breathes through it.

“She didn’t deserve that. Neither of us did.”

The silence between them stretches thick, bitter, final. Max turns away before his father can respond. Whatever Jos says now doesn’t matter because for the first time in years Max isn’t biting his tongue. He isn’t burying his guilt under performance data and press obligations. He’s speaking for himself.

He’s done letting anyone else write the story.

Not his father. Not the media.

He’s done letting other people speak for him.

Sky Sports Broadcast

David Croft:

"Bit of movement down at Red Bull earlier we hear some of you watching the paddock feed might’ve seen that moment between Max and Jos Verstappen behind the garage. We don’t have confirmation on what was said, but... well, you could feel it, couldn’t you?”

Naomi Schiff:

"Yeah, whatever it was, it wasn’t just a typical pre-race exchange. Max doesn’t usually get into it like that, especially not in public. He’s intense, sure, but that… that looked personal.”

Ted Kravitz:

“I was actually down there a few minutes after. The mechanics were keeping their heads down, but you could tell something had rattled the energy a bit. Jos walked off pretty fast, didn’t even look back.”

Crofty:

“There’s been a lot of chatter lately, hasn’t there? About who’s been spending time in which garage… and who’s come back to the paddock this year. Whether it’s personal or professional, it’s clearly hit a nerve. He’s been sharp all year but you can’t underestimate the emotional toll something like that takes before lights out.”

Naomi:

“If I had to guess, I’d say Max is drawing some lines. And he’s doing it in front of everyone. Which… might be the point.”

Crofty, quieter now:

“He’s grown up in this paddock, hasn’t he? But maybe this is the first time we’re watching him fully step into his own.”

The camera cuts to Max in the garage helmet on, eyes locked ahead, posture calm but coiled. Behind him, the space where Jos once stood is conspicuously empty.

Monaco - 2021

It’s the win they used to whisper about like a shared secret. Late-night simulator sessions. Strategy arguments at 2 a.m. on a flight back from Singapore. Rainy afternoons spent watching archival footage of Senna’s pole laps. Even when Max had barely broken into Formula 1 and you were still being introduced as “Wolff’s daughter” rather than a strategist in her own right, Monaco had always been the dream. The crown jewel. The one race that mattered more than any other even for those who’d pretend it didn’t.

"One day," you said, years ago, curled beside him on a hotel sofa somewhere in the middle of nowhere, "you're going to win Monaco, and when you do I’m going to be right there watching from the pit wall with your name on my wrist."

But she’s not there now, not in the garage, not in the crowd, not anywhere in his periphery. She hasn’t been for over a year.

Max steps onto the top step of the podium, drenched in champagne and sunlight and the deafening roar of a crowd that’s waited too long to see him there. His first Monaco win. The moment he once built castles around in his mind.

It doesn’t feel how he thought it would, at least not entirely, he lifts the trophy and smiles for the cameras. He enjoys himself in the moment. Does the interviews, the handshakes, the protocols. From the outside, he looks unstoppable the championship lead in hand, Monaco conquered, nothing in his way. But later when the lights have dimmed and the motorhome is quiet when the only sound is the whir of a distant generator and the faint echo of a party somewhere down the harbour, he sits on the couch phone cradled in one hand.

The champagne still feels sticky on his skin. He hasn’t changed yet. Hasn’t showered. The adrenaline’s gone now and all that’s left is the ache.

His thumb hovers over a name in his contacts:

He opens the message thread. No new texts. Just the ghost of the last conversation left hanging like so many things between them.

He types three letters:

Hey

Stares at them. Deletes them. Closes the app. Opens it again.

Did you watch?

Deletes that too. He tosses the phone onto the far end of the couch like it’s burned him.

Then he just sits there, staring at the wall, while the greatest win of his life fades quietly into the background. He doesn’t sleep that night his brain won’t stop running corners he’s already won, not on the track in life.

Across the continent in a small apartment lit only by the soft blue hue of a laptop screen, you watch the replay alone. The moment he crosses the line you don’t cheer. Your breath catches. Your heart twists and your fingers hover over your phone before you even realise what you’re doing.

You unlock it. Scroll down.

You did it.

Then delete it.

Congratulations. I always knew you would.

Delete.

You lock the phone. Drop it facedown beside you and bury yourself deeper into the couch. You remember exactly what you’d said all those years ago. You remember dreaming of this day like it was yours too. You wonder if he thought of you if he felt the silence as loudly as you did. You fall asleep to the soft hum of the post-race analysis still playing on the laptop, head resting on the arm of the couch, heart a little heavier than before.

r/formula1gossip

Posted by u/missverstappen

[DISCUSSION] Max Said Something Weird in His Post-Monaco Interview??

During the Dutch post-race segment after Monaco, Max was asked how it felt to finally win the race he’s always called “the big one.” He gave the normal answer at first special, proud of the team, surreal moment, etc.

But then he added this very random line:

“It felt… different than I thought it would.”

The interviewer asked how different, and Max sort of shrugged and said:

“Just not the way I pictured it. That’s all.”

Then he immediately changed the subject. Is this just Max being Max or… what was that?

u/tyrewizard32 Yeah I saw this too. He said it with this TONE™ like he was thinking of something super specific. u/vercedes_wifecollective okay but let’s talk about how he looked genuinely SAD for a second??? at monaco?? like the win they’ve all wanted since karting?? u/gr3yflag Right?? People acting confused like the entire paddock didn’t grow up watching those two run around together. u/veryapping For newer fans: they’re talking about Toto Wolff’s daughter. She used to be everywhere with Max from like 2015–2019. Pit wall, grid, garage, track walks, inside jokes during media days… they were basically a duo. Then she left the paddock out of nowhere and hasn't been back since. u/f1highlights There’s an old clip of them watching Monaco quali together in 2018 where she says something like “When you win this race, I’m going to be right there.” u/vercedes_wifecollective So him saying “not the way I pictured it”… Yeah. I know exactly what picture he meant. u/lando_would_never It’s not that deep… except it absolutely is. He used to talk about Monaco with her all the time. u/senna4ever Okay but if he was thinking of her, then “it felt different than I pictured it” is actually devastating. u/hardslicksforsofthearts Not to feed a fandom theory but… that’s not something you say unless the memory in your head includes another person. u/archivistofpain Max not sleeping after winning Monaco because he’s trying not to text his ex is the most human thing he’s ever done.

Friday – 6:47pm

The rain starts without warning the sky darkening just enough to feel it in your chest before the first drops fall. It isn’t heavy yet, just a slow, rhythmic tapping against the roof of the metal awning you're standing beneath. The world smells like asphalt and electricity the sharp scent of wet concrete mixing with the lingering heat from the day.

You’ve been here a while, tucked behind the garages, away from the cameras and briefing rooms and careful glances. You needed air maybe even silence but instead you got rain. You don’t mind. You always liked how it softened everything blurred the edges of what was too sharp to name.

Footsteps approach. You know them without turning.

He says nothing as he joins you beneath the awning, his hoodie already damp from the walk across the paddock. Rain clings to the ends of his hair, dripping slowly down the back of his neck, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t look at you right away. Just stands beside you, like that’s always been his default.

The rain picks up, a little heavier now, a little more insistent. After a moment, Max speaks, voice low.

“You used to say rain meant something.”

You glance sideways. “I did.”

He looks at you then, brows raised slightly in the way he does when he’s remembering something he never really understood at the time.

“I thought it meant change,” you say finally. “Or that something was coming, rain always felt like a signal.”

Max’s eyes don’t leave yours. “You still believe that?”

You exhale slowly, watching the droplets streak down the edge of the awning. “I don’t know. Maybe. I want to.”

A long pause stretches between you.

You glance down at your hands, thumb brushing a rain-wet line on your wrist. “Brazil. Last year,” you say quietly. “I watched that race three times. Couldn’t stop.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “You did?”

“Of course I did.”

There’s a beat of silence, deeper now.

“Just because I left,” you continue, voice steady, “doesn’t mean I stopped caring.”

Max doesn’t move, but his whole body shifts like the words are sinking into him.

“You were unstoppable that day,” you say. “I’ve never seen you drive like that. Everyone else was scrambling for grip, and you… it was like watching someone actively choose their own destiny.”

Max swallows. Looks out over the paddock, the sky pouring now.

“That was one of the only races that year I actually enjoyed,” he says eventually.

“I could tell,” you say.

His voice drops. “I just wanted to win.”

“You needed to win,” you correct. “That’s what it looked like, the rain certainly wasn’t going to stop you because when you want something you fight for it. That’s always been the difference with you Max. You never give up not when it really matters.”

His head dips slightly. He nods once.

“True,” he says. “But sometimes…” He trails off, then glances back at you. “Sometimes you don’t realise what you have until it’s already gone and then… then it’s too late to fight for.”

You don’t look away. His words land between you like something fragile and unfinished. “I’m not sure anything is ever too late.”

The rain hisses softly above, steady now, casting everything in a haze of movement and sound.

You speak again without thinking. “Did you think I was gone for good?”

Max is quiet. His fingers twitch slightly in his hoodie pocket. “I didn’t let myself think about it,” he says. “Because if I did… I would’ve had to admit that I let it happen.”

Your breath catches. “I should’ve stopped you,” he adds, softer now. “I should’ve said something… anything. But I just waited there and let you drift further and further away. Told myself it was easier than saying the wrong thing.”

“It wasn’t,” you say. “Not for me.”

“I know,” he says. “I know that now.”

Max turns slightly, shoulders squaring toward you, eyes dark and intent.

“I don’t want to do that again,” he says. “Watch you walk away.”

You hold his gaze. “You want something,” you say quietly. “Then fight for it.”

He breathes out a laugh, but there’s no humour in it. Just disbelief. He doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t close the distance. He just stands there, in the rain, looking at you like the weight of all the years between you has finally landed and he’s ready to carry it. You stay beside him, two people standing still under the same storm not running from it.

Vienna - 2023

You’re sitting in the corner of a small café just off the Ringstrasse. The TV above the counter is playing the race on mute, subtitles flickering across the bottom of the screen. The other customers glance up now and then, but no one is really watching not the way you are.

He’s on screen again. Dominant. Composed. Effortless. A man in complete control.

It’s his tenth consecutive win, a record, the commentators mouth words like historic and unbreakable, and the crowd in Monza is electric. You can see the flags, the smoke, the faces pressed against the fences. You can practically feel the noise even with the sound turned off.

You stir your coffee once. Twice. You tell yourself you don’t care anymore. That this is just muscle memory glancing up, tracking lap times, calculating gaps out of habit, not out of feeling. You’ve built a life far from this world now. A quiet one. One without flight schedules and timing sheets and press releases.

It’s a lie.

You know it before the thought can even finish forming because as soon as the camera cuts to him, that familiar shot of him climbing from the car, pulling off his gloves, face breaking into a grin that’s half disbelief, half relief, your heart stutters. The same way it always has.

You shouldn’t still know the way he smiles when he’s truly happy, the subtle difference between triumph and satisfaction, the way he glances upward first, just for a moment before facing the cameras.

Yet you do.

The champagne sprays. The anthem plays. The commentators are visibly running out of superlatives. You catch the word dominant in the captions again, repeated like gospel.

Then as he lifts the trophy the golden reflection catching light against the stormy Italian sky you see it.

Your breath stops. The thin silver wristband around his left wrist. The one you gave him in 2017.

It looks scratched now, dulled from years of wear, but unmistakable. You remember how it used to glint against the steering wheel when he’d remove it only minutes before he was due on track. You remember the night you gave it to him, sitting side by side on a hotel balcony somewhere between races, the world asleep, your laughter soft against the hum of the city below.

“It’s not expensive or anything,” you’d said, a little shy as you held it out. “But I thought it’d be kind of nice you know, matching ones. Just us.”

Max had taken it from your hand, turning the simple bracelet between his fingers and then he looked up at you.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he said quietly. “Not if it’s from you.”

Then he’d smiled, that quiet, rare smile that only ever meant one thing… he wasn’t teasing. He meant it.

You thought he’d stopped wearing it. You had. After everything fell apart you tucked yours away in a drawer you never opened not because you didn’t care, but because it hurt too much to look at. It wasn’t on your wrist anymore, but you always knew exactly where it was. Bottom right corner. Next to an old photo strip from Monaco and the corner of the note he’d left you on the last day of your first trip to his hometown. You never forgot.

So when you stopped seeing his bracelet in post-race photos, when it stopped peeking out beneath the edge of his glove or the cuff of his sleeve, you told yourself he’d done the same. That he’d moved on. That he’d outgrown the thing a long time ago just like he’d outgrown you.

But there it is, gleaming faintly beneath the podium lights.

Your chest tightens. The café suddenly feels too small, too loud, even with no sound. You stand abruptly, nearly knocking over your cup. The waitress glances up, startled, but you just mumble something and push through the door into the open air.

You lean against the wall, staring down the empty road, the faint echo of the broadcast still visible through the window behind you. You can see him on the screen even from here smiling, waving, wiping champagne from his face with the bracelet still there, flashing silver for half a second under the floodlights.

You inhale sharply, try to shake it off. Tell yourself it’s nothing. Tell yourself it doesn’t mean what you want it to mean. But deep down you know it does, because if he’s still wearing it after all this time, after everything… then maybe you were never as erased as you thought.

Sunday - 4:28pm - Merced Garage Post-Race

The buzz of the paddock has dulled to a low thrum by the time you find yourself back in the debrief room. Most of the Mercedes crew has filtered out, voices still echoing in the hallway, but you’re still there your brain’s still running even though your body’s trying to crash.

You don’t even hear George enter until a protein bar lands beside your keyboard with a soft thud. He’s still in his fireproofs, hair damp, energy surprisingly light. “You’ve officially hit your 'hangry' phase.”

You blink. “What?”

“You get that look,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward your face. “Very do not approach unless bearing data or snacks.”

You huff, but your mouth pulls into a reluctant smile. “Fine. Thanks.”

He leans against the wall, arms crossed. “That double-stack call? You nailed it.”

You shrug, uncomfortable with praise. “It was a gamble.”

“Calculated,” he counters. “Smart. Got us track position we wouldn't have otherwise had.”

Bono smiles, real and tired but warm. “Good instincts. You’ve got a feel for the field not many have.”

You nod, unsure what to say. They leave after that off to physio, or media, or sleep and you sit back in your chair, finally letting yourself breathe.

Monaco Afterparty - 2017

The yacht rocks gently beneath your heels, its polished deck crowded with the usual blur of music, light, and half-recognisable faces. Drivers, PR people, and Monaco’s usual hangers-on drift between champagne flutes and sponsored photo ops.

You lean against the railing, drink in hand, eyes on the glittering water even though you can feel him at your back. Max, somewhere in the crowd. Close enough to track without trying. You can hear his laugh now and then, low and familiar, over the music. The kind of laugh he only uses when he’s trying not to look like he’s checking on you too.

He’s talking to a girl you don’t recognise, gorgeous, leggy, Monaco-polished and wearing a dress that clearly wasn’t designed to be sat in. She laughs too loudly at something he says, touches his arm once, twice. You glance over, quick and neutral.

Your date says something beside you. You don’t catch it.

“What?”

He repeats the joke, and you give him a polite smile, then sip your drink to hide it. Across the deck, Max shifts. Subtle. He’s not even looking at the girl anymore. He’s looking at you.

You raise your eyebrows slightly, as if to say What?

He tilts his head, sips his drink, and shrugs. Nothing.

Eventually, he drifts over. Not right away, not obviously. Just… eventually once your date has left to grab more drinks.

“You look like you’re ready to jump in,” he says casually, nodding toward the railing.

You roll your eyes. “Just thinking about how far I’d have to swim to escape this playlist.”

He snorts. “You’re the one who always wants to come to these things.”

“I like the free drinks,” you say, raising your glass in a mock toast, he clinks his against yours.

“So not having fun then?”

You don’t turn. “Depends on your definition.”

He leans next to you, forearms braced on the railing now too, close enough for your arms to almost brush. “Saw you talking to—what’s his name again? The guy with the blazer and too many teeth.”

You snort. “He’s my date”

“Right.” he replies, tight lipped.

You glance at his glass. “What happened to Miss Bodycon?”

Max tilts his head, feigning confusion. “Who?”

You give him a look. He smiles, lazy.

He swirls the ice in his glass. “You look good tonight,” he said, quieter now.

You blinked. “Thanks.”

His eyes flicker to your mouth and then away again, too fast to mean anything.

Or maybe it means everything.

You let the moment stretch, one beat longer than friendly.

“You’re off tomorrow?”

“Dinner at Christian’s,” he says. “Which will definitely be relaxing.”

You both snort at that.

“I’ll text you if I escape early,” he adds.

You glance at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says easily.

You nod like it’s no big deal.

The breeze picks up again, tangling your hair a little. Max reaches out like he might fix it, then stops, hand halfway up before he thinks better of it. He rubs the back of his neck instead, pretending it was never about you at all.

Someone calls his name from across the deck. He doesn’t look back.

When the party finally winds down and your shoes are dangling from one hand and your date is long gone, it’s Max who walks you back up the pier. Max who says goodnight with a quiet, “See you in the morning, breakfast?” like it’s never a question.

And you say, “Always,” like it never stopped being true.

Brackley – One Week Later

Since last week you’ve thrown yourself into work, simulation modelling, long-run strategy projections, compound wear breakdowns. Anything with numbers, anything precise. You tell yourself it’s productive, necessary even, but the truth is simpler: it’s the only thing loud enough to drown out the hallway. To quiet the memory of the way Max looked at you.

Now it’s after seven, the hotel is quiet apart from the low hum of wind outside and the occasional rush of tires on wet pavement. You’re sitting cross-legged on the edge of the sofa, surrounded by spreadsheets and open tabs with your coffee long gone cold beside you. The overhead lights are dimmed, the only glow coming from your laptop screen and the reflections of rain streaming down the window.

So when someone knocks you almost don’t hear it.

The first knock is tentative. Barely there. The kind of knock that sounds like the person behind it isn’t sure they’re welcome.

The second one is louder, more certain.

You close the laptop slowly, heart already picking up a strange rhythm as your fingers hover for a beat too long on the edge of the screen. You rise from the couch, padding across the carpet with cautious steps.

When you open the door, he’s there.

Max.

His backpack hangs low on one shoulder, and in the side mesh pocket, there’s a folded plane ticket that looks like it’s been crushed and uncrushed a few times over. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you tired, unguarded, as though he still half-expects you to close the door before he gets a word out.

You don’t say anything either. Not yet.

“I flew here,” Max finally says, his voice rough around the edges.

You nod, arms folding instinctively across your chest. “I can see that.”

“I didn’t tell anyone I was coming.”

Your brow furrows slightly. “Why are you here?”

He swallows hard, rainwater dripping from his sleeves. “For you.”

He looks down for a second, runs a hand over his damp sleeve like it might help him think, and then he lifts his gaze again, steady this time, more sure.

“I know I don’t have a right to just show up like this,” he continues. “I’m not here expecting you to forgive me, or act like none of it happened. I just… I had to come. After what you said, after hearing the truth, finally hearing what happened that day I—”

You don’t move, but you feel something in your chest begin to shift.

“I was so scared back then,” Max says. “I thought staying quiet was the safer choice… or maybe just easier. I let other people decide what was best. I let him decide what was best. I thought we’d have time later to figure it out.”

His voice catches slightly, but he pushes on.

“But you disappeared. You were just… gone and I didn’t know why. I kept looking back, trying to piece it together, but I had no idea and now I do… and it hurts even more than before.”

You blink, heart aching, because his voice isn’t sharp it’s not defensive. It’s full of regret that’s had years to steep.

“I should’ve called,” he says, quieter now, but more certain. “I should’ve reached out, found you, done something. Six years is—” he exhales sharply, running a hand through his rain-soaked hair. “It’s too much. Too long to carry this.”

You glance away, not because you don’t want to look at him, but because it is too much because hearing him say everything you once begged for in silence feels like pressing your fingers against a bruise that never fully healed.

“I let you walk away,” he continues. “I’m not proud of that. I'm so incredibly sorry. I’ve thought about it every single day since. I let you think you were something to be erased from the equation, like the safest thing for both of us was pretending none of it mattered. Of course it mattered. You matter.”

“I should’ve told you then that I didn’t care what anyone else thought. That you were never a distraction. That you were the only thing that ever really made any of this—” he gestures vaguely, meaning the sport, the chaos, the pressure, all of it— “feel like it had a point.”

His voice dips again, not out of fear, but out of care. “I didn’t fight for you and I should have.”

He breathes in. “I’m not asking you to forgive me, I haven’t earned that, but I need you to know I’m not running away this time. I’m not pretending I’m fine without you. I’m not pretending this meant nothing when it means everything.”

“I don’t care how long it takes or how messy it gets. You’re not someone I can lose again. I won’t.”

You stand there, absorbing the weight of every word, your arms still crossed more for protection than resolve. You study the way his jaw tightens in silence, the slight tremble in his fingers, the way his shoulders still look like they’re holding the entire season, the entire past, all at once.

Then you speak, your voice quiet, but steady. “Don’t say all this if you don’t mean it.”

“I mean every word,” Max says, without hesitation. He takes one final step forward enough to feel close, but not enough to crowd you and when he speaks again, it’s softer.

“I’m here. I’ll fight for you.”

You don’t move. Don’t answer right away. You don’t close the door either.

That somehow is enough. Max seems to understand. His shoulders ease just a little, the weight hasn’t disappeared, but it’s become something he’s willing to carry out in the open now.

“I’ll wait,” he says, gentler this time. “However long it takes.”

You nod, almost imperceptibly.

“Okay.”

Belgium, Genk - Karting Circuit - 2008

The world was smaller then. Simpler in the way that only childhood makes possible.

The track at Genk stretched out like an endless ribbon of asphalt and trampled grass, coiled between tents and trailers and the low hum of early morning tension. Everything smelled like two-stroke fuel, fresh-cut grass, and the metallic tang of rain still clinging to the air. The sky overhead was a dull slab of cloud, the kind that never broke fully open but soaked everything slowly, turning the paddock into mud before midday.

Engines sputtered and revved like a swarm of mechanical bees in the distance, their whines building into a background hum that never quite faded. Somewhere near the registration tent, a loudspeaker crackled to life in clipped Dutch, mispronouncing someone’s name over the static.

You sat on the low concrete wall beside the paddock gate, legs swinging, the toes of your boots streaked with chalk from the track. A piece of cherry gum clicked between your teeth. Max sat next to you, elbows braced on his knees, gloves clutched in one hand, jaw set in a way that already mirrored his father’s.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His focus was always quieter than the others’ less show, more steel. The kind of pressure that clung to his skin like second nature, the way some kids carried toy cars and others carried expectation.

You nudged his knee with yours. “You’ll win.”

He didn’t look up. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you replied, as if it was the most obvious fact in the world. “You’re Max Verstappen.”

It earned you the faintest quirk of his mouth not a full smile, but the closest thing he gave before a race.

Feeling victorious at the reaction, you tugged something off your wrist. A simple hair band stretched thin, the elastic slightly frayed, a pale blue thread woven through it from where you’d once braided it in during a sleepover in some hotel room. It wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t new, but it had survived more race weekends than most did.

“Here,” you said, holding it out. “For luck.”

He hesitated for a beat weighing superstition against logic, or maybe just taking in the fact that you were offering him something personal without making a big deal out of it then lifted his wrist. You looped the band around it, pulling it snug. He turned his hand over slowly, studying the pale blue line against his skin like it meant more than what it was.

“You think it’ll actually help?” he murmured.

You tilted your head, considering him. “Only if you keep it.”

He followed your gaze toward the grid, where other kids were already clambering into their karts, engines coughing awake, exhaust mixing with the chill of the morning fog. Something in his face shifted not fear, but a kind of seriousness that didn’t belong on someone so young, as if he understood the weight of this tiny world even then.

Then he looked back at you, something softer in his eyes. “You’ll be here after?”

“Always,” you said without hesitation.

It was the kind of thing only kids could say and truly believe. No irony. No self-consciousness.

You smiled, wide and unguarded, then held out your pinky. “Promise.” He hooked his finger through yours, tight and quick like he needed to get it done before the moment passed. “Promise.”

A second later, someone called his name Jos, probably, voice sharp through the fog and he was up, jogging backward toward his kart, fireproofs flapping at his ankles, boots slapping wet pavement. Just before turning the corner, he held up his wrist, the hair tie sitting crooked and flimsy shaking it proudly like a banner.

You waved until he disappeared into the engine noise and fog, heart buzzing with something you didn’t yet have a name for. Even then, it had always been him.

Thursday - 09:31AM

You barely make it through the doors of the Mercedes hospitality unit before the storm greets you not in rain, not in raised voices, but in sharp whispers and quick, incredulous glances that ricochet around the room like ricocheting sparks on dry tinder.

“Did you see the photos?”

“What the hell was he thinking?”

“This has to be a PR nightmare.”

“Toto’s going to lose his mind.”

The tension is unmistakable and it has nothing to do with strategy briefings, tyre compounds, or anything remotely technical. This isn’t about car performance or a pit lane scandal. It’s personal. Phones are clutched in white-knuckled grips. PR coordinators whisper in tight circles, faces pale and lips pursed, as if the very shape of this story might shift depending on how quietly they say his name. Just beyond the glass doors, the media pen hums with barely-contained glee, not over regulation changes or late-season upgrades, but because someone finally gave them something.

You already know exactly what they're talking about. You knew before you even left your hotel this morning. The moment you rolled over in bed, eyes still foggy from sleep, and saw the screen glow with a single notification his name.

@maxverstappen1

📸 A carousel of five slightly blurry, weathered printed pictures:

You on the pit wall in 2018, only half in frame, the curve of your shoulder resting near his as Max leans forward, mid-laugh, grinning at something only the two of you shared.

A karting garage, dated 2012, Max holding up a small trophy like it’s gold-plated history, but his eyes aren’t on the prize. They’re on you. You’re grinning up at him, grease-smudged and sunburned.

A beach holiday photo from 2017. You’re on his back, laughing into the crook of his neck, your hair a mess of wind and salt. His hands are braced around your thighs, mouth caught mid-sentence.

A blurry snap from a factory tour his hoodie draped over your shoulders, your back turned to the camera as he follows a step behind, he’s looking at you like you hung the stars.

The last one, FP1 2015. You’re standing just outside the garage beside his car, hair braided tight, face focused, one hand on his helmet like it belonged to you.

Caption: Always side by side.

He hadn’t asked. He didn’t clear it with anyone. You hadn’t even seen some of the photos before, candid, quiet moments buried deep in time, snapshots not taken for anyone but the two of you, blurry with motion and memory and something more tender than you remembered allowing yourself to hold on to.

Yet when you saw it still tangled in hotel sheets, heart rising in your throat it didn’t feel like a betrayal, it didn’t feel like a strategic leak or a desperate attempt to steer a narrative.

It wasn’t the start of some calculated media strategy built to reshape headlines or pacify speculation. It didn’t feel like damage control or nostalgia bait or even a way to get ahead of the next round of questions.

It felt like a decision, intentional and unpolished. Entirely his.

He was proud. Of you. Of what you had shared. Of what you meant to him then and now.

For the first time since it all fell apart he wasn’t afraid of what anyone would say. He wasn’t bracing for backlash, or adjusting the truth to make it easier to digest. He wasn’t protecting the version of himself the world expected he was protecting the truth instead.

He chose you, publicly. Unapologetically. For the first time in years you felt like something in your chest, the part that had been clenched tight since 2019 was finally starting to let go.

The reaction is instant. The internet doesn’t pause. It doesn’t wait for context or clarification. It moves, fast and feverish, like blood rushing to the heart of something it’s been waiting for without even knowing it.

Old clips once lost to the endless scroll of media day fluff and behind-the-scenes footage are suddenly everywhere. More fans than ever are digging through years of archive content with surgical precision, resurrecting every second that now reads differently, every glance, every half-smile, every instinctive touch that had been brushed off at the time as friendly or fleeting.

A video from 2018 goes viral first: Max grabbing your wrist during the chaos of a post-qualifying debrief, pulling you back just as a crowd of reporters surges forward. You glance up, startled, and he doesn’t even look at you his grip is firm but natural, like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s always known where you are without even thinking.

Then another: Media day at Spa, same year. You’re mid-banter, rolling your eyes while Max mutters something under his breath. The camera catches your grin just before you fire back. He smirks. You shove his shoulder lightly. He pretends to stumble.

A quieter clip, barely ten seconds long. Hungary, 2017. It’s hot. The paddock is buzzing. You’re distracted, flipping through a book in the background while Max finishes an interview. As he walks off, he passes you, notices the sweat on your brow and without a word offers you his water bottle. You take it like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Neither of you speaks. Neither of you needs to.

@maxwolffcanon: WHEN SHE DISAPPEARED IN 2019??? IT WAS HIM. IT WAS ALWAYS HIM.

Beneath it, fan art is already in progress rough sketches of you and Max on opposite sides of a garage barrier, eyes locked, rain streaking down glass between you.

@vettelbaby94: This is the best slow-burn to ever slow or burn.

They post a compilation of every suspiciously charged interaction between you and Max from 2015 to 2019. The video ends on a freeze frame of Max looking back at you in the background of Abu Dhabi 2019, expression unreadable, just before the paddock lost sight of you for good.

@f1dailyfeed: Is this the soft launch of the decade?

@mercedesgworl: The beach pic? The karting photo? My heart wasn’t ready.

@champagneproblems44 someone check on toto wolff because his daughter and strategist just became the lead in an f1 love story and i KNOW he’s sweating

@softtires: “Always side by side.”It’s giving childhood friends. It’s giving “I never moved on.”

@F1wagwatch: Some of y’all are just now realizing she was always there. She’s been part of his story from day one.

@vercedes: Toto after seeing Max soft launch his daughter via blurry beach pics...

@lap1loveletters the real 2025 battle is between my will to live and this max/y/n lore

@ynloremaster: max posting polaroids was him ringing the bell. she better open the damn door

@florenceandthepit lets be real this is way more interesting than this years title fight

@maxitaxi33 this is why he’s been driving like he’s haunted all season. he WAS.

@wolffwatchers imagine dating max verstappen and thinking he’s not gonna be terminally obsessed with you forever. couldn’t be me.

@wagsinwaiting i think we're allowed to be a bit parasocial over this some of us have been waiting YEARS

Racing World Digest: Soft Launch or Sentimental Glitch? Verstappen Posts Rare Throwback

In a surprising move, Max Verstappen shared a series of nostalgic photos from his early F1 days, including several featuring Y/N, once a familiar face in the paddock and daughter of Mercedes TP Toto Wolff. Fans were quick to dissect the post, which lacked context but brimmed with personal history. No official comment from either camp yet.

Sky Sports Commentary (Natalie Pinkham)

“It’s not every day we see Max open up like that online. Whatever the intent, that post was deeply personal. It struck a chord with fans who’ve followed his career since karting.”

Thursday, Midday - Hospitality Lounge

You spot them before you even round the corner a huddle of elbows and lowered voices half‑pretending to look over briefing notes but really doing a terrible job of hiding whatever’s on the glowing screen in the middle of their little circle.

“Did you see the one on the beach?” Liam asks, tapping the screen.

Ollie mutters. “My engineer was saying she used to be around all the time back in the Red Bull junior days.”

“Yeah, but this is the first time Max has ever posted something like this,” Gabi points out. “He doesn’t do this kind of thing. Ever.”

Ollie raises an eyebrow. “So what he just woke up and chose to drop a memory lane carousel out of nowhere?”

Kimi shrugs. “Maybe it’s not out of nowhere.”

“Do you think he edited the caption like fifty times?” Ollie asks.

Gabi grins. “I bet he tried emojis and deleted them.”

Then Ollie says, “That last photo though, what does it mean?”

Liam gives him a look. “You are way too invested in this.”

“I’m just saying, it’s not nothing!”

Then the door swings open. You step inside flipping through a briefing packet, clearly mid-task. You look up just once and clock them instantly. All four straighten up like students caught talking during a lecture.

“Funny,” you say, lightly amused. “I don’t remember this being part of the media briefing.”

There’s a scramble of non-responses.

“We weren’t—”

“Just checking the weather…”

“Track walk timings—”

“—Totally professional.”

You narrow your eyes, not unkindly. “Right.”

Ollie opens his mouth, closes it, then points at Liam. “He started it.”

Liam doesn’t flinch just raises his hands.

Kimi mutters, blinking like he’s still processing it. “Those photos go way back.”

“Did you see the 2012 one?” Gabi adds. “He’s not even looking at the trophy he’s looking at you.”

Kimi just shrinks into his hoodie.

You walk over, grab a can of sparkling water from the mini fridge, then glance at the phone still open on the table paused on the second photo, the karting garage from 2012. You smile, soft and private, then look back at them.

You narrow your eyes. “Do I need to remind you that I’ve seen all your junior contract photos and know exactly how to leak them to a group chat full of bored fans?”

They watch you go, slightly embarrassed, slightly impressed.

“Okay,” Gabi mutters when you’re gone. “That was terrifying.”

Kimi exhales slowly. “She’s the best.”

Liam just nods. “Max is done for.”

Thursday - 09:56am - Red Bull Hospitality

GP corners him just inside the back hallway, away from the press and the chaos, jaw tense as he throws a hand through his hair like he’s trying not to implode.

“You did what?” he hisses, eyes scanning Max’s face as though waiting for him to crack or at least look a little less calm.

Max doesn’t even blink. He simply shrugs, voice maddeningly even. “It was time.”

GP lets out a groan so deep it borders on theatrical. “Mate your social team is probably melting down back there. They’re gonna need CPR.” He laughs once, sharp and incredulous, then shakes his head. “Good luck.”

Max takes a sip from the water bottle in his hand, posture relaxed, like he didn’t just lob a grenade into the tightly wound machinery of his team’s public image strategy. “Let them ask,” he says, quiet but certain. “Let everyone ask.”

He doesn’t say what’s really happening, doesn’t mention the hundreds of messages piling up on his phone, the sudden surge of fan edits, the threads cataloging every shared look, the viral TikToks syncing their history to piano ballads.

He certainly doesn’t bring up the ones that matter most: the quiet messages, the DMs filled with Finally. With I always knew.

This was Max telling the world what he wants.

Thursday - 10:17am - Toto’s Office

The room is quiet, Toto stands near the window, the muted light from the cloudy skies casting long shadows across the glass-topped desk. One hand holds his phone, the other braced against the sill as he stares at the screen. From where you stand you already know what he’s looking at.

The now-infamous carousel.

Your breath catches somewhere in your chest, your fingers curling slightly at your sides as you wait bracing for the inevitable fallout. The lecture. The frustration. The cold reminder that you are a strategist, not a story. That you were supposed to outgrow the era of hallway glances and back-of-the-garage confessions.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just stares at the screen for a long, heavy moment, jaw tight, unreadable. Then, with the kind of patience only age and heartbreak can teach a man, he exhales slowly, sets the phone face-down on the desk, and finally turns to you.

“I’m not going to ask where all this has come from,” he says, his voice carrying that distinct, grounded Austrian calm that somehow makes everything feel heavier. “I know where it came from.”

You shift your weight every muscle stiff with restraint. Standing in front of his desk surrounded by technical briefings and whiteboards filled with data, you feel like a teenager again, young, messy, standing on the edge of a mistake you haven't even made yet. Waiting to be scolded. To be told you’re reckless, unprofessional, emotional.

Instead Toto leans back in his chair folding his hands with careful deliberation. “I saw you after that hallway,” he says, voice gentler than you expect. “After he stopped you. I saw your face when you walked back in.”

You glance away, throat tight.

“I haven’t seen you look like that since 2019,” he continues. “Not even during your best days here. You were present, yes, but… never quite whole. You’ve been sharp and focused, excellent even, but something was missing.”

He pauses. Then says, more softly: “You miss him. That much is obvious.”

The admission hits harder than you want it to because it’s true and hearing it aloud, from him, shatters the last layer of detachment you’d been clinging to. He watches you for a beat longer, eyes narrowed in that particular way that’s both assessment and care.

“If he hurts you again—” he begins.

You nod before he can finish.

“I know,” you murmur, voice quiet. “You’ll kill him.”

Toto tilts his head, almost amused. “No. I’ll make him wish I had.”

There’s a long silence between you, one that’s not quite heavy, more reflective, more personal. A silence that only exists between a father and a daughter who have been through something together.

Then, to your surprise, he lets out a short laugh.

“I can’t quite believe he did that,” he says, still shaking his head like he hasn’t quite made peace with the absurdity of it. “That boy has been media-trained since he could walk, hardened by more press briefings than most politicians and yet…”

He trails off, still baffled.

You blink, uncertain. “You’re… not angry?”

He gives a slight shrug. “A little. There are going to be questions we’ll have to answer. A lot of calls. I’m screening the PR team right now.”

Then he rises, pushing his chair back, walking around the desk until he’s standing in front of you. “But before I’m your team principal,” he says quietly, “I’m your father. That matters to me more.”

Your chest tightens. A smile tugs at your lips despite yourself.

“I trust you.” he says defiantly.

He squeezes your shoulder once, then pulls away, straightening his cuffs like the moment never happened. Already shifting back into the professional mask he wears so well.

You feel it anyway. The protection. The acceptance. You feel like you’re allowed to hope.

F1TV Reporter:

“There’s been a lot of noise around Max’s social post and his personal life recently. Any official comment?”

Gianpiero Lambiase (sighs):

“No comment on Max’s personal life, but... I will say everyone feels a little more at peace lately.”

Sky Sports – Pit Lane Walk with Martin Brundle

Martin Brundle: “Well, if it isn’t the sharpest mind in Brackley. Still running the numbers or just here to keep the boys in line?”

You: “Depends on the day. Today it’s tyre data. Tomorrow? Herding engineers.”

Martin: “Been a few interesting looks coming your way this weekend.”

You: “Nothing gets the paddock talking like a woman doing her job, Martin.”

Martin (laughs):“Fair point but come on now, we’ve all seen the photos. There’s a certain World Champion who looked very... nostalgic this week.”

You (grinning): “Ah, nostalgia. It’s a powerful tool Martin. So is a good caption.”

Martin (amused): “You’re not going to give us anything, are you? Alright then, one serious question what’s impressed you most about the current grid since your return?”

You: “The rookies are fearless. The midfield is chaotic in the best way. And some of the veterans… they’ve grown up.”

Martin: “Anyone in particular?”

You: “Now Martin, that sounds dangerously close to a personal question.”

Martin (laughing): “Fair enough. You’ve still got that media sidestep perfected. We’ll leave you to it.”

Sky Sports Broadcast - FP2

David Croft: “Max Verstappen coming through sector two looking... sharp.”

Karun Chandhok: “He’s always composed from the off, but there’s something... settled about him today.”

Crofty: “Wouldn’t have anything to do with his Instagram post this morning, would it?”

Karun: “Well,I’m not in the PR department Crofty, but let’s just say... a few things from his past seem to be resurfacing in a good way.”

Charles, Lando, and George are standing side by side, fresh from qualifying, still zipped into their suits. The heat of the day clings to their skin, but their energy is high and they've somehow ended up in the same interview.

Reporter: “So a certain post from a certain Dutch World Champion has set the internet on fire. Any thoughts?”

Lando immediately throws up his hands: “Nope. Not getting involved. I value my life.”

George, mock serious: “The best part? As long as they’re taking up headline space, no one is asking me about why I overshot Turn 6.”

Charles, faux innocent: “Or why I was late to briefing.”

Reporter (laughing): “So you’re saying it’s strategic?”

Lando: “Listen, we’re just saying… let the romantics carry the storyline. We’ll be here quietly escaping you lot in peace.”

George: “Exactly. I support them fully. For entirely selfish reasons.”

Charles adds with a dramatic sigh: “True love is a sacrifice. We thank them for theirs.”

All three dissolve into laughter, someone mutters “they’re going to kill us,” and the interview ends with a wide pan shot of the three of them walking away, still chuckling, leaving the audience to speculate just how much of it was real.

As the weeks pass it's strange how easily it becomes routine again.

Not the way it was, not the reckless closeness of childhood, not the intensity of those early paddock years but something quieter, steadier, more deliberate. Max doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for a second chance outright. He simply begins to show up in the places where you don’t expect him, and more importantly, in the ways you care about most.

He doesn’t demand to be let in, doesn’t corner you with grand declarations or apologies that expect anything in return. He never says give me another chance. Instead he shows you what it would look like, what he looks like now, and how deeply he understands what he did wrong.

He doesn’t ask for forgiveness. Doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t try to pretend that history didn’t happen. He carries it with him visible in the softness of his tone, in the patience in his eyes, in the way he leaves space for you to come to him, always with the unspoken promise that he’ll be there when you do.

Friday - 10:05pm – Your Hotel Room

He knocks once, just like he has every night for the last three race weekends.

You open the door and he’s there, hair flattened from the cap he must’ve worn during media rounds, takeaway dinner in one hand and two drinks balanced precariously in the other. He doesn’t try to come in immediately. He waits for you to decide. You always let him in.

He drops onto the hotel-room floor without asking, unfolding the food on the low table, offering you dessert knowing that’s what you want most, while you settle on the edge of the sofa, legs crossed, laptop still glowing with colour-coded data points. He watches you work for a while not the way someone watches something confusing, but the way someone watches something they respect. You can feel it in the corners of the room, in the silence that settles comfortably between you.

“You always used to do this,” he murmurs after a while, eyes flicking toward your notes from last week. “See things no one else bothered to look for.”

You glance over at him with a light laugh. “I think it’s just pattern recognition.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “Everyone sees patterns. You see the reason behind them.”

The compliment lands more deeply than you expect, maybe because it’s never been something he’s said before. Maybe because six years ago he was sometimes too tangled in his own chaos to notice your brilliance.

Now he notices everything. The way you narrate your strategy notes under your breath. The way your brow furrows when a graph doesn’t match your instinct. The way you tap your pen against your knee when you’re on the verge of a breakthrough.

He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, quietly, as if learning the architecture of your thoughts is part of the work he’s set himself.

When he notices you watching, he shrugs. “Still trying to keep up with you.”

Three Weeks Earlier — Media Pen

A reporter leans against the barrier, mic in hand, wearing that half-smile he uses when he’s fishing for something he shouldn’t be.

“So, Max,” he says, glancing toward the cluster of Mercedes staff behind you, “some people are saying her return season is a PR strategy. Optics management. Human interest. You know how these things go, she's not cut out for the job over there at your rivals.”

You’re not even looking at Max you’re focused on the tablet in your hands, heat radiating off the asphalt, but you feel the shift in him like a drop in air pressure.

He straightens, expression cooling in a way you’ve only ever seen when he’s about to say something he won’t let PR fix later.

“No,” Max says, voice firm but eerily calm. “That’s not what this is.”

The reporter blinks, surprised by the tone. Max continues, stepping slightly closer to the barrier, not enough to be aggressive, but enough to make sure the cameras catch every word.

“She’s here because she’s good. Better than most people will ever give her credit for. Don’t reduce her to PR spin just because you don’t understand what she does.”

The reporter taken aback, tries to laugh it off. “Alright, alright no offence meant—”

Max shakes his head once. “If you want to talk about someone’s professionalism you should probably look at your own.”

Your heart stumbles, not just because he’s defending you but because of the way he says it. Calm. Direct. Unapologetic. With none of the tension you’d expect, none of the fear of headlines or backlash or the weight of someone else’s expectations.

He’s not doing it to be gallant. He’s doing it because he understands that silence has consequences and that this time he refuses to be silent.

When you walk past him on the way back to the paddock, he doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t stop you, doesn’t smirk in victory.

He just looks at you, eyes softening the moment you meet his gaze, a question written in the tilt of his head:

Was that okay? Did I help or did I make it worse?

You give him the smallest nod.

It’s enough to make him exhale.

Two Weeks Earlier - Hotel Lobby

You’re tucked into the corner of the hotel lobby, laptop open while other staff filter in and out, dripping water across the marble floor.

Max walks in from the far entrance, shaking rain from his hair, jacket plastered to his shoulders. He spots you immediately, like gravity, and crosses the room.

“I thought you’d be at dinner,” he says.

“I told them I’d catch up,” you reply. “Needed to finish something.”

He nods, gaze flicking to your screen. “You always did your best thinking at night.”

You can’t answer. Not right away. Because it isn’t the memory that hits you it’s the fact that he still carries it. That he kept that silly fact tucked somewhere inside him long after you thought he’d outgrown every part of you.

After a moment, he says quietly, “I can stay with you for a bit, if you want.”

Not You need help?

Not Let me fix this.

Not I’ll tell you what I think.

You nod, and he sits not too close, not crowding just there.It’s small. Almost nothing, but it’s the kind of nothing you feel for hours.

One Week Earlier - Hotel Suite

It’s late, the lighting is low and warm, the music questionable, and the poker game downright ruthless.

No cameras. Just a strange mix of drivers and insiders slouched around a table littered with empty glasses, crumpled napkins, and poker chips stacked like tiny fortresses. There’s a Bluetooth speaker hissing out a terrible club remix and someone (probably Lando) keeps changing the playlist mid-song.

You're leaned back in a chair with your legs crossed and a drink balanced lightly in your hand, surveying your modest but powerful pile of chips like a general preparing a takeover.

Pierre fans his cards out slowly, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t trust you.”

You don’t even blink. “You shouldn’t.”

George groans from across the table, already halfway through collecting his losses. “I swear she gets scarier every time we play.”

Carlos smirks. “She’s running the table tonight.”

“Monaco, 2018,” Esteban says under his breath, pointing a finger at you. “You remember? You took Ricciardo’s entire wallet.”

“I didn’t take it,” you say primly. “He wagered it. I just… won.”

“Semantics,” he deadpans, kicking his legs under the table.

Lando leans forward from where he’s folded, propping his chin on his hand with a gleeful expression. “Max used to say never play cards with her. Said she could read people. Psychic powers maybe”

The table laughs. You lift your glass, hiding the flicker of something behind the rim.

Still, you recover quickly. “Well. He should’ve learned to bluff better.” You eye Max across the table and he just smirks.

“Oh, damn,” George says, dragging out the words.

Pierre holds up his hands in surrender. “You see this? This is exactly what I mean.”

The hand ends. You win. Again. You start stacking the chips in neat, smug columns.

“I’m out,” George says, pushing back from the table. “I’ve got a debrief in the morning and if I’m slow, Toto will personally chain me to a simulator.”

“Tell him I said hi,” you say sweetly, pulling your jacket off the back of your chair.

Pierre’s grumbling in French. Esteban is dramatically counting his remaining chips. Carlos is trying to convince Alex he was cheated somehow.

Charles calls after you as you head for the door, “Don’t let Mercedes PR know we’re corrupting their strategist.”

You flash a smile over your shoulder. “Too late.”

You slip out into the hallway cooler, quieter, and empty except for the hum of distant vending machines and the soft buzz of LED exit signs. You walk slower now, jacket slung over your shoulder, the air outside lighter than it’s felt in years.

“See this is exactly why I never played poker with you.”

The voice comes from behind you familiar, amused, and unfairly warm in the quiet.

You pause, turning. Max is leaning against the wall. His hair’s a little messy and he’s watching you with that infuriating, crooked half-smile that once meant everything and still kind of does.

You arch a brow. “You always claimed you were too tired. I assumed it was just fear.”

Max pushes off the wall and walks toward you slowly. “It was respect. I know a lost cause when I see one.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t stop smiling. “You want another round, prepared to be humiliated again?”

“I came to say goodnight,” he says easily, stepping beside you. “Any humiliation was just a bonus.”

You laugh, shaking your head.

Max’s voice softens. “Seriously, though… it was nice. Hearing you laugh like that again.”

He looks at you for a long moment, then says, quieter now, “You’re really good at this.”

“At poker?”

“At all of it.” His voice is sincere now, anchored. “The way you carry yourself. The work you do. The way you fit in any room and light it up without letting it change who you are.”

You blink, caught off guard for a second. Of all the things you expected tonight, that wasn’t it.

“And?” you ask, like it’s a challenge.

“You might have won tonight but,” he smiles, a little slower this time. “I think I’m the lucky one.”

It’s quiet again, but your pulse is loud. You wonder if he can hear it or if he feels it too.

You nudge him toward the exit. “Come on Verstappen. Walk me back.”

Max falls into step beside you, hands tucked into his pockets, your strides naturally matching like they always used to.

By the time Qatar comes around, it’s obvious, not to the paddock, not to the media, not even to your parents, but to you, that Max has been working at this.

He listens when you speak, not with impatience or distraction, but with the quiet focus of someone who finally understands what he once took for granted. He makes space for you, not just because he’s trying to win you back, but because he finally sees the shape of the space you’ve always deserved.

He protects without overshadowing.

He learns the new parts of you and slowly, so slowly you don’t even notice it happening and the distance between you begins to close.

Not with one sentimental moment but with dozens of tiny ones.

Weeks of them.

Little pieces of proof he keeps offering you, day after day, as if trying to rebuild something brick by brick, patient enough to know it can’t be rushed, determined enough not to let the foundation crack again.

He’s already chosen you and he’s not going anywhere.

Wednesday – 11:56 PM — Abu Dhabi

You scroll endlessly, letting the noise wash over you without really taking any of it in. Notifications. Mentions. Fan edits that leave your chest tight. Memes, fancams, comments in every language.

One post, buried among the noise, makes you pause.

A screenshot from an old behind-the-scenes documentary. You and Max, just teenagers, sitting side by side on the pit wall before a practice session in 2015. You’re laughing at something off-camera, and his gaze is fixed entirely on you, eyes shining.

@y/nmax4ever: He’s only ever smiled like this when he looks at her 🥹

You exhale softly, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth, blinking away the sting behind your eyes. There's a weight in your chest that hasn't quite left you in six years.

Then your phone lights up with a message.

Max:

Meet me at the track. Rooftop. You know the way.

You don’t need to ask which rooftop.

You still remember the shortcuts. The back stairwell behind the catering unit. The old service ladder wedged between the media building and the hospitality suites. The one you both used to sneak up when you were younger, when everything was still easy, before things like reputations and legacy and heartbreak made everything so complicated.

By the time you climb the final rung, the paddock below is still glowing in low orange lights quiet now, tucked into the hush of midnight. The clatter and chatter of the day has faded, replaced by the distant whirr of generators and the hum of cooling systems. It feels like you’ve stepped out of time, like the world has been muted just for this.

Max is already there.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the edge of the roof, overlooking the pit straight, the soft wind tousling his hair. In front of him, he’s laid out a soft blanket, there's two takeaway cups, a box of pretzel snacks you used to love, and a thermos. It's not grand, not staged for cameras, but it’s careful and intentional a silent gesture.

He simply shifts to the side, making room. You sit beside him, knees touching, and for a long time, neither of you speaks.

Not because there’s nothing to say but because, finally, there’s no urgency to say it. Not yet.

Down below, the track sleeps. Everything you’ve both built your lives around feels small from here. Distant. Contained. But up here, above the noise, it’s just you and him. Like it used to be.

Max breaks the silence first. His voice is soft. “They locked the fence by Turn 10, can't sneak that way anymore.”

You glance sideways. “Guess they finally caught on.”

He exhales a laugh, low and familiar. “Took them long enough.”

You both fall quiet again. For a moment it’s just the sound of your breathing, in and out, matching like it always used to. Like muscle memory.

“I think Lando’s trying to recruit me to McLaren,” you murmur, lips quirking.

Max hums, amused. “I don’t think he’ll be the only one trying to after this season.”

“He promised me papaya cupcakes.”

“I’ll bake you cupcakes.”

“You can’t bake.”

“I’ll learn.”

That earns a real smile from you the kind that doesn’t feel forced or guarded. When you glance over he’s already watching you.

“I’m still a little worried you’ll leave again,” he admits.

You shake your head slowly. “I thought about it, at the beginning.”

He nods, eyes lowering to the rooftop beneath his hands. “Do you regret it?”

You tilt your head. “Coming back?”

“Yes... but more letting me back in.”

The question hangs there, suspended between you like it’s holding its breath.

You exhale slowly, eyes drifting out toward the empty track. “I know people say you should live without regrets, but… I regretted leaving more times than I can count. I’d be sitting in some café halfway across the world, staring at my phone, trying to convince myself not to text you.” Your voice softens. “But maybe we had to go through all of it to get here, even if we missed out on a lot on the way.”

He nods, quiet. The wind shifts.

“I’ll keep showing up,” he says. “Every day. For as long as you’ll let me.”

You believe him.

You reach into your jacket pocket and slowly pull out a worn photo, the same photo he sent you the Polaroid version of months ago now. The one you kept, even when it hurt too much to look at. The photo of you both post 2016 win, laughing, joy unfiltered.

“I have a copy too. I never let go of it,” you whisper.

He takes it gently, reverently, like he’s holding a piece of his own history.

From his wallet he pulls something of his own, the Polaroid. You stare at it for a long moment, the versions of yourselves looking up at you. Two kids who had no idea what was coming. Then you turn toward him.

You seem him take a breath, brace himself. When he speaks, it’s not a grand gesture, not a dramatic monologue. It’s simple. Honest.

“I love you.”

He says it like he’s carried it for years, like it’s been sitting just behind his ribs, burning through him slowly, waiting for the moment he finally couldn’t keep it in anymore. You can’t help but gasp as cliche as it is, gasp at hearing the words you’ve waited for for six years, maybe even longer.

“I’ve loved you for longer than I knew how to explain,” he says, voice rough around the edges as if each word scrapes past a decade of silence. “I didn’t say it back then because I was scared. I didn’t know what to do with something that big, something that felt like it could change everything.”

He shakes his head slightly, eyes flickering toward the pit straight as if remembering another lifetime. “I thought that if I said it out loud, I’d mess everything up. That I’d break us or let someone else’s voice convince me it was a mistake.” He swallows, throat tight. “I thought staying quiet would keep you close.”

A soft, humourless breath leaves him.

“Instead it pushed you away and I let it.”

His voice cracks.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, the words trembling with sincerity. “For waiting so long. For saying it now when I should’ve said it years ago. For every version of you that needed to hear it and never got the chance.” He draws in a breath, steadying. “You don’t have to say it back. I just… I need you to know.”

The wind brushes over the rooftop, lifting the edge of the blanket he laid out, nudging a strand of your hair across your cheek. The world feels impossibly still, a quiet suspended between heartbeats.

You look at him, really look, and in that moment, you see it all:

The boy who wore your hairband around his wrist in a muddy karting paddock. The teenager who shared room-service fries on hotel floors. The young man who stood on podiums with your name hidden somewhere beneath his pulse. The one who lost you. The one who fought his way back. The one sitting in front of you now, open in a way you’ve never seen, asking for nothing but a chance.

You’ve held your love for him like a secret locked behind bone, tucked away, protected, guarded, buried beneath everything else you had to build to survive losing him.

But now? Now it rises in your throat too fast, too certain, too real to hold back any longer.

You shift closer, knees brushing his. “Max,” you breathe, “I’ve been trying not to say it for almost a decade.”

“I love you.”

“I loved you then,” you continue, voice steadying, “and I love you now. I love you and I don’t think I ever stopped.”

He lets out a sound half‑laugh, half‑sob, feather-light but devastating, shoulders loosening as if your words have finally allowed him to breathe. Then he leans forward, forehead resting against yours, breath unsteady with relief, disbelief, and something so tender it almost hurts.

“I love you,” he whispers again, softer this time, like it’s finally safe to say it.

You close your eyes, letting the words settle between you, warm and solid and real.

He leans in slowly, deliberately, giving you every chance to stop him, to hesitate, to turn away, but you don’t move, not even a fraction. Your breath catches but you stay exactly where you are, watching him with a kind of quiet certainty that’s been years in the making.

Finally… finally, his lips touch yours.

The kiss is soft at first. Just the barest brush, reverent, like he’s still not sure you’re real or that this moment won’t vanish if he closes his eyes.

It’s the kind of kiss that says I need you before it dares to say anything else. It glows, warm and tender and full of everything you both tried to bury.

Then like something breaks open between you the quiet dissolves because neither of you can hold back anymore.

You breathe him in and kiss him harder. He meets you with equal force, his hands sliding into your hair, tilting your face to deepen the kiss like he’s starved for it, starved for you. It’s no longer soft. It’s fierce. Years of tension unspooling in seconds. A collision, not an accident.

Your hands grip the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer, and he lets you, lets you take, lets you want, lets you have him. His thumb brushes your cheek but the rest of him is all motion: mouth, hands, heart, urgency.

He tastes like rain and memory, like the version of you that never stopped loving him.

When you finally break apart, it’s not because you want to it’s because you have to. Breathless, chests rising in tandem, lips tingling from the rush of it.

The air between you is charged. It doesn’t feel like the beginning of something new. It feels like finally returning to something that never should’ve been lost.

When you finally pull apart, foreheads pressed together, breathing shared, everything around you feels different, lighter, more real.

Max smiles, just barely. “Took me long enough.”

You whisper against his lips, “You’re here now.”

China - Max's Hotel Room - 2018

The carpet is ugly that generic hotel pattern of swirling beige and navy but it’s soft under bare feet and at this hour it’s the only place in the building that feels alive. The race ended hours ago. The celebrations are long over. Everyone else has either gone to bed or disappeared into team briefings and press obligations.

Except you and Max.

He’s still more boy than man in the way his laughter bounces off the walls. His hair is damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends. He’s wearing an oversized team T-shirt and a pair of grey sweats, and his bare toes drum against the carpet. The two of you are sitting on the edge of the sofa a tray of room-service fries balanced between you.

“This is a terrible movie,” Max says, wiping his hand on a napkin, though he’s smiling in that easy, lopsided way that means he’s having a better time than he’ll ever admit.

“That’s the point,” you shoot back, reaching for another fry. “You’re supposed to laugh at it, not analyse it.”

He scoffs playfully. “I can’t help it. The plot makes no sense.”

“The plot is that two idiots are in love and keep messing it up.”

He turns to look at you, something flickering in his expression, amusement maybe. “It’s unrealistic.”

You throw a fry at him. It bounces off his shoulder and lands in his lap. He pretends to be offended, gasping dramatically before popping it in his mouth.

“Gross,” you groan. “That’s unsanitary.”

“I’ve eaten worse,” he says through a grin, eyes still glinting with that post-race high, that restless kind of energy that never really fades in him.

You shake your head, laughing, your shoulder brushing his. It’s an accident, probably, but neither of you moves away. The proximity feels normal by now.

He nudges you lightly with his elbow. “Promise we’ll still be doing this when we’re old and boring?”

You grin, turning toward him. “Define old.”

He thinks for a moment, lips twitching. “Like… thirty”

You snort. “That’s not old.”

He smirks.

“Fine,” you say, picking up another fry and aiming it like a dart. “Deal. We’ll sit in another overpriced hotel, eating terrible food, watching worse movies, and you’ll still complain about the plot.”

He tilts his head, studying you with an expression you can’t quite name soft around the edges, like he’s memorising this moment without meaning to.

Years later when you think of before, before everything broke, before silence and distance and growing up too fast this is what you’ll remember.

The almost pink light flickering gently above you.

And that ridiculous promise…

“When we’re old and boring.”

You’ll think about it every time you see him again.

Thursday – 7:43PM - Abu Dhabi

The paddock has quieted, the chaos of media day reduced to the occasional thud of gear cases being rolled and the low drone of generators humming through the night air. A few lights flicker inside the hospitality buildings, but the rest of the world seems to have gone still.

Max walks with his head down, hoodie pulled up, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He’s not hiding, not exactly, but he’s aware that the timing of his presence here could raise questions. He doesn’t care. Not anymore.

He’s halfway across the walkway when he hears the voice.

“Took you long enough.”

Max freezes. Not because he’s scared but because he knows that voice better than most in this paddock.

Toto.

The older man is leaning against the corner of the Mercedes unit, arms folded, suit jacket long gone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There’s a coffee in one hand, though Max would bet anything it’s got a hint of something else in. He looks calm, but Max knows better. Calm is what Toto Wolff uses when he’s feeling everything else.

Max approaches slowly.

Toto raises a brow. “You’ve walked past our garage three times now.”

Max shrugs. “Didn’t know if I’d be welcome.”

There’s a long pause before they go inside.

Max sits, grounded in place by something heavier than fear. He’s faced world champions wheel-to-wheel at 300kph, but this conversation carries a different kind of gravity. The kind where one wrong word could undo everything.

“I’m not going to hurt her” Max says eventually.

“I know,” Toto nods once, taking a slow sip from his mug. “But knowing something and trusting it are two different things.”

Max lets out a slow breath. He expected that, honestly, he respects it.

“She’s always been the stubborn one,” Toto says after a beat, eyes drifting toward the paddock. “Even as a kid. Smart as hell. Always did what felt right, not what looked easy. I never tried to stop her just tried to make sure she didn’t get hurt.”

Max smiles faintly despite himself. “She's still stubborn.”

“She doesn’t run from things easily,” Toto continues. “Which means she didn’t leave lightly. She left because she believed no one cared enough to stop her.”

“I know,” Max admits. “I thought staying quiet was protecting her when really I was just protecting myself. She believed in me,” Max says, eyes tightening. “Before anyone else did. Before I even believed in myself. And I let her go. I let her walk away and I told myself I’d reach out later, when the time was better, when I was more sure, when I could handle it.”

“You matter to her too,” Toto says after a beat. “God help me, you always have.”

Max looks at him.

“I needed to hear you say it.” Toto straightens. “Because the last time she let herself care about you she broke and I won’t watch that happen again.”

“You won’t have to,” Max says, voice firmer now. “I’m not a kid anymore. I know what I want. And I know what I lost.”

“She’s not a girl anymore either,” Toto says. “She’s a grown woman. An important member of this team in her own right.”

“I know,” Max says softly. “I’ve been trying to learn what that means. What it looks like to show up for her now. Not just the version of her I knew back then. I don’t want to overshadow her. I want to stand beside her.

Toto nods once, the motion slow and deliberate. “If you’re going to do this, you have to do it properly, all in. Love her like she’s worth.”

Max meets his eyes. “I will.”

There’s another long pause, but the tension shifts, not quite friendship, not quite acceptance, but something adjacent to respect.

As Max turns to go, Toto calls out behind him.

“You screw this up again Verstappen. You waste this second chance?”

Max stops but doesn’t turn around.

“I’ll let you break both my arms,” he says. “But you won’t have to.”

With that he disappears into the shadows not running, but walking with purpose toward something he knows he’s ready for.

Later, when the door to your car shuts and the city lights begin to blur outside the window, you let out a shaky laugh.

“He’s getting soft,” you murmur.

Max still watching the road, doesn’t smile right away. “He’s terrifying sometimes,” he says instead then glances at you with something softer in his eyes. “But he’s not wrong.”

You look at him.

“I’m going to get this right,” he says. “You’re it for me.”

You smile and lean your head on his shoulder, and for the first time in years nothing hurts.

Sunday – 09:33am

You’re tucked near the back of the paddock hospitality unit, alone, a mug of coffee warm between your palms as the low murmur of team chatter fills the space around you. The morning's calm, filters through the occasional scrape of chair legs in the next room. You’re reviewing data on a tablet, but not really seeing it.

A shape enters your periphery. You don’t need to look to know who it is. You feel it in your spine first the familiar tension, the way time seems to slow in subtle defiance. When you do glance up Jos Verstappen is standing a few feet away, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw set in a line you’ve seen mirrored on Max more times than you can count.

“You’re here a lot lately.”

The words aren’t sharp, but they land with a precision that feels intentional.

You don’t look away. “I work here,” you say evenly, voice calm. “It’s not exactly strange for me to be in the paddock.”

Jos’s mouth presses into a thin line. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

A pause stretches between you, brittle and silent.

Then, footsteps. Max. His presence doesn’t crash into the conversation it settles, firm and quiet, like a stake driven into the ground beside you.

He steps up next to you but doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t speak. He just stands there, still, like he’s always known this moment would come and he’s ready to meet it.

Jos looks between the two of you, his expression unreadable. “This thing between you… it’s going to get complicated. Fast. You know that.”

Max doesn’t flinch. “It already is and it's worth it.”

“You’ve got everything lined up,” Jos continues. “A career most people would kill for. You’ve fought too hard to get here. You want to gamble that on—”

“On what?” Max cuts in, voice low but unwavering. “On someone who’s known me since I was a kid? On someone who stood by me long before anyone believed in me. You keep calling this a risk, but it feels like the most certain thing in my life.”

Jos’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I get that you’re trying to look out for me but I’m not seventeen anymore,” Max says, quieter now. “You don’t have to remind me what’s at stake and I’m not asking for permission. I’ve made mistakes sure but this isn’t one of them. I’m not throwing anything away. I’m choosing something.” His voice doesn’t shake, but there’s something raw underneath it.

Jos’s gaze flicks to you again.

“She’s not the problem, she’s not a distraction.” Max says. “She never was.”

Jos exhales slowly, like something in him is trying to uncoil. Then, to your surprise, he speaks not accusingly, but almost… weary.

“Maybe I didn’t handle things the best,” he says.

Max nods once. The silence that follows isn’t cold. It’s filled with the weight of years, with the kind of unspoken connection that’s never been easy to express between them. Jos shifts slightly, gaze softer now, and when he looks at you again, the edge is gone replaced by something that feels like reluctant understanding.

“You leaving again?” he asks, the words quieter, less accusatory.

You shake your head. “Not unless I have a reason to.”

It isn’t forgiveness, not yet. You know you're never going to get the apology you really want, but it’s something like a truce.

Jos nods. Once. Small. Grudging. “Alright, then.”

Max watches him leave, his shoulders tense until Jos is out of sight.

You nudge him gently. “You okay?”

Max doesn’t answer right away. He breathes out, long and quiet. “Yeah. I just hate that look he gives you.”

“I can take it,” you say, reaching for his hand. “I’ve handled worse.”

“I know,” he murmurs, his fingers sliding between yours with. “Doesn’t mean I want you to.”

You squeeze gently. “He’s still your dad.”

Max nods. “Yeah and I still want him in my life I just won't risk losing you to make that happen.”

“You won’t,” you say. “We’ll figure it out. All of us. It’ll just take time.”

He gives you a small smile, tired, but real. “You didn’t have to stand there and take that.”

“I want him to know I’m not going anywhere either.”

Max glances toward the door again, like he’s seeing something more than just his father walking away.

“I think,” he says quietly, “he finally heard us.”

You rest your head briefly on his shoulder, and Max leans into the contact. He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t have to.

The way he brushes your hand says enough.

Race Weekly: Six Years Later: A Familiar Walk, A New Story

Fans who’ve followed the sport since the 2010s will remember the quiet camaraderie between Max Verstappen and Y/N from their karting days to early F1 seasons. Their visible walk together through the paddock this weekend sparked speculation that some bonds, no matter how frayed, can be mended and maybe even stronger than before.

00:17AM

It drops in the night. No warning. No caption just a single heart emoji. A quiet joint post shared from both Max's and your Instagram profiles.

There are two photos. Side by side.

The first is an older one, 2014. You're both laughing, caught mid-moment, heads thrown back slightly, hands brushing as if neither of you remembered the camera was there. It's golden-hour light, soft and glowing, the kind of moment no one stages because you can't.

The second is more intimate. Max is kissing you. His hand is cupping the side of your jaw. Your eyes are closed, your fingers curled into the front of his jumper. There’s no tension in your bodies, only ease like you’ve finally arrived at the place you were always meant to return to.

The post doesn’t need to go viral. It detonates. Within minutes, it's everywhere, screenshotted, re-posted, zoomed-in, cried over, defended, dissected, loved.

@mercedesgirlies: I can finally sleep. We made it.

@wolffwatchers: I sobbed in my kitchen. My cat is concerned.

@teamlh4ever No bc I’ve never been a Max fan and even I teared up. This is cinema.

@gp_it_me: we finally got our happy ending. now leave me alone I need ten minutes of silence.

@maxiel87: this wasn’t a soft launch. this was a full, cinematic, 4k, emotionally devastating, Hall of Fame rollout.

@verstappensburner: the way this has more character development than any netflix show.

@mvwdramasept: they gave us enemies to best friends to silence to heartbreak to this. this is why I believe in long-form storytelling.

@vercedes: We were never insane.

@mv33fc1: I don’t even ship real people but Max Verstappen posting that at midnight with no caption like he hasn’t been in love for 10 years is UNREAL BEHAVIOUR.

@monacoapologist: The kiss photo?? He said I waited half my life for this woman now the internet can deal.

@wolffstappen1:: POV: you’ve been secretly in love with your best friend since karting and finally the whole world knows

@maxy/nwatch2025: the way he’s HOLDING her face like it’s sacred… Max Verstappen you are free to hurt me

@lighsout: And the other photo that's from like 2014??? They've been in love forever.

@gr33: Everyone shut up this is the greatest hard launch of all time I am shaking I am crying

@gridwitchery: six years. six YEARS.

@f1editsdaily: I need 12 hours to make the fancam this deserves. I’m calling out of work.

@undercut: YOU GUYS. HE POSTED IT. THEY POSTED IT. THIS IS THE ONE. THIS IS THE MOMENT.

@paddockchronicles: I want this carved into FIA history. I want this in the Louvre. I want this played at my wedding and my funeral.

And in the comment section beneath the post, quietly rising to the top:

@victoriaverstappen: ❤️ @charles_leclerc: Finally. @landonorris: called it. @danielricciardo: i cried. i’m not ashamed. max i’m gonna hug you and you’re gonna take it. @oscarpiastri Congrats. Also… respect for the slow-burn. @fernandoalo_oficial Some things are worth waiting for. @lando.jpg: he’s so whipped and I’m so proud. @lewishamilton Wishing you both the best. @sebastianvettel Glad you figured it out. Protect each other. That’s the whole point. @carlossainz55 Plot twist of the season. Happy for you both. @redbullracing Let’s just say… the paddock’s been waiting for this one.

Later max comments and you pin it to the top.

@maxverstappen1: For the years we missed. And the ones we won’t.

The world keeps spinning. The paddock keeps moving. Races will come and go, headlines will shift but for one night under moonlight and memory you gave the world the one thing it didn’t know it needed.

Proof that love, even in this world, can wait.

Can return.

Zandvoort - Six Months Later

There’s something about the sea air here.

Not quite salt, not quite smoke, just the kind of breeze that carries memory. You stand on the balcony of the trackside hotel, hair tangled from the wind, coffee cooling in your hands. Below, the orange haze of fans is already beginning to thicken, flags waving like fire across the dunes.

Zandvoort used to ache.

Now it just feels alive.

Max steps out behind you, barefoot, still towel-damp from the shower. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind, chin resting against your shoulder, breath warm at your neck.

“You always wake up before me,” he mumbles.

“You always sleep through your alarm,” you murmur back, leaning into him.

His laugh rumbles through his chest. He presses a kiss behind your ear.

“This is the best part of my weekend,” he says.

You hum. “What, cuddling and trapping me?”

He nods. “Exactly that.”

His arms stay around you as you watch the sun finish rising over the track, casting long shadows across the asphalt, a perfect line between past and present.

By the time you’re in the paddock, the chaos is in full swing. Someone tries to corner you for a quote, and Max swipes a croissant off a breakfast tray to sneak you between interviews. He steals your pen and signs your forearm with a heart like he’s still sixteen and thinks Sharpie skin is romantic. He lets Lando steal you for a TikTok and then pretends not to watch, except you catch him glancing over anyway.