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Summary: Toto Wolff’s mistress grapples with guilt amid her realization that she is in love with him.
Pairing : Toto Wolff x OG female character
Warnings: some angst, some smut, I don't condone cheating lol , age gap
Word Count: 4.2k
NOT PROOFREAD!
***
She didn’t know exactly how it had all started. How her life went from being Toto’s assistant to the young woman who held onto every word he uttered. Hung upon his every breath, his every move. To the woman he touched every chance he had. She was quite puzzled at when the air had shifted and when the nature of a professional working relationship had turned so deeply personal and intimate.
She put it on the countless hours they spent together going over agendas and meetings whether it was from the comfort of his office, inside cars or private jets. It was them together multiple days a week for hours on end in different parts of the world.
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.
SUMMARY - Your friend Taliya asks for your help in getting Prince Aerion's attention. Instead, he grows interested in you, and you have no intentions of backing off.
CONTAINS - betrayal, reader is a tyrell and is evil and manipulative (poor taliya), aerion is aerion, lack of sympathy
A/N - wait i am in love with writing evil women
The Highgarden rose was always meant to be a delicate thing, cultivated carefully for the pleasure of courtly eyes and kept well away from the thorns.
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.
Leaning over the railing, your eyes locked onto Aerion’s and you dropped the ribbon, watching it fall perfectly into his waiting hand.
Summary: when the pre-med girl with the perfect GPA meets the hockey player with the far from perfect reputation, neither of you expects to become each other’s biggest distraction. You’ve got your whole life planned out. He’s never planned anything past Friday night. But somewhere between study sessions and split lips, you discover that the scariest thing isn’t falling, it’s admitting you want to
Read part two here
The bass is so loud you can feel it in your chest, and you’re pretty sure that’s not supposed to be a good thing.
“This was a terrible idea,” you shout over the music, but your roommate Maggie just laughs and pulls you deeper into the chaos that is The Boy’s House.
“You literally never go anywhere!”
“I go to the library!”
“That doesn’t count!” Maggie’s still dragging you through a sea of bodies, past the kitchen where someone’s doing a keg stand, past a couple making out against the wall with such enthusiasm you have to look away. “You need to live a little. Have fun. Maybe even-”
“Don’t say it.”
“-talk to a guy.”
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?”
“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.”
“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.
PAIRING — Prince Baelor Targaryen x fem!Reader // Martell!OC
SUMMARY — You sail to King's Landing because you are invited to your Aunt's name day celebration. Once there, you get a crush on your eldest cousin. The problem is that not only you are being treated like an outsider with your Dornish ways but he also has a marriage contract already prepared with Lady Jena Dondarrion. It takes one tournament to change it all.
AUTHOR’S NOTE — Not requested again... I'm sorry! 💀 Targcest this, targcest that but the idea of Baelor with the Martell!Reader was living in my head rent free. Her appearance is not described of course. (Although I was tempted to describe her having dark features but decided that the plot does not need it). I felt a bit bad about writing Lady Jena the way I did but my bestie @violetwanderer made me realise that the Dondarrions were actually enemies of Dorne, so I feel less bad now. 🤣
WARNINGS — Reader is Baelor's first wife, incest (cousins but they meet for the first time as adults), Lady Jena is mean to Reader
WORD COUNT — 5,520
ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.
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.
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Summary: Sirius Black has always been a dog—but the thing about dogs? They're loyal to only one person: Their owner
A/N: um this whole fic is just me calling sirius a dog so be prepared for that
credits to @cursed-carmine for the divider
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.
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Summary: Lorenzo doesn't like it when people other than him receive pretty privilege. Hypocrite.
A/N: First fic for enzo! this one is a bit weird cuz i wrote it out of order and i also took a long break after writing the first part so it might feel a bit disconnected but i hope you like it!!
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.”
“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)
Summary: You were “like a little sister to him”—or so Fred said. Please. Anyone with half a brain could see there was something way more between you two.
A/N: For the sake of this fic just imagine that GoF and OotP are a giant mushed up piled okay?
Credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider
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.
Summary: Six years ago Toto Wolff’s daughter disappeared from the paddock and from Max’s life. You were once inseparable, the paddock’s favourite duo. Then you vanished without warning. Now with your sudden return all eyes are on you and everyone wants to know: what really happened between you two… and why now? (Part 3/3)
17.8k words / Part 2 / Masterlist
Friday - 06:57AM
You’re awake before the alarm even dares to buzz. Heart pounding beneath your ribs, muscles tense as if you’ve just run a race in your dreams, and your mouth dry from the kind of sleep that barely skims the surface.
The window of your hotel room overlooks the circuit. From this high up, the view is misted in the cool hush of dawn, but you can still make out the faint blur of movement the track crew setting up barriers, adjusting signage, checking systems. The distant whir of generators hums beneath it all, a low mechanical heartbeat that pulses steadily through the morning stillness.
You haven’t really slept properly on race weekends in years. Not since everything changed. Not since Max became something you couldn’t look at without remembering what everything used to feel like. Not when every corner of the paddock echoes with memories you tried to bury, memories that now walk beside you in human form, with a name and a history and a grin that still curls into your thoughts like smoke under a door you can’t close.
Somehow, this morning, you know something is going to happen.
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.”
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.
The whispers have stopped. No one’s waiting for the fall anymore.
You make each other better, and now, the paddock sees it too.
Later you're both off to the side near the railing, two water bottles between you, your shoulder brushing his occasionally, fingers grazing but not fully laced not needing to be.
“Do you remember what Fernando said to us in Austin?” he asked.
You looked up at him, puzzled. “Austin?”
“2017,” Max clarified. “Dinner. You and I were bickering about who won the sim race the night before.”
Your eyes lit with the memory. “Oh god. And he said—”
“Just marry each other and shush,’” Max quoted, grinning now. “‘The whole paddock will appreciate it.’”
You laughed, covering your face with your hand. “He was so smug about it too. Said he’d officiate himself.”
“He might still try,” Max said, eyes dancing with something unguarded and golden.
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” you mused.
He tilted his head. “Not the worst future either.”
Late at night after media and briefings and a quiet dinner where even Toto smiled more than he scowled you find Max out on the balcony when you step through the sliding doors, barefoot, hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows he’s leaning against the railing, watching the stars come out one by one like they’ve been waiting for permission.
He hears you approach, doesn’t look away from the sky. “You remember what you said back in Genk?”
You blink.
“You gave me that hair band,” he says. “Told me I’d win.”
You nod slowly. “You did.”
He finally turns. “ I didn’t understand what you were really giving me until now.”
You step forward. “What was I giving you?”
“A reason,” he says. “Someone to believe in me before I believed in myself.”
The silence wraps around you like dusk full but calm.
“I used to think love could ruin me,” Max says. “Like I couldn’t be great and have this. Have you.”
Your voice is quiet. “And now?”
His eyes soften not just with affection, but with recognition. With clarity that had taken him years and mistakes and heartbreak to reach. “Now I know I couldn’t be half the man I am without you. I know that every good moment in my life every win, every fight, every night I pushed through something I didn’t think I could all of it traces back to you. In some way.”
Your chest pulls tight.
He steps closer, close enough that his forehead nearly touches yours, hands brushing your waist like he’s still asking permission even though he already knows the answer. “I love you,” he murmurs. “God, I love you so much. And I’m so damn grateful you came back. That you didn’t let the worst version of me be the last one you remembered.”
Your breath wavers, but it doesn’t falter. It never does with him. “I love you too,” you say back, calm and certain. “I'll love you forever.”
He exhales, not shakily, but with the kind of relief that loosens someone from the inside out.
“Every moment…” you continue softly, your fingers lifting to his jaw, “every laugh, every fight, every stupid pinky promise and every terrible decision… all of it still led us here.”
He closes his eyes briefly, overwhelming emotion tightening his grip around your waist as though the words hit somewhere deep, somewhere old. “I’m thankful for everything,” he whispers, “as long as it brought you back to me.”
You lean in first. The kiss begins soft, the kind that presses memory into skin but it doesn’t stay that way it deepens quickly, warm and hungry, tender and fierce.
When you finally break apart, your foreheads rest together as always, sharing breath, sharing something that feels older than either of you.
No more waiting. No more what-ifs. Just two hearts that finally found their way back to each other beating in time, steady and sure, in the place they were always meant to be and the long, unfolding future, finally, beautifully yours.
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summary: the squad are sick of you and hangman pining after each other, so they set you up with the cowboy hat rule - 'you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy' (i know it's never specified but because glen grew up in texas, i'm applying that to jake)
notes: i am literally posting this while at work because i am so excited! i'm actually pretty proud of this one right now, so i'm trying not to second guess it and keep rereading it... i really hope y'all enjoy! please let me know all your thoughts! (in case you can't tell, i'm currently reading elsie silver's books)
warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption / drunkenness, mention of a student/teacher relationship, and general horniness but no actual smut (i'm sorry, it's already so long)
word count: 10667
You roll your lips as your eyes wander across the faces of your friends, each of them expressing varying degrees of excitement as they discuss the upcoming celebration for Javy’s birthday this weekend. It’s been a good week for the dagger squad, and even Maverick has managed not to piss off the admiral in almost five whole days. Everyone is holding their breath, praying he can hold off for the second half of the day so the team doesn’t get punished with weekend rotation... again.
You’re sitting in the middle of the long table with Natasha to your left and Bradley to your right, and across from you is the most gorgeous man on the planet. You can’t help settling your gaze on him, tracing the bridge of his nose as he faces Javy beside him, lips moving as words spill from them, but you can't possibly know what he’s saying because you’re too busy picturing what else those lips would be good at. His Adam’s apple bobs between statements and his tongue occasionally darts across those lips, making your innocent Friday lunch feel a lot filthier as your thoughts wander in the most inappropriate way.
An elbow nudging into your ribs knocks you off your bullet train of thought, derailing it at high speed as reality comes crashing down and you turn accusingly toward Bradley. “What?” you snap.
He chuckles, “You’re drooling.”
Your hand flies up to your mouth, fingers padding at each corner only to find the skin dry. You scowl at him, “Asshole.”
He has to hide his increased laughter in the mouth of his water bottle, taking a long sip so to not draw the attention of the rest of the group. “Sorry,” he says as he places the bottle back on the table, “but you were about to. I was saving you from yourself.”
You roll your eyes, “Whatever.”
Bradley shakes his head, his amused grin fading as he drops his gaze back to the tray of food in front of him, and a tiny pebble of guilt drops in the pit of your stomach. You suddenly feel bad for snapping at your best friend, so you bump your shoulder against his and reach over to steal a fry from his tray.
He shoots you a glare from the corner of his eye, but the smirk on his lips tells you that he isn’t really mad. You pop the fry into your mouth and chew it with a smile before turning your attention back to the group, startling when you find a pair of green eyes already trained on you. Heat flushes up your neck, colouring your cheeks as you stare back at the man you had just previously been ogling. Time seems to slow down, or speed up, you’re not sure, but what you do know is how pretty Jake’s eyes are, swirling shades of green with flecks of gold that glow in the afternoon sunlight flooding through the high cafeteria windows.
“Hangman?” Javy clicks his fingers in front of Jake’s face, simultaneously snapping you both out of whatever trance you’d been stuck in.
When you look around the table, you notice that most of the group are standing now, holding their empty trays and getting ready to return to work.
Jake blinks a few times, a slight frown creasing between his brows. “What?” he snaps.
Javy chuckles, holding one hand up in surrender. “Calm down, I was just asking what time we should get to your place tomorrow night.”
“Oh,” Jake’s shoulders visibly relax, “1800.”
You roll your eyes playfully as you push up from your chair. “Okay soldier, you can just say 6PM.”
His face breaks into a breathtaking grin as he stands and picks his tray up from the table. “Sorry civilian, I’ll see you at 6PM tomorrow night.”
Low laughter rumbles through the group as you take an extra moment to appreciate the gorgeous man smiling at you, but then Javy tugs on Jake’s arm and interrupts you both for the second time less than a minutes. “Come on man, Mav will be pissed if we’re late.”
“Wait for me?” Bradley asks.
You turn to your best friend and find him looking at you – asking you – rather than his squadmates. “Huh?”
He raises one judgemental brow, a teasing smirk on his lips. “After work, wait for me so I can give you a lift home.”
“Oh,” you nod, “duh, I’m not walking.”
His eyes flash toward Jake’s retreating form before he looks back at you with a grin. “Would you at least try to control yourself? Jesus, it’s so obvious.”
“Oh, shut up,” you frown at him. “Hurry up or Mav will have your ass.”
He stacks his tray on top of yours in your hands and leans forward, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “You’re so sweet to me,” he jokes, before turning on his heel and jogging after the others.
You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you watch him leave, meeting Jake at the exit door leading to the main hangars. Just as they both disappear, you can swear Jake throws an angry glance over his shoulder at you, but the door swings shut before you can be sure.
That glare haunts you on your journey back to the control tower. Had you really seen what you think you saw? Jake had just been grinning at you, joking with you, but then somewhere on his way across the cafeteria he had found a reason to glare at you. It doesn’t make sense.
You try to push the image of his angry face out of your mind as you sit back at your desk, one of eight situated on the fourth floor of the main control tower. Three screens stare back at you, displaying various windows of information about the sky’s conditions and other operational statuses from around the base. You slide your headset on and adjust the dials until you can hear a soft crackle indicating successful connection to the correct frequency. One by one, you watch the faces and callsigns of your friends pop up on the right-most screen as they turn their comms on and ready their jets.
“Maverick to control,” Mav’s voice comes through your headset.
“Good afternoon, Maverick,” you reply, as if you hadn’t already been on the comms with him for half the day.
“Radio check before take-off please, aviators,” he says, “alphabetical order if you geniuses can figure it out.”
You roll your lips to keep from laughing, reminding yourself that despite your personal connection to these people, this is still your job.
“Bob to control, can you hear me?”
“Lound and clear,” you respond, quickly trying to figure out the alphabetical order for yourself.
“Coyote to control.”
“Copy.”
“Fanboy to control.”
“Copy,” you repeat.
“Hangman to control,” Jake says, his voice in your ear sending the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy.
“Copy,” you reply.
The line then goes quiet, a faint crackling the only indication that the radio hasn’t completely dropped out. You wait a beat before speaking again, “Radio check please Payback.”
“Shit, sorry. Copy,” Reuben’s voice responds. “I thought Phoenix was before me.”
“A comes before H, idiot,” Natasha says, followed by a chorus of snickers. “Phoenix to control, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear, Phoenix,” you reply through your laughter.
“Rooster to control,” Bradley’s voice fills your ears, “your favourite pilot here, bringing up the rear.”
You roll your eyes, “Copy that, Shakespeare.”
Another rumble of laughter comes through your headset as you quickly type into the afternoon’s log that the radio check was successful.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Mav says as the laughter dies down. “Control, are we good for take-off?”
“Skies are clear, Mav,” you reply, “take off at will.”
You tune out the soft chatter as the squad ready themselves for taking off, and one by one watch their altitudes rise on your middle screen. They all pop up as red dots on the radar window, blinking slowly as they cruise through what you know is a cloudy afternoon sky.
“We’ve got a stormfront coming in from the south,” you say, eyes darting to your left-most screen. “We might need to call it a little early this afternoon, Mav.”
Maverick chuckles, “An early mark on a Friday? I don’t know if this lot deserve it.”
A series of protests then fill your ears, almost every pilot falling for Maverick’s taunt and arguing that they do deserve an early mark, even going as far as to say that they’ve had a hard week. You’ve been here all week too, and you probably couldn’t agree with that since this week has been one of the cruisiest in a while.
“Alright, alright,” Mav says to quell the bickering, “if you can perfectly execute the cloak and dagger drill, I’ll let you all land by 1500.”
The complaining turns into cheering, and Bradley threatens the team to perform because he’s not staying back in a storm on a Friday afternoon. Not that Mav could keep them in the skies if the weather gets that bad.
“Listen up,” Maverick says, “Coyote, I’ll be your wingman, and I want Phoenix and Bob behind us. Hangman, Rooster will be your wingman-”
“I’ve been trying, Mav,” Bradley interrupts, his voice dripping with cheek, “but the man is oblivious.”
Your heart leaps into your throat, blocking your airways as you suffocate on the audacity of your best friend. The laughter from your headset sounds distant as you try to remember how to breathe, willing yourself to calm down. Afterall, no one could really know what he’s talking about, right?
“Yes, Rooster,” Maverick chuckles, “we’re all aware of how oblivious Hangman is.”
Your eyes grow wide.
“What are you talking about?” Jake pipes up, and you can almost see the adorable and confused look on his face. His brows pinched together, a little crease between them, and his bottom lip pushed forward in a small pout.
“Point and case,” Bradley says, at which the rest of the squad dissolve into giggles.
Does everyone know about your crush? Is Jake really the only confused pilot right now?
“I don’t get the joke,” Mickey says over the laughter.
You can’t help the smile that cracks across your face, a breathy laugh leaving your lips as you try to focus on documenting the weather warning in your afternoon log. The team continue to giggle, turning their teasing on Mickey before Maverick orders them to focus. They run the drill perfectly, finishing up just before an orange alert pops up on your screen, a notification from the weather analysis team telling you to get the squad on the ground.
“Maverick,” you say, “the storm is coming in fast; you’ve been ordered to land.”
“Copy that,” he responds, before rattling off instructions to the squad.
One by one, you watch their blinking dots on the radar screen approach the runway and land. They manoeuvre toward the hangar, following instructions from the ground team to store the jets for the weekend. You exchange a couple of last words with Mav before they all remove their helmets and start the end of day procedures. You take time to check your emails and send the day’s log to the data analysis team before doing all your usual sign offs. By the time you’re exiting the control tower, it’s almost 4PM.
You pull your phone out of your back pocket, about to text Bradley asking which lot he parked in today when his Ford Bronco skids to a halt three feet in front of you. He leans across the passenger seat and pops the door open with a grin. “Need a ride?”
You roll your eyes, taking two long strides forward and throwing your bag into the back seat before flopping into the passenger seat beside him. “That was quick,” you state. “Doesn’t the debrief usually take longer on Fridays?”
Bradley shrugs, “The admiral left early today so we didn’t have to do a formal debrief, and maintenance are doing a fuel flush on all the jets this weekend so they took them off our hands pretty quick.”
“Oh, nice,” you reply simply before turning your attention back to your phone, checking the notifications you missed during work.
Bradley navigates the base easily, slowing to a stop at the exit gates and having a short chat with the security guard in the booth before the boomgate rises and he hits the gas again. When the car merges onto the main highway, you tuck your phone under your thigh, not wanting to risk motion sickness with Bradley’s driving. Let’s just say, he’s a much better pilot than he is a chauffeur.
“So,” he says, glancing at you with a cheeky grin, “do you want to hear something interesting.”
You sigh, recognising that look. “Who were you eavesdropping on today?”
“I heard Hangman talking to Coyote before I left,” he explains, eyes sparkling with mischief, “and I heard Coyote say to ‘stop making excuses and just ask her out’.”
You frown, trying to tamp down the green-eyed monster rumbling to life in your stomach. “Ask who out?”
“I didn’t hear a name, but I’m assuming-”
“Don’t say me.”
He chuckles, “Not me, you.”
You scowl at him, “Don’t argue with me about semantics.”
He rolls his eyes, “I just don’t understand why you won’t believe me. You heard the whole squad before, everyone knows except Hangman, even Mav!”
“Mickey doesn’t know,” you argue.
“Fanboy is almost as oblivious as your boyfriend.”
Your eyes narrow, “Do not use that word.”
He laughs again, “Which one?”
“You know which one.”
He sighs heavily, as if the weight of your unrequited crush was pressing down on his shoulders too. “Look, if you’re going to be stubborn, I’m going to have to take things into my own hands.”
“Please don’t,” you beg, your eyes growing wide.
He shrugs and adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, but you’re giving me no choice.”
“Bradley, please,” you plead, turning in your seat to face him, “just leave it alone. I don’t want to ruin the friendship and make it uncomfortable for the whole group.”
“The whole group already is uncomfortable with you two constantly eye-fucking each other!”
Heat creeps up your neck, turning your cheeks pink and making your ears burn. You want to protest and continue arguing with him, because you’re adamant that Jake does not return your feelings, but your brain can’t seem to string a coherent sentence together. Instead, you sink down in your seat and scowl at the road, wondering what you could possibly be in store for if Bradley really is taking matters into his own hands.
The rest of the drive home isn’t long, and soon enough, Bradley is pulling the Bronco into his parking spot in the garage of the apartment block you both live in. You don’t live together, but you do live in neighbouring studio apartments, so it often feels like you live together. You drive to and from work together, you usually have dinner together and watch movies together in the evenings. Basically, if you’re both not busy, you’re with each other, and it’s been that way as long as you’ve both been based on North Island.
The squad had initially teased that the two of you might be more than friends, they even had you questioning it, but one wine-drunk kiss while watching The Bachelor confirmed that neither of you felt anything romantic toward the other. It was that same night that you also confessed to Bradley that you might be falling for Jake, to which he looked at you like you were stupid because duh. Apparently, your crush has been obvious from day one.
Now, here you are, hopelessly in love with a man you not only work with, but you’d also consider one of your closest friends. Rock, meet Hard Place, and you? You’re in the middle.
-
After spending the night on the couch with Bradley and a box of pizza, you took yourself off to bed and dreamed one of the many reoccurring dreams you have about a certain fighter pilot. You managed to sleep in before taking yourself for a long walk and making a mental list of all the things you needed to do before Javy’s birthday party.
Jake had been generous enough to offer having the party at his place, since the squad wanted to do something other than go to The Hard Deck for once. You'd offered to help shop for supplies and set up for the night, but Jake and Javy assured the group that they had it all under control. All you have to do is waste your Saturday and quell your nerves before the party.
At exactly 5:45PM, there’s a knock at your door. You quickly finish applying your lip balm before tucking it into the purse hanging from your shoulder and grabbing the jacket you’d thrown over the back of the lounge. You yank your front door open to find your best friend grinning from ear to ear, his moustache looking particularly fresh.
“You shaved,” you state, stepping forward and forcing him to step back.
He nods before asking, “Did you?”
You finish locking the door, slipping the key into your purse with one hand while the other slaps Bradley’s bicep. “Don’t be creepy!”
He chuckles and rubs his arm. “I’m not being creepy, I’m just making sure you’re prepared for any outcome.”
You narrow your eyes at him, “What are you planning?”
"Nothing in particular,” he replies innocently, though the small smirk on his lips betrays him.
You decide to leave it, since you're already nervous enough, and focus on relaxing the butterflies flapping wildly in your stomach. Bradley decided earlier that he would drive to Jake’s, since it’s hardly ten minutes from where you live, and leave his car in favour of getting an Uber home. Jake had said that anyone who wanted to crash was more than welcome to, but the thought of sleeping at his place only invigorates those nervous butterflies.
“Stop,” Bradley says, one hand leaving the steering wheel to grab your bouncing knee. “Why are you so nervous?”
You shrug, opting instead to wring your hands in your lap. “I don’t know, I just am.”
“You see these people every single day,” he points out, “what’s so nerve-wracking about tonight?”
You sigh, refusing to look at him as you reply, “I’m just feeling a little weird about going to Jake’s apartment.”
His brows shoot up toward his hairline, and you can tell by the way he rolls his lips that he’s holding back laughter. Your cheeks burn, and you have to hide your face in your hands.
“I’m not going to make fun of you,” he says quickly, “I actually think it’s a bit cute.”
You drop your hands, turning to him with a frown. “What? Why?”
He shrugs one shoulder, “I don’t know. It’s cute that you’re nervous to see where you’ll be living once the two of you finally fuck and get marr- ow!”
You cut him off my smacking his arm, the same one as before, harder. “Would you stop being such a pain?!” you exclaim as the car comes to a halt. “You’re supposed to be my best friend; you’re supposed to comfort me, not make my face all red and blotchy right before we go inside.”
He finally lets his laughter win, his shoulders shaking as he chuckles into his closed fist. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m not trying to be a dick, it just comes so naturally.”
You roll your eyes and pop open the passenger door, throwing him a glare over your shoulder. “I know.”
He manages to keep his thoughts to himself while the two of you cross the lobby and ride the elevator up to the fourth floor. This apartment block is shorter than yours, but wider. It’s one of the most coveted locations for naval personnel based on North Island, being the closest two- and three-bedroom apartments to the base. Jake had lucked out when he snagged one of these apartments with another lieutenant, and he’d lucked out even harder when that lieutenant got relocated and he ended up having the apartment to himself.
The sound of Bradley’s knuckles against the hardwood door knocks you back to reality, and you find yourself standing in front of apartment 4B.
“Who is it?” Natasha’s voice calls from the other side of the door.
“Stripper,” Bradley calls back.
“Finally,” the door wooshes open and you watch the liquid in Natasha’s red cup slosh dangerously. “We’ve been waiting all night.”
Bradley winks at her as he strides into the apartment, but before you can follow, Natasha blocks your path. “You need to pay the entry fee,” she says, offering you the red cup.
You frown, “Why me and not him?”
“Because it’ll calm your nerves.”
You catch Bradley smirking over his shoulder, and you scowl at him, wishing you could telepathically punch him for texting Natasha in advance, warning her of your anxiousness.
“Fine,” you sigh, taking the cup and tipping it to your lips.
You drain the cup, ignoring the burn that slides all the way down to your stomach. When you tip your head back to look at Natasha, she’s grinning. “Now you may enter,” she says, stepping aside.
There are a few more people than just the dagger squad in the apartment. You recognised most of them, but you decide that it’s not important enough for you to go around the room introducing yourself to the ones you don’t know the way Bradley is. Outgoing motherfucker. Instead, you beeline for the kitchen where Bob is on the phone reading out an extensive list of pizza orders. He offers you a quick smile before returning his attention to the list.
There’s a makeshift cocktail station set up beside the sink, with an array of alcohol bottles sat on the passthrough window bench. Your gaze drifts past the bottles and into the lounge room where everyone is gathered, landing easily on Jake who is animatedly retelling something to two men you recognise as Fritz and Yale. You’ve never been so charmed by someone in your life, it’s almost laughable the way this man captivates you. You can’t look away from the bright grin on his face, the tiny crease between his brows, and the excitement in his pretty green eyes.
“Hey,” Bob says, startling you out of your trance.
You can feel heat blooming in your cheeks as you turn to face him, leaning your left hip against the countertop. “Hey.”
“Drink?” he asks, a small but knowing smile tipping the corner of his mouth up.
You nod quickly, “Please.”
You chat idly while Bob fixes you both a cocktail that you don’t recognise, not that you’re much of a connoisseur when it comes to bartending, and you’re pretty sure he sneaks an extra shot into yours. Either way, the drink he hands you tastes delicious and fruity, and you’re feeling a little less nervous as you both join the group in the living room. A couple of Javy’s friends who you don’t know have already parted from the dagger squad, starting a foosball competition while the rest of you find somewhere to sit around the coffee table.
“Okay,” Bradley says to the group, “let’s play a little warm up game.”
“Yes!” Mickey exclaims as he settles into a beanbag. “I’m so down.”
Javy chuckles, “Alright, what are we playing?”
“Never Have I Ever,” Bradley replies, his lips curled into an evil smirk.
Your heart stutters, forgetting its usual rhythm before jumping into an erratic beat. You tip your drink to your lips, almost draining the whole thing, and when you finally look back at your best friend across the coffee table, he winks. This is his plan.
“But instead of just putting a finger down,” Natasha says, making you realise that she is in on it too, “you have to take a sip of your drink.”
“Does everyone have a drink?” Bradley asks.
You watch as a few of your friends drain the dregs of their current drinks before getting up to retrieve fresh ones, and you sigh, tipping the last of your cocktail into your mouth. You might as well get drunk with them.
When Bob returns to his seat beside you, he hands you a bottle of blue liquid. “Thought you might need this.”
You smile gratefully, “You’re the best.”
Once everyone is settled again, Bradley and Natasha take turns going over the rules of the high school game, even though it’s not that complicated.
“Oh, one last thing,” Bradley says, eyes trained on you, “nothing is off limits, and if you lie, you finish your drink.”
“How will we know if someone’s lying?” Reuben asks.
“I think there’s enough of us here that know each other well enough to spot a lie,” Natasha replies with a smirk.
Well, fuck.
“I’ll start,” Bradley announces. “Never have I ever slept with someone else in the navy.”
Jake, Javy, Mickey, Reuben, Natasha, and Harvard – who you only know by his callsign – all groan and take a sip of their drinks. Your eyes widen and you turn to Natasha on your right. “Excuse me, why did I not know about this?”
She rolls her eyes, “It was ages ago.”
“Damn, Phoenix,” Reuben says with a smirk, “didn’t think you were a rule breaker.”
“Technically,” Natasha bites back, “it’s not a rule, just frowned upon.”
Laughter rolls through the group before Bradley turns to Jake on his left. “You’re up, Hangman.”
Jake clears his throat as he sits up straighter and surveys the group, lingering on you for a moment longer than the rest. “Okay,” he says, “never have I ever had a secret relationship.”
There’s a beat of silence, a few people’s brows creasing in confusion as everyone stares at Jake.
“That’s a weird one,” Natasha states, though you can see in her eyes that she’s trying to figure out the hidden meaning to Jake’s declaration.
“Well, anyway,” Javy says, chuckling as he tips his beer to his lips.
The rest of the group takes a moment to think before both Bradley and Mickey also take a sip of their drinks. You watch Jake’s eyes widen slightly as he watches Bradley drink, then his gaze darts toward you, as if waiting for you to take a sip too. When you don’t, his shoulders seem to relax.
“Oh, my God,” Natasha whispers so softly that only you can hear, and when you turn to look at her, you find her eyes focused on Jake.
You feel yourself splitting in two, torn between asking Natasha what her revelation is or demanding to know what this secret relationship of Bradley’s was. You decide to go with the less nerve-inducing option.
“Excuse me, Bradley,” you speak across the group, “what was this secret relationship?”
He chuckles, “It was in high school.”
“Oh,” Reuben wriggles his eyebrows and nudges Bradley’s side, “were you a junior and she was a senior?”
Bradley snorts, “Actually, I was a senior and she was a teacher.”
Javy chokes on his second mouthful of beer, and the group suddenly erupts into laughter and questions while Bradley sits there like a king. You join in the laughter and use the commotion to slide your gaze toward Jake, heat rising in your cheeks when you find his eyes already fixed on you. He smirks, and you’re pretty sure your stomach does a triple somersault.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Bradley says. “I know I’m a legend. Now, let’s get on with it.”
Beside Jake, the man you only know as Harvard announces that he has never skinny dipped, at which everyone but Bob takes a sip of their drink. Next is Fritz, who declares that he has never had sex in the shower, and everyone in the group drinks. Your heart starts to race again as Natasha wriggles beside you, clearly excited about it being her turn next.
“Let me think,” she says, rolling her lips as she pauses to think for a moment.
You feel her brief gaze from the corner of her eye, and heat prickles the back of your neck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Never have I ever,” she begins, her brown eyes glowing with mischief, “had sexual fantasies about someone else in this group.”
Your breath catches on its way out, lodging in your throat as you once again forget how to breathe. You can feel your pulse across every inch of your skin, your heart thudding so hard against your ribs you worry it might break free. You can’t lie. You know you can’t lie, because Bradley is giving you a very pointed glare from across the group and Natasha has turned her whole body to face you.
“Fine,” you mutter into the bottle as you bring it to your lips, tipping it up.
You hear Javy's laughter above everyone else’s hoots and hollers, and when you look back at the group, you catch the tail end of Jake taking a sip from his drink. Natasha giggles beside you, subtly nudging your side with her elbow.
Bradley’s eyes are trained on you, and he opens his mouth to no doubt say something taunting when Reuben lifts his drink to his lips, and Bradley turns to him in shock. “You too?!” he exclaims.
Mickey has dissolved into fits of laughter, curling over and holding his stomach.
“It was an accident,” Reuben justifies, the colour of his cheeks growing deeper, “I had one dream.”
“About who?” Jake demands, his frown more accusatory than curious.
Reuben shakes his head, “That is nobody’s business but mine.”
The laughter slowly dies down, and you silently thank any god that might be listening for the distraction before Bradley or Natasha could embarrass you further.
“Okay, my turn,” you say, quickly moving the game along. “Never have I ever piloted a jet.”
The smirk on your lips is incredibly proud, and half the group groans while the other half chuckles as every single one of them tip their drinks to their lips. It was a cheap shot, but you had to distract from all the sex stuff before you spontaneously combusted.
“Alright, Bob,” Bradley says, looking at the man to your left, “what have you got for us?”
Bob clears his throat, a small smile curling his lips. “Never have I ever worn a bra.”
Both you and Natasha roll your eyes and take a swig of your drinks, and across the group so does Bradley. You stare at him wide eyed as a stupid grin stretches across your face.
“Oh, I have got to hear this story,” Natasha says, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees.
Bradley tries to shrug nonchalantly, but you can see blood seeping into his cheeks, turning them red. “Alright, as if none of you have tried a bra on before,” he says, eyeing the men around the circle.
Everyone bursts into fits of laughter, holding their stomachs or their chests as they fold over and start mocking your best friend. You almost feel bad for him, watching him try to defend himself, but then you remember that he started this game to out your crush and any trace of empathy you had is quickly wiped clean.
“Okay, everyone shut up,” Javy says over the giggling and teasing, “it’s the birthday boy’s turn.”
The noise dies down, and only then do you realise that the group of Javy’s friends by the foosball table are now watching the game of Never Have I Ever as if it’s some enthralling reality TV show.
“Never have I ever,” Javy says slowly, his eyes locked on Jake directly across the circle, “been too chickenshit to ask someone out even though I’m clearly obsessed with them.”
Your heart stutters again, unable to discern the difference between being held at gunpoint and playing a stupid game mostly likely created by high school students. You tip your drink to your lips, not missing the fact that Jake does too, and certainly not missing the way Bradley’s eyes widen and snap toward you. Mickey and Fritz also drink, but to your immense relief, the rest of the group hold off on the teasing for this round.
“Okay, um,” Mickey taps a finger on his chin as he stares into space, “never have I ever ridden a horse.”
Beside him, Reuben frowns, “What?”
Mickey shrugs, “I was looking at the horse.” He gestures toward the narrow bookshelf beside the television cabinet, adorned with a few books, photo frames, and knickknacks. On the very middle shelf is a golden trophy with a little figurine of a cowboy riding a horse, his rope poised in the air mid-lasso.
Reuben turns his quizzical frown toward Jake. “Why do you have a horse trophy?”
Jake’s cheeks are pink, either from embarrassment or alcohol, you can’t tell, but Javy speaks before he can reply. “Didn’t you know baby Hangman was a part of Austin’s champion junior penning team?”
Mickey tilts his head like a confused dog. “What’s penning?”
“It’s a ranching thing,” Jake replies, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “You’re in a team of three on horseback, and you have to separate cattle. There’re all these other rules too, but that’s the basis of it.”
Your chest aches at the sight of Jake Seresin actually looking shy. You’ve never seen this man with less confidence than a stag in mating season, and that mixed with the imagery of a young Jake working on his family’s ranch; well, your heart is just about ready to burst.
Bradley chuckles, “I always forget that you’re a cowboy.”
“Can take the boy out of Texas,” Javy says with a southern twang, “but can’t take Texas out of the boy.”
Jake rolls his eyes playfully and rumples up his empty red cup before tossing it across the circle at his best friend. From what you can gather, Jake and Javy have known each other far longer than just the past few years, and you’re always pleasantly surprised when either of them comes out with historic pieces of information about the other.
“Alright, one more and we’re playing a new game,” Bradley announces, turning his attention to Reuben who is the last to go before it’s back to the beginning.
“Never have I ever,” Reuben says with a cheeky smile, “owned a cowboy hat.”
The group dissolves into another fit of laughter, and you see Natasha and Fritz sip their drinks from the corner of your eye, but everyone’s attention has turned to Jake.
He rolls his eyes again and pushes to his feet. “You people are relentless!” he exclaims, his tone laced with amusement. “I finished my drink anyway, so suck on that.”
Renewed laughter rumbles through the room as Jake storms off down the short hallway, disappearing into a room you can’t see from your position on the lounge. Half the group make their way toward the kitchen to refresh their drinks, while the other half continue joking about Jake’s cowboy ancestry.
You turn your attention back to the bookshelf where the trophy is, letting your eyes wander over all the pieces of Jake that are displayed on the shelves. You hadn’t noticed before, but a lot of the decor in the apartment gives subtle nod to his upbringing. Everything is washed in warm browns and oranges with rich wood furniture, photos of horses and farmland, and trinkets reminiscent of a life on the ranch. He has more than one trophy, you note, and there are a quite a few photos of a young, smiley boy standing proudly beside the same chestnut horse. Your chest squeezes again, reminding you just how enamoured you are with this man.
“Drink?” Bob asks for the second time tonight, offering a different coloured cocktail than earlier.
You nod, “Thank you.”
“Pizza is almost here,” he says, looking at both you and Natasha. “Would you help me go down to the lobby and pick it up?”
You both agree and let the rest of the group know where you’re going before heading out of the apartment door. The pizza guy meets you in the lobby barely a minute after you step out of the lift. Bob pays with cash, and you all stack your arms with boxes of delicious smelling pizza before stepping back into the lift and riding it up to level four.
You can hear commotion the second the elevator doors part, and it gets louder the closer you get to Jake’s apartment. The three of you exchange dubious looks before Bob shifts the boxes in his arms to free one hand and knock on the door. It swings open almost immediately, and you can now very clearly hear some unrecognisable country song blaring while everyone hoots and cheers.
Fritz, who opened the door, takes some of the boxes and calls for more help. As soon as your arms are free, you turn to see what all the fuss is about, your jaw dropping open the second your eyes land on the two men in the middle of the living space.
Jake and Javy are arm in arm, jumping in circles and doing what you assume is supposed to be some country jig. It’s uncoordinated and they’re both laughing so hard they can barely breathe, but it’s not the dancing that has the butterflies in your stomach whirring to life. Atop Jake’s head is a brown cowboy hat. It’s simple and a little worn, the exact same colour as the horse in the photos with young Jake.
Holy fucking shit, does that man look good in a cowboy hat.
You’ve never really considered yourself as having a ‘type’, but right now you couldn’t be more sure that this man is your type. The only person on planet earth that is your type. You can’t help the way your lips are pulled into a grin so wide it hurts, and the fast, uneven thud of your heart against your ribcage, threatening to crack bone.
“Are you okay?” Bradley asks, startling you as he wraps an arm around your shoulders.
You sigh, feeling the pull in your gut that tugs toward the man in the cowboy hat. “No,” you reply, leaning into him, “I’m not okay.”
His chest vibrates with laughter as you hide your face in it, keeping your arms slack by your side as you pretend to sob into your best friend’s shirt. His other arm wraps around you and his laughter doubles, one arm squeezing you tight while the other hand rubs circles on your back. Despite how much of an asshole he can be, you know that Bradley is always there for you when you need him.
You pull out of his embrace when the music dies down and Bob announces that its dinner time. Your eyes easily find the cowboy, watching him walk toward the dining table where all the boxes of pizza are laid open.
“Look at him,” you whisper-shout to Bradley. “Fucking look at him! Don’t you just want to lick-”
“Nope,” Bradley interrupts before you can even finish. “I definitely do not want to lick any part of that man.”
You roll your eyes playfully as he guides you toward the table of pizza. He hands you a plate and you start stacking a few slices on it despite your nervous stomach’s protests. When you glance across at Jake, his piercing eyes are already on you – like they so often seem to be of late – but he doesn’t look nearly as joyous as he had moments earlier. There’s a crease between his brows and tension in his jaw as he chews.
Natasha pops up beside you and starts babbling about what game you should all play next. She’s always a chatty drunk, not at all annoying, but definitely more vocal than usual after a few drinks. You listen to her and Bradley squabble about games before Javy pipes in, declaring that it is his birthday so he should get to decide.
After everyone has eaten their fill, Jake and Reuben pack away the leftover pizza while Bob and Mickey start making a round of cocktails. Meanwhile, Javy announces that he would like everyone to do a shot, which is when three of his mates who you have guessed are not navy make their exit.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Javy mutters, lining up all the mismatched shot glasses on the kitchen counter. “How many do we need?”
You look at Jake, who is standing beside you and craning his neck to count the heads in the room. “Why do you have so many shot glasses?” you ask him.
He pauses for a beat before chuckling and shaking his head. “You made me lose count.”
When he looks down at you, it feels like your lungs constrict, forgetting once again how to do their one job. Your chest aches in the most deliciously painful way, because that ache radiates all the way down to the apex of your thighs. You don't just want this man, you need him.
“I used to like to collect shot glasses,” he finally replies. “I’d try to get one in every city I visited but after about ten, I kept forgetting.”
“We need eleven,” Javy announces, obviously having counted the room while Jake answered your question.
“We’re one short then,” Jake states.
You shrug, your inebriated brain quickly diving into devious thoughts. “Someone could do a body shot off me.”
Every head in a two-foot radius snaps toward you. Jake’s eyes are blown wide, and a huge grin is pulling Javy’s mouth across his face. Bob looks shocked and Mickey looks amused, but Bradley is almost glowing with pride.
You roll your eyes for the umpteenth time, “I’m joking, guys. Calm down.”
Jake’s shoulders sag as if he’s disappointed, but he huffs a short laugh out before picking up one of the bottles to start pouring liquid into the line of shot glasses. “I’ll go last,” he says, looking at Javy. “I’ll just use your glass.”
At Javy’s request, everyone gathers around and picks a shot, clinking them together and spilling drops of amber liquid on the floor before tipping them up to their lips. It burns all the way down and sizzles angrily in your stomach. Sweat prickles the back of your neck as heat breaks out across every inch of your skin. You’re well on your way to being drunk, so you take advantage of the cheering to slip back into the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of water. If anything, it might save your head tomorrow.
Twenty minutes later, everyone has a full drink and a seat somewhere around the coffee table. Javy decided that it’s time for another game, and despite protests, he said that he has picked one and there will be no negotiations. You find yourself comfortably between Bradley and Natasha, trying not to ogle at the gorgeous man across the circle. He is no longer wearing his cowboy hat, having taken it off just before doing his shot, hanging it on the back of one of the dining chairs.
“Alright, what are we in for?” Bradley asks Javy.
Javy grins, “Truth or Dare.”
There’s a mixture of cheers and groans, but everyone ends up giggling with each other since the whole group is very happily tipsy by now.
“Okay, okay,” Natasha calls over the laughter, “what rules are we playing?”
Javy and Natasha negotiate the rules of the game, deciding not to move the game in a circle but from player to player; whoever gets asked ‘truth or dare’ then gets to choose the next victim. You glance quickly toward Fritz, Harvard, and Yale, the three you don’t hang out with all that much, and wonder if they’ll ever get a turn.
“And if you don’t want to answer the truth or do the dare,” Natasha says, “then you have to drink.”
Everyone nods in agreeance before Jake announces from beside Javy, “Birthday boy goes first.”
Javy’s eyes scan the circle before settling on Bradley. “Rooster,” he says, “truth or dare?”
“We’ll start of lightly,” Bradley states. “Truth.”
“Is it true that you and Y/N are just friends?”
Your eyes widen and you immediately inch away from your friend, leaning into a giggling Natasha.
“Yes!” Bradley exclaims. “It couldn’t be truer! Are you kidding me?”
Laughter rumbles through the group, everyone but Jake finding Bradley’s disgust rather amusing.
Javy chuckles, “Just checking! You two are pretty cosy.”
You scoff, “He’s like my brother.”
“Alright,” Javy raises both hands in surrender, “I won’t ever question it again.”
“Good,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him.
Bradley clears his throat and the snickering dies down. He looks straight at Jake, “Hangman, truth or dare?”
“Truth,” Jake replies.
“Is it true that you’re totally hung up on someone right now?”
Jakes cheeks turn bright pink and he immediately covers his face with his hand, hiding his sheepish smile. He sighs, “Yes, that is true.”
Your stomach twists itself into a knot, threatening to eject everything you’ve consumed in the past few hours. The rest of the group start giggling again, teasing Jake and making stupid oohing noises as the poor man places his beer on the coffee table to bury his face in both hands.
“Okay,” he chuckles, swatting at Javy as he makes kissy noises, “that’s enough.”
Once everyone manages to mostly compose themselves, Jake asks Bob truth or dare. Bob chooses dare, which lands him in Bradley’s lap for the next ten minutes. Bob then asks Natasha truth or dare, and she picks truth, deciding to drink instead of admitting who she finds the most attractive in the room. You have a feeling Bob might already know the answer to that, which is why she flips him the bird before asking Mickey truth or dare. He picks dare, of course, and has to do a shot of straight vodka.
After he’s finished coughing and hacking, he returns to his spot between Bradley and Yale, turning his attention to you. “Y/N,” he says with an evil grin, “truth or dare?”
“Truth,” you respond.
“Earlier tonight, you told Bradley that you wanted to lick someone; who were you talking about?”
Your heart leaps into your throat, beating erratically as it tries to crawl up and jump right out of your mouth. Bradley bursts into a fit of laughter beside you, and Natasha coughs on the sip of drink she had just taken. You clear your throat before lifting your own drink to your lips, taking a purposeful sip and rolling your lips together.
Mickey whines, “You’re no fun!”
You scowl at him, “You were eavesdropping!”
His grin turns sheepish. “Technically, I overheard.”
You roll your eyes and let the laughter subside before scanning the circle, wondering who you could pick that might keep you safe in return. Your eyes land on Jake and you have to roll your lips again to keep from smiling. Sure, you could dare him to make out with you, but you’d rather not force yourself on him, so you settle your gaze on the man beside him, Reuben.
“Payback, truth or dare?”
His face lights up, “Dare.”
“I dare you to give your WSO a big kiss on the lips,” you say with a grin.
Mickey snorts, “You think we haven’t kissed before?”
“Dude!” Reuben exclaims across the group as everyone loses it to laughter once again.
Mickey giggles as he crawls into the middle of the circle and meets Reuben, who rolls his eyes before grabbing either side of Mickey’s head and mashing their lips together. It’s very brief, but it has the group hooting and hollering like high schoolers as the two blushing boys return to their respective spots.
Reuben shoots you a scowl, “I’ll get you back for that.”
You give him a wink before tipping your drink to your lips, realising that it’s empty. You push yourself to stand, “Drinks?”
You and Bradley work on taking the empties from the group and retrieving fresh drinks for everyone while they start asking questions about Reuben and Mickey’s first kiss. When you settle back into your seat, you see Reuben crouched beside Javy as they whisper into each other's ears, their eyes watching you carefully and their lips curling into evil little smirks.
Well shit.
Once everyone is settled again, Reuben looks toward Javy. “Coyote, truth or dare?”
“Hm,” Javy pretends to think, “dare.”
“I dare you to prank call Maverick.”
Everyone oohs as Javy pulls his phone out, a shit-eating grin stretched across his face. He switches off his caller ID before finding Maverick’s contact, and the group falls silent at the first dial tone. It rings and rings, but Mav doesn’t answer, so when his voicemail requests a message, Javy puts on his gruffest voice. “Maverick, it’s Admiral Simpson. I’ve had a few drinks, and I know this isn’t appropriate, but I just wanted to tell you that I love you.”
He hangs up and wheezes with laughter. Everyone is folded over, some wiping tears from their eyes, because right now, Maverick’s inevitable scolding doesn’t seem to be a worry.
It takes a little longer for everyone to calm down, but once they do, Javy’s eyes narrow on you. “Y/N,” he says, “truth or dare?”
“Me again?” you ask. “I just had a turn.”
He simply shrugs, awaiting your answer.
You sigh, “Fine, dare.”
You played right into his hand, and you know it by the way his lips have split into a Cheshire Cat grin.
“I dare you,” he says slowly, eyes moving past you and across the room, “to put Seresin’s cowboy hat on.”
You frown, letting go of a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. It’s too simple. “What?”
Javy nods toward the hat in the dining room. “Put the cowboy hat on.”
“Coyote,” Jake warns, his voice low.
“It’s just a hat,” you say, pushing off the couch and waving a hand dismissively.
You walk quickly across the living space toward the dining table, taking the hat off the back of the chair and plonking it on your head. When you turn back around, Jake’s mouth pops open, Javy and Reuben giggle, and Mickey and Natasha look like they’ve just realised what the stupid joke is.
“Oh, I get it!” Mickey announces proudly.
You frown at him, “Get what?”
He glances at Reuben, who makes the action of zipping his lips. Mickey turns back to you, “Sorry, I can’t say.”
You roll your eyes. “Alright, Fanboy, truth or dare?”
“Truth,” he says.
“What’s the big joke about the hat?”
“The hat rule,” he replies simply, as if it’s obvious.
“What hat rule?”
“The cowboy hat rule, you know-”
“Nope!” Javy exclaims. “Technically, he answered the question, you can’t get another answer.”
You huff, “Okay, whatever. Play your little games.”
You lean back and cross your arms, the hat still propped on your head. Across the circle, Jake’s eyes are trained on you, and there’s a hint of a smirk on his lips. He looks mildly amused by whatever the joke is that you don’t get, but he also looks a little like he might be enjoying the way the hat is sitting on your head. The alcohol rushing through your veins gives you the courage to hold his stare as you draw your bottom lip between your teeth before pulling it back out slowly. His eyes drop to your mouth, lingering there before he swallows thickly and looks away.
When you tune back into the game, you realise that Fritz is now asking Bradley truth or dare. You’re not sure what you missed, but you’re guessing it was one or two uneventful turns.
“Dare,” Bradley says.
“I dare you to walk out onto the balcony and make some weird, loud sex noises.”
Bradley springs up, excitedly jogging toward the balcony doors, throwing them open and starting to honk and moan the second he steps outside.
Jake chuckles into his hands. “You guys do realise that I still have to live here after tonight?”
“OOH, FUCK YEAH!” Bradley shouts, at which everyone’s laughter doubles.
Natasha nudges you, “Is this what you have to hear whenever he has a girl over?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” you say with a dramatic sigh.
Another few seconds pass of Bradley’s terrible sex noises before Jake calls him back inside. He sits back down beside you with a satisfied grin, his cheeks bright pink and eyes sparkling. He turns his attention to Jake. “Hangman, truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
Bradley clears his throat and casts you a quick glance before looking back at Jake. “What is the cowboy hat rule?”’
Javy and Reuben start to giggle again, and Jake sighs, looking incredibly sheepish as he runs a hand through his hair. “It’s uh- well,” he sighs, “you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.”
Your jaw goes slack and your mouth pops open, heart thundering in your chest. Bradley cackles beside you and Natasha snickers on your other side. The thought crosses your mind that if these people keep laughing so hard, they might explode.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” Javy says to you before turning to look at Jake. “Now the two of you can fuck and relieve us all of this stifling sexual tension.”
Neither you nor Jake can muster a laugh. You simply stare at each other, thoughts racing as you wonder why Javy would do this. Is what he said true? Does Jake actually like you the way Bradley has always said? Is the tension between the two of you that obvious?
Eventually, the game rolls on, and neither you nor Jake get asked again. Truth or Dare somehow morphs into Would You Rather, and soon Bradley is standing beside you offering another round of drinks to the group. You stand up beside him and rush into the kitchen, dying for a moment away from Jake’s piercing gaze. It’s not that you don’t like him looking at you, you just wish you knew what it meant.
“You good?” Bradley asks as he steps into the kitchen after you.
You nod. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Still got the hat on,” he notes, pointing at your head.
You quickly take it off and plonk it on the kitchen counter before reaching up to the passthrough shutters and swinging them closed. No one seems to notice, and the small amount of privacy seems to help settle the butterfly disco currently happening in your stomach.
Bradley rummages through the fridge while you pour yourself a glass of water, sipping it slowly and watching him juggle as many bottles as he can between his two hands. He raises his brows at you before he leaves, a silent question, and you nod, assuring him that you’re fine. He disappears around the corner right before Jake steps into the kitchen, making your heart leap dramatically.
“Hey,” he says, seeming much more relaxed than you’re currently feeling.
“Hi.”
“Are you okay?”
You nod again, “Of course.”
“Coyote can be a little insensitive sometimes,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.
You shrug. “I’m tough. It was just a joke.”
He frowns. “Which part do you think was a joke?”
“The hat rule,” you reply, “right?”
“Oh,” he chuckles, “yeah, I mean, that is a known rule but I’m not going to-” he hesitates, “I mean, I would never- oh, my God, this isn’t coming out right.”
“It’s fine,” you say, dropping your gaze to your feet. “I know they were just having a laugh.”
“No, I don’t mean it like that either,” he adds frantically. He steps forward, leaving very little space between your bodies. “What I’m trying to say,” he says slowly, “is that I definitely would do that with you, but not if you didn’t want to.”
You look up, startled. “Would what?”
He chuckles awkwardly, the pink in his cheeks turning red. “Let you ride me, if you wanted.”
Looking up at his pretty green eyes is making your head spin, but you feel surprisingly stable. Something about his gaze is holding you steady, reassuring you the way a hug from your best friend does, and you quickly realise that this is the closest you’ve ever been able to stare into his eyes. They’re even more amazing up close.
“You’re very pretty,” you blurt out, internally cursing all that liquid courage.
He chuckles again, but its deep and breathy. “Thank you, but I’m nothing compared to you.”
You frown now. “You don’t think your pretty?”
“Well,” he shrugs, “I know I’m a little pretty.”
You roll your eyes playfully.
“But you are possibly the prettiest thing on this planet,” he adds, cupping your jaw in his hands.
The contact lights your skin on fire, and your heart is practically vibrating in your chest.
“Who’s the girl that you’re in love with?” you ask, once again unable to control that brain to mouth communication.
He chuckles again, his eyes darting away from your face and finding the hat on the bench. He reaches past you, his breath fanning across your neck as he picks the hat up off the counter and plonks it on your head.
“I’m in love with the girl wearing my old cowboy hat,” he says, hands holding either side of the brim as he adjusts the hat to sit perfectly.
You don’t even wait for him to finish fixing the hat before you surge up onto your toes, pressing your lips to his. He responds immediately, hands abandoning the hat to find your hips and hold your body tightly against his. You’re almost positive you can feel his heart beating where your chests are pressed together, and it’s almost as erratic as yours.
His lips move against yours gently, but there’s urgency in the way he holds your body, like you might disappear if he doesn’t hang on tight. Your own hands are gripping the hem of his shirt, fisting the material until you can feel your nails digging little half-moons into your palms. Maybe you feel the same, like if you don’t hold on, he’ll disappear, because you’re almost positive you’ve had this dream before.
He pulls back for air, keeping his forehead pressed against yours as his hands drop to the crease beneath your bum. In one swift movement, he lifts you onto the counter and stands between your open legs, the buckle of his belt pressing deliciously against the crotch of your jeans. You squeeze your knees around his hips and tilt your head back, letting his tongue slide past your lips. You sigh against his mouth, every ounce of tension from the past few hours leaching out of your body as his hands explore and squeeze your thighs.
“You have no idea”- he speaks breathily against your lips -“how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
You pull back, staring up at his puffy lips and lust-blown eyes. “Why did you wait, then?”
He chuckles and relaxes, the buckle of his belt no longer pressed against you. “Have you seen the way you and Rooster act?” he asks. “You’re practically inseparable, always having your little inside jokes, and you basically live together. How was I supposed to know you wanted me when all you do is look at him?”
You gnaw at your bottom lip, willing your foggy brain to sober up and try to picture things the way Jake would be seeing them. “I guess,” you say, resting your hands on his chest, “but I only look at him to avoid staring at you all the time.”
He tilts his head, a quizzical frown set between his brows. “Really?”
You nod. “And most of our inside jokes are about the fact that I’m hopelessly in love with you.”
His frown melts into a grin. “Hopelessly?”
“More or less.”
“More, I hope,” he murmurs as he leans forward again.
Your lips have barely touched when a bang startles you both. Jake holds you against his chest as you look over your shoulder to see the passthrough shutters blown wide open. Your friends are all gathered in the opening with stupid grins on their faces and laughter bubbling from their lips.
“I knew it!” Javy exclaims.
“That’s all it fucking took?” Bradley asks, his brows almost raised to his hairline.
“If I knew that, I would have put a cowboy hat on you ages ago,” Natasha says with an eye roll.
“Yeah, okay,” Jake says, his smile wide and cheeks bright red, “that’s enough from you lot.”
He reaches around you to grab the passthrough shutters and swing them closed, despite the shouts and protests of your friends. When his eyes find yours again, you feel like the only two people in the world. The noise from the living room fades away and the only thing you can feel is his warmth, his body.
“Where were we?” he murmurs, holding your face in his hands as he dips toward you again.
A sudden spike of panic slices through you, and you pull back with wide eyes. “Wait.”
His smile fades, worry creasing his brow. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re not just saying and doing all this because you’re drunk, right?”
The concern on his face dissolves just as quickly as it had appeared, replaced again by that dopey grin. “Baby, I’m not drunk. You are a bit drunk.”
You frown indignantly. “I am not drunk, I’m tipsy.”
“Okay, tipsy,” he chuckles. “Are you only kissing me because you’ve had a few drinks?”
You shake your head fervidly. “No. I’m kissing you now because sober me didn't have the balls to.”
He laughs again, a little harder. “Are you saying that you’re not going to kiss me again tomorrow?”
“Oh, I’m definitely not saying that,” you reply. The corner of your lips lift into a smirk as your eyes fall to his puffy pink lips. “You’ve opened the flood gates now. I’m going to have to put my lips on every inch of your body.”
When your eyes find his again, the pretty green of his irises is almost completely consumed by black, lust-blown pupils. “I’ll be right back,” he says, untangling his limbs from yours.
You hold on to the waistband of his jeans, not letting him move too far from you. “What are you doing?”
“Kicking everyone out so we can get to all the kissing and the licking,” he replies, as if it was obvious.
A soft giggle slips from your lips and you tug on his jeans, pulling him back into your arms. “As much as I love that idea, we should probably get back to celebrating Coyote’s birthday. We’ve got all day tomorrow to kiss and lick and suck and fuck.”
His jaw slackens and a soft groan rumbles from the back of his throat. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Not at all,” you reply with a cheeky grin. “Come on, let’s get back out there before they decide to come back in here.”
He sighs heavily as you slide off the counter, but before you can exit the kitchen, his hand wraps around your wrist. “We’re going to have to wait a minute,” he says, looking down at his pants.
You glance down to see a bulge in the dark blue denim at his crotch, the zipper almost straining against the pressure from the inside of his pants. You roll your lips to keep your giggles at bay, and to stop yourself from begging him to fuck you right here in the kitchen regardless of who can hear.
As if on cue, Bradley’s voice resonates from the living room, “You two better not be fucking in there! My beer is getting low and I will be getting another one no matter how traumatising it might be!”
summary: you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunication—jealousy, tension, the works—and a training accident lands you in hospital
notes: the lew spiral is still spiralling and i almost struggled writing this because i love him so much??? anyways, it's heaps of fun, has all the tension, jealousy, angst, fluff, and of course... lots of horny thoughts! please let me know what you think!!! (p.s. shout out to the critical role nerds for the callsign, iykyk)
warnings: swearing, miscommunication, reference to a slight age gap (but it isn't specified and it's also described as 'barely there'), teasing, short skirts (sorry bob), jealousy, switching pov (kind of), plane crash, very minor description of injury, and horniness so 18+ ONLY MDNI! (let me know if i missed anything)
word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)
your callsign is vex
Bob Floyd never thought of himself as someone who took particular interest in the weather—unless it had to do with flying, of course. But on the ground? He couldn’t care less. Or, he shouldn’t.
Especially not when it comes to what the weather makes people wear. How is that any of his business? It shouldn’t matter how hot it is outside or how that directly affects the amount of material someone’s wearing. It really shouldn’t.
But it does. And not just with anyone. No—this has everything to do with you.
You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldn’t be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar.
And yet, there you are in all your glory. Legs on display, that flowy little skirt just barely covering the curve of your ass. And fuck if it isn’t making it impossible for Bob to keep his eyes from wandering.
“God damn,” Jake says, his southern drawl thick as his green eyes lock onto you—or more specifically, your ass. “Do you think she knows?”
Bob blinks, brows pulling together as he turns toward Jake, trying—and failing, miserably—not to sound annoyed that he’s checking you out. “Know what?”
“What a girl like that does to guys like us,” Jake replies easily.
Reuben chuckles and takes a slow sip of his beer. “Oh, she knows. She definitely knows.”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Could you creeps stop looking at her like she’s something to eat? It’s gross. She’s our friend. Our teammate.”
Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him.
“And she’s barely younger than us, so don’t say anything weird about her age.”
Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. “Wasn’t gonna…”
There’s a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way you’re leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you.
“Wait,” Mickey leans forward, squinting—very unsubtly—across the bar. “Is that her date?”
Natasha nods. “Think so. Looks like the guy she showed me.”
Bob’s head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. “She’s on a date?”
Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer.
“Alright,” Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. “Who didn’t tell Bob?”
Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. “Didn’t you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.”
“Said she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,” Jake adds with a wicked grin. “Y’know, since we’re starting night rides next week—figured she’d get used to staying up late.”
“I was intentionally leaving that part out,” Nat says, glaring at Jake. “But thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.”
Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.”
Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him.
Which you don’t. You don’t belong to anyone.
At least, that’s what Bob has to keep telling himself.
“Easy, Floyd,” Bradley mutters beside him. “You keep staring like that, the poor guy’s gonna catch fire.”
Bob doesn’t respond. He can’t. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He’s too focused on your smile—how it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him.
It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care whether or not you’re giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because it’s none of his business.
Who you date and what you do—none of it is his business. You’re allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think they’re clever.
It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
God, it fucking matters—way more than it should.
Because for the first time in weeks, you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at... that guy.
And even though he tells himself—repeatedly, a thousand times a day—not to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does.
He lives for it.
“You know,” Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, “this wouldn’t even be happening if you’d sack up and—”
“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.”
“What?” He raises both hands in mock innocence. “All I’m trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. She’s clearly into him. We all know it.”
Bob’s eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reuben’s logic makes perfect sense. Bob’s not blind—he sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing.
But on the other hand? He just can’t do it. You’re young—too young. And he’s... well, he’s not old, but he’s older. It’s not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? It’s enough to make him feel like a—
“Nothin’ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,” Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer.
Bradley chuckles quietly. “Jesus, Hangman. You’re on fire tonight.”
“Why thank you, Rooster,” Jake replies smoothly.
Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them.
The conversation shifts then—to next week’s night ops training—but Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he can’t stop watching you.
The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughter—if he strains.
And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight.
-
“Wanna get out of here?” Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck.
But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warm—too warm—in the packed, overheated bar.
Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting job—he's a carpenter, it’s not that interesting—you’ve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy.
“It’s barely nine,” you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head.
“Yeah,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.”
The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew.
“Look,” you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, “this has been fun, but I’m just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... you’re not him. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault—this one’s on me. But, uh... good luck!”
He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare you’ve worn for most of the evening—or the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone else—wasn’t a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought.
You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to be—where your squad is.
Where Bob is.
You’re just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Penny—and the very large crowd waiting to be served.
“Damn it,” you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar.
You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinks—his voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer.
“Sorry,” you say with a soft laugh. “I saw the crowd and couldn’t just let you suffer.”
She rolls her eyes but smiles. “I’d tell you to scram if you weren’t so gorgeous—and a literal lifesaver.”
You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and he’s gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure.
Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses.
You’re so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you don’t notice someone approach—someone you usually have a hard time not noticing.
“You don’t work here,” Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners.
You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. “I could,” you say, straightening. “Maybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.”
He chuckles. “You’re one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?”
You shrug, leaning forward casually—knowing exactly what you’re doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didn’t happen.
“Hey, don’t knock it. This job is harder than it looks.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry soda—without him even needing to ask.
You slide it over with a small smile. “What do you think? I’m a pretty good bartender, huh?”
His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. “Yeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.”
You smirk. “Was that a compliment, Lieutenant?”
He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more.
You shake your head. “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.”
“You sure you’ve got that kind of authority?” he teases.
“Penny said our drinks are free tonight,” you reply, smug. “Payment for being an excellent bartender.”
“And for filling the tip jar faster than I’ve ever seen,” Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses.
Your cheeks heat as Bob’s gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar.
“Wow,” he chuckles softly.
You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. “Perks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.”
Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridge—very aware of the effect—and sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest.
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, “more like consequences of a skirt that short.”
You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. “Bob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?”
He blinks fast. “No.”
You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.”
He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. “Didn’t say anything.”
You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. “Bob, I’m not a baby. And I’m not some virginal schoolgirl, either. You’re not going to hell just for flirting with me.” You pause, letting your gaze hold his. “Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.”
His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyes—just before he reins it back in.
“But if the age gap is that big of a deal to you—which, for the record, is barely anything—then maybe stop looking at me like you’re picturing me naked.” Your voice drops. “Mixed signals can really confuse a girl.”
You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bob’s—daring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away.
He clears his throat. “Thanks for the drink.”
Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends are—acting like they haven’t been watching, but you know better. They’re all too nosy for their own good.
You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.”
Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Fighter pilots, actually. They’re a very special breed of difficult.”
“Hey,” you giggle. “I am a fighter pilot.”
She nods, smirking. “And there’s not a doubt in my mind how difficult you’re makin’ life for that boy right now.”
You press your lips together and give her a flat look—because yeah… she’s not wrong.
After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be at—you knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing he’d walk over and interrupt your lousy date?
-
Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides.
Whatever you want to call it—the squad hates night ops.
It’s dark, it’s eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shot—so you’re flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive.
“You know what’s great about night ops?” Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. “Nothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.”
You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee.
“It’s night one, Fanboy,” Natasha mutters beside you. “We still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?”
Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.”
“Did Mav piss Cyclone off or something?” Reuben asks.
You shake your head. “Nah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.”
“Or he just hates us,” Javy sighs, eyes half-shut.
Natasha snorts. “Did you sleep at all today, Coyote?”
“Nope,” he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. “Someone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.”
Jake shoots him a look. “They help me sleep. If you’ve got a problem, buy some earplugs.”
“Damn,” you mutter. “Glad you’re not my wingman tonight, Coyote.”
He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely.
“So, Vex,” Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, “never did hear how that date went the other night.”
You arch a brow. “Oh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?”
Jake’s lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. “Dates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?”
“That’s none of your business,” you reply, taking another sip of coffee.
There’s a brief pause, and his eyes narrow—seeing through you a little too easily. “The date tanked?”
Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side.
“Yes,” you mutter. “It sucked. He was boring. And no, I didn’t get laid. So yes, I’m in a less-than-favourable mood.”
Jake’s smirk turns wicked. “Sweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.”
Your brows shoot up. “That so?”
He nods.
You turn to Javy, who’s about one breath away from snoring. “Coyote.”
His eyes snap open. “Huh?”
“Want to fuck me?”
He startles—eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “I—uh, what?”
Laughter rumbles through the room—everyone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy.
Well... almost everyone.
Bob isn’t laughing. In fact, he’s not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phone—even though you can see the screen is blank.
Which means he’s definitely listening.
You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightly—a silent question about what you’re up to—but she nods anyway, signalling that she’ll follow your lead no matter where it goes.
“Does anyone know if Cyclone’s single?” you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence.
Mickey’s eyes go wide. “Admiral Simpson?”
You nod, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s hot.”
“Agreed,” Natasha says—and from the way her mouth curves, she’s not just playing along. She definitely agrees.
“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks.
Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. “Nah, I think they divorced.”
“So,” you say slowly, “what I’m hearing is... he’s single?”
Bradley’s gaze flicks to Bob—just for a second—before settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. “Bit old for you, isn’t he, Vex?”
You shrug with a smile. “Not at all. I like older men. More experience.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seat—just slightly, but it’s enough. He’s not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank.
“I swear he’s still married,” Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails.
“Yeah,” Reuben adds. “Didn’t they do couples counselling?”
“They did,” Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. “Didn’t stick. So yes, he’s single.” He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I’m not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?”
You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. “How generous of you, Captain. That would be great.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. “Alright, aviators,” he says. “Welcome to night ops.”
After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why you’re all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. You’re on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob.
The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. There’s a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. It’s late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals.
Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. You’ve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up.
By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight check—walking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. It’s second nature by now, but you don’t cut corners. Especially not in the dark.
Once you’re satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. It’s blurry—just enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldn’t be there.
You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself when—
“Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close.
You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet.
“I can fix it,” he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. “Tilt your chin up.”
You obey—barely—and he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that you’re trying desperately not to show.
“Didn't this happen last time?” he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. “You jam the strap too tight.”
“I like it snug,” you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when he’s this close.
Bob hums, low in his throat. “Of course you do.”
Your heart stutters.
He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes.
“You always get this close when you’re adjusting gear?” you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea.
Bob stills for a beat. Just one.
Then—very softly—he whispers, “Only yours.”
You swear your knees nearly give.
But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldn’t want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something.
“There,” he says, voice low but distant now. “Better?”
You blink behind the goggles. “Yeah. Clear.”
He lingers for half a second more—just enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something else—then turns and walks back toward the others without another word.
You don’t move. You can’t. You’re just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like you’re about to hit Mach 1.
It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close he’d just been—how you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if you’d tipped your chin up and stretched just a little… you might’ve been able to kiss him.
But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up.
You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check.
Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet.
“Remind me again why we’re stuck on the graveyard shift,” Jake says, voice dry. “Because as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, I’d really rather be in bed right now.”
“You’re not blind, Hangman,” Maverick replies. “We’ve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.”
“Oh, good,” Jake says sarcastically. “My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.”
You roll your eyes. “I’d rather have my life in Bob’s hands than yours, Bagman.”
His chuckle crackles through the radio. “Yeah, I know where you’d like to have Bob’s hands. And it’s not holding your life.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hot—your flight suit practically suffocating.
“Hangman,” Maverick warns. “Be professional.”
Jake scoffs. “Oh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I can’t say the obvious out loud?”
There’s a pause—a beat where you wonder if he’s finally pushed it too far—but then Maverick’s laughter cuts through.
“Yes. Because they do it quietly.”
Your eyes go wide and you almost—almost—fumble a right bank. “Mav!”
More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. You’re just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops.
“Vex, check your two,” Maverick says, voice sharp and low. “Something’s throwing heat.”
“Negative,” Bob cuts in. “Let me scan it first.”
You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order?
“Confirming IR spike,” Bob says after a beat. “Something’s cooking down there, but it doesn’t match any known signature.”
You glance down at the blur on your MFD. “I’ll break off, check it out.”
“Wait. Don’t.” Bob’s voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution.
“Why?” you snap, anger prickling your chest.
“I... I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s not worth the risk.”
You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature.
“I’m going to check it out, Mav,” you say, voice tight. “Hangman, got my six?”
“Copy,” Jake replies.
You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulse—a dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. It’s creeping north—methodical.
You drop lower when you spot flashing lights—fire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isn’t an accident. It’s a controlled burn.
“Mav, why is there a fire in a training zone?” you ask. “Shouldn’t that be logged?”
“It’s just brush management?” Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved.
“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can.
“Copy. I’ll flag it with air traffic—looks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.”
You and Jake return to formation without issue.
“Lucky it wasn’t Bigfoot, huh Bob?” Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. “Might’ve leapt right onto Vex’s jet and dragged her into the woods.”
There’s no response, just the soft static of the open channel.
Then Natasha mutters, “Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.”
“Well, I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” Jake says. “But she’s not made of glass.” He waits for a retort—gets none—and chuckles. “And if she’d died out there, I would’ve avenged her. Dramatically.”
“Hangman,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough. Bob’s got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe don’t piss him off.”
Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jet—nothing but a shadow at your five o’clock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jake’s jabs.
Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautious—or protective—but this is your job. He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially when it’s a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldn’t let him boss you around—well, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like you’re incapable? That’s what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl.
The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quiet—even Jake gives up his teasing—and you’re still pissed by the time you’re back on the ground.
You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room.
By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. You’re not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you don’t bother asking. You’re still too busy being pissed.
In fact, you’re so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you don’t notice someone step up beside you.
“I’m sorry,” Bob says, voice soft. “About what happened up there.”
You jump—just slightly—then twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet away—helmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip.
“I didn’t mean to undermine you.”
“Sure felt like it,” you mutter.
“I know.” His eyes finally lift to meet yours—midnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. “That’s why I’m apologising.”
You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. “Look, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You don’t get to override that just because your gut didn’t like it.”
“I wasn’t thinking about you as a teammate back there,” he says quietly. “I was thinking—”
“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.”
His frown deepens. “No, it—it’s not that at all. I just—I didn’t see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...” He drags a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?”
You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice.
“If anything had gone wrong, it would’ve been my fault,” he says, softer now. “I’m the WSO. I should’ve seen it first.”
“Bob,” you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. “If I ever end up in a bad spot, that’s on me. I trust you to have my back, always—but it’s my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew you’d be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.”
His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like he’s trying to memorise every inch.
Then he moves closer—close enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yours—and reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch.
“You’re not just my teammate,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—”
“I don’t believe it,” a familiar voice cuts through the room. “The famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? What’d you do, lose another bet?”
Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses.
You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest you’ve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. It’s Trevor—an old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. You’ve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesn’t leave you much time for a social life.
“Damn,” you say with a playful smile, “who let you in the building?”
He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Vex,” he says, voice full of mock disbelief. “You’re still here? I figured Maverick would’ve canned your reckless ass by now.”
Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. “So you’re a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.”
You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. “Guys, this is Trevor—or Grinder—I’ve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.”
Trevor snorts. “Technically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement?”
Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Want to tell my squad how you got yours?”
He tips his head, brows raised. “Maybe I should get to know them first.”
Then his eyes flick toward Jake—grinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. That’s the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin would be here. The very pilot he’s had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. He’s been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told him—repeatedly—that you’re not sure Jake swings that way. He wasn’t deterred though; he said he’s happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes.
“So, Grinder,” Natasha says, “what do you do?”
Trevor’s face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha.
You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. “Sorry about him. He’s... a lot. But you were saying...?”
He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
You frown. “It didn’t sound like nothing.” You take a slow step forward. “Didn’t feel like... nothing.”
“It’s okay,” he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. “We can talk later. Really, it’s fine.”
You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing it’s no use now—those walls are well and truly back in place.
“Okay,” you say, nodding once. “Later.”
-
Unfortunately, later never comes.
You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but you’re both so exhausted after the first night that you can’t find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home.
The next night, you’re on opposite hops, which means you don’t see him until the debrief in the early morning—when, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home.
The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down.
When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate.
“You sure you don’t mind?” Trevor asks, even though he’s already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow.
You roll your eyes. “Why would I mind?”
He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.” He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. “You know, the one with the glasses. I’ve seen the way you look at him and—oof—does the man know what he’s in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same but—actually, come to think of it… why haven’t you screwed his brains out yet?”
You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place.
“First of all, he’s not little—you’re just freakishly tall—and secondly…” You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. “He’s too good.”
Trevor frowns. “Too good? Like… too good for you or—?”
“That. And he’s respectful,” you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. “He’s got this thing about our age gap. It’s not a big one, but it’s… there, I guess. Maybe it’s also because we’re in the same squad.”
“Yeah,” he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. “I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.”
You snort. “Yeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, so—”
He lets out an exasperated sigh. “My God, Vex. Don’t take everything so literally. The man’s in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.”
He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed look—brows raised—before settling in and scrolling through streaming apps.
And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him.
“Fine,” you say, standing up with purpose. “I’m going out tonight, by the way.”
“Good,” he replies, not even glancing your way. “Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.”
“Trev!”
He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room.
Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling.
Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other people—and the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them.
But when Bob mentioned that he’s actually pretty good at bowling… well, how could you protest?
Plus, it’s still short skirt weather—Bob’s favourite, as you’ve come to notice—and bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk you’re more than willing to take.
All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesn’t stand a chance.
At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress you’re wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesn’t say a word.
The drive to the bowling alley isn’t far, and soon you’re walking inside with Mickey and Reuben—who arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. They’ve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyone’s callsigns into the limited-character name slot.
“Can’t you just be ‘Roster’?” he asks Bradley.
Bradley frowns. “Can’t I just be Brad?”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “No way. You’re not a Brad. Just put Roo.”
Jake’s face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. “Good one, Phoenix. Thanks.”
“What am I?” she asks.
“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan.
Natasha blinks. “Phone? As in P-H-O-N-E?”
“Yep,” Bradley chuckles.
“What the fuck, Bagman?” She steps up to the little tablet where he’s typing the names. “Move. You’re an idiot.”
You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. “Want to get shoes?”
They both nod, and you head toward the main counter—though not without catching the way Bob’s eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away.
You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes.
When you’re done, you stand up and put one foot out. “These shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.”
“You know what,” Jake says with a smirk, “I think you’re just gorgeous enough to make ‘em work. What do you think, Bobby?”
You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing.
“Bob?” you ask, voice full of faux innocence.
He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. “Y-Yeah. It’s a nice dress.”
There’s a beat—everyone turns to Bob—and then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jake’s face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradley’s shoulder to keep from falling over.
Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. “He wasn’t—we weren’t talking about the dress… were we?”
You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way he’s looking at you—wide-eyed, breathless, full of heat—you feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest.
You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until there’s barely an inch of air between you—your voice a soft whisper just for him.
“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.”
Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked.
You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs.
“We ready?” Natasha asks, finally tapping ‘finish’ on the tablet.
The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex.
“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.”
Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. That’s all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignites—like gasoline on an open flame.
“Jesus, Rooster,” Reuben says. “My nephew could bowl better than that blindfolded—and he’s six, man.”
“Yeah, dude,” Mickey laughs, “you sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?”
Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try.
“Alright, losers,” Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. “Time to watch how a real man bowls.”
Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing.
“What can I say?” he grins as he drops back into his seat. “I’m just too good.”
Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing.
Natasha follows, and—with terrifying precision—manages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like it’s nothing.
“Alright, Baby,” Jake says, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You ready to show us what you got?”
Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside.
By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already gone—swept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin.
“Fuck,” Reuben mutters. “Bob can bowl.”
“Oh, damn,” Mickey giggles. “Going after that is gonna suck.”
You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. “Thanks, Mick.”
Bob doesn’t sit down right away—he steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile.
You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. “Thanks.”
He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting.
“Need a little guidance, Vex?” Jake drawls, voice low and smug. “I give excellent hands-on instruction.”
You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. “I think I’d rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.”
There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, and—thunk—release it way too late. You’re honestly surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins.
“Damn,” you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to score lower than Rooster.”
There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t.
You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the lane—this time with a bit more intention.
Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder.
You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straight—miraculously—and clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you.
When you turn, Bob’s gaze jerks up like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wrecked—like someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather.
Jake whistles low. “Pretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.”
Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. “Oh, no. I think Bob is broken.”
Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.”
Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.
You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him.
“You know,” Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, “if I’d known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I would’ve worn my shortest skirt.”
You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Please. You would've blinded everyone—and that’s probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.”
The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round.
You stay quietly pressed to Bob’s side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You don’t care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night.
And Bob doesn’t seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yours—his warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket.
You’re seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that it’s Bob’s turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return.
This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands.
You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back.
You’ve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion.
And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes?
Well, fuck. There’s nothing PG about this game—not when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you.
“Hey,” Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. “It’s your turn, dude.”
You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isn’t as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is.
“Do you—uh, do you want some help?” he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands.
You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. “Sure.”
“Hey!” Jake calls from behind you. “I offered first.”
Reuben snorts. “Yeah, but she doesn’t want to bone you, does she?”
Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest.
“Okay, coach,” you say with a small smirk. “Tell me what to do.”
“Alright, here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists.
His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like he’s memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch.
“Fingers like this,” he murmurs. “You want a solid grip. Not too tight.”
Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale.
“Now,” he says, gently guiding your arm, “swing back like this—smooth, steady…”
You try to follow, but it’s hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breath—just barely audible, like he’s suffering.
“That’s… yeah. Perfect.”
He freezes.
You don’t move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid.
And then you feel it.
Oh.
Oh.
You shift your hips—just a fraction—and he instantly jerks back like he’s been electrocuted.
“Shit—uh, yeah, you—you got it. You’ll do great,” he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. “I—uh—I’ve got to—bathroom. Real quick.”
You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg.
“Was it something I said?” you call after him sweetly.
Jake cackles from the bench. “Nah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.”
Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. “Oh no,” she says with a grin. “I think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.”
You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast.
Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you.
“God, you’re so gone,” Natasha says with a soft laugh.
You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge.
“It’s a shame he’s too stupid to do anything about it,” Jake mutters.
Natasha shoots him a look. “He’s not stupid. He’s cautious.”
Reuben chuckles. “Yeah, well, if tonight’s anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.”
You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. “Not tonight, unfortunately.”
They all look at you, confused.
“Trevor’s staying at my place,” you explain simply.
The group gasps—everyone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief.
You frown. “What?”
“I thought—” Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. “I thought you only liked Bob.”
You and Natasha—the only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparently—exchange a look.
“She’s not into Trevor,” Nat says dryly. “And he’s definitely not into her.”
“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.”
“Like, very gay,” Natasha says. “Like, into Hangman gay.”
Jake’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?”
“Ohhh,” Mickey sighs. “That makes so much sense.”
Reuben laughs. “Is that why he’s been stopping by every couple nights?”
You laugh too, nodding. “Yeah. He’s been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and he’s been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.”
“Excuse me,” Jake repeats. “What exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?”
The whole group breaks out laughing—Bradley included as he returns from taking his turn.
“You’re just... pretty,” Javy says with a shrug.
“So?” Jake throws up his hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a compliment, dude,” Reuben says. “Just take it.”
Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you.
“So, why is he staying at your place?” Mickey asks.
“Yeah,” Bradley adds, “and why can’t you bring someone home? It’s your place.”
“His plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,” you explain, before looking at Bradley. “And I could bring someone home, but I’m pretty sure he’d make it weird. Plus, I’m not exactly a fan of… being quiet.”
Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. “God, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?”
You giggle and pat his knee. “Oh, Hangman. You’re delusional if you think Floyd isn’t a freak too.”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Why does this feel like you’re talking about my brother?”
The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jake’s eyes flick around in horrified disbelief.
“What’d I miss?” Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group.
Everyone falls silent.
“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.”
Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.”
He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes.
Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place.
After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy.
You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone.
“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?”
He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.”
You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?”
His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—”
You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.”
He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face.
You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.”
He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra.
He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you.
“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?”
He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place.
“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?”
There’s a pause. An awkward pause.
The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists.
“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.”
Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor.
You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.”
Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut.
- Bob -
“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.
Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters.
“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.”
She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.”
Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat.
Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car.
As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him.
“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?”
Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.”
There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad.
“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in.
Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.”
“I know,” Bob huffs.
He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight.
“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?”
Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.”
Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.”
“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.”
“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.”
Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.”
“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.”
Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.”
Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.”
Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.”
They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest.
He barely sleeps that night.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade.
He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick.
Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him.
After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’
An hour passes. Nothing.
And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you.
By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore.
The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings.
It’s worse—because it’s you.
You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately.
The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try.
Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you.
And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now.
Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island.
He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric.
Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him…
He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times.
His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs.
The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you.
“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.”
His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination.
“I—uh, Trevor?”
Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead.
He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—”
“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep.
Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!”
“What?”
He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest.
Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now?
“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.”
Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down.
Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it?
But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait.
Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were.
God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted?
- You -
“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back.
You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.”
Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?”
You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.”
Trevor gasps—loudly.
“But he said no.”
He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?”
“Because he has laundry to do.”
Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.”
“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.”
He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?”
You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.”
Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought.
You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face.
“Trevor…”
He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?”
You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.”
He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.”
You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop.
You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all.
But deep down, you know the truth.
Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago.
And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd.
You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken.
The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift.
Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob.
The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down.
Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew.
“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room.
You give her a tight smile.
“Feeling any better?”
You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open.
Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you.
Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed.
Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry.
You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated.
It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers.
You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve.
“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.”
Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room.
You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule.
Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it.
Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves.
You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded.
Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before.
But still, your hands stay tight on the controls.
You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still.
Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike.
You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet.
Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.”
You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.”
You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration.
It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race.
You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle.
“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.”
You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it.
“Vex—” he tries again.
“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line.
Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams.
Your heart lurches.
Terrain. Too close. Too fast.
“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!”
You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur.
“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—”
“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!”
“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—"
Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest.
You’re not going to make it.
Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard.
The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below.
Then—freefall.
The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine.
But you’re too low. Far too low.
You don’t even have time to brace.
You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop.
White-hot pain detonates through you.
Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream.
And then… everything goes still.
Muted.
Quiet.
Like the world took a breath—and left you behind.
-
You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet.
It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it.
The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital.
The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture.
You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace.
“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible.
There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement.
A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier.
“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile.
He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go.
He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button.
You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in.
“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”
You clear your throat. “Thirsty.”
She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position.
“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now.
The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.”
You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets.
He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you.
“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?”
You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way.
Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?”
You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.”
He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting.
“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says.
You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.”
You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back.
“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.”
Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—”
“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.”
You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—”
“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—”
The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.”
Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.”
Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out.
His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back.
After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic.
Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air.
You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable.
But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist.
When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate.
The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse.
But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it.
Great. Another win.
Two whole days pass, and still no word.
You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t.
All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened.
At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it.
Even if it kills you.
By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands.
Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door.
You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining.
It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment.
You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you.
Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode.
It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk.
Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan.
And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait.
At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment.
Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding.
The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out.
Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction.
“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him.
He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together.
“What are you doing here?”
You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?”
He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.
“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.”
You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.”
He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance.
“That all you came to talk about?” he asks.
You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?”
He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.”
The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible.
“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside.
He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place.
You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow.
“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you.
He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him.
“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips.
He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet.
“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance.
He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent.
“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen.
You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.”
He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient.
He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible.
“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?”
You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves.
“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.”
You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks.
Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.”
He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time.
“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—”
“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal.
You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.”
His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?”
“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.”
He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso.
“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?”
You shake your head. “I know why you said no.”
His brow creases. “You do?”
You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—”
He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?”
You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.”
His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob.
“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?”
He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart.
“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.”
He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit.
“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?”
His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—”
He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back.
“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.”
He laughs again, broken this time.
“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?”
He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting.
You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head.
“Love?” you whisper.
He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath.
“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.”
Your heart lurches into your throat.
“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—”
“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to.
He blinks. “What?”
“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.”
Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out.
You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.”
The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence.
The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down.
“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly.
You nod. “Hangman.”
He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—”
“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?”
He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—”
“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?”
You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg.
“I know I had no right,” he mutters.
“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—”
His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips.
It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall.
His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second.
You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in.
And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos.
His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in.
You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half.
There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going.
Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.”
You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.”
“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering.
His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch.
Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg.
“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.”
He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling.
“I’m so sorry,” he gasps.
You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.”
He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue.
Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?”
You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.”
He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.”
Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?”
He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.”
“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.”
He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury.
Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?”
The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening.
“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire.
Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally.
So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”
summary: a new strategist who happens to be a single mom of a five-year-old girl joins the mercedes team for the 2025 season, and george fits in their world like puzzle pieces. wc: 13.3k + social media posts
folkie radio: MY FIRST GEORGE LONG FIC !!! im not that confident about it but i really hope you like it ! let me know all of you thoughts
MASTERLIST | MY PATREON
📍Melbourne, Australia
You're huddled in the darkest corner of the Mercedes garage in Melbourne, your silver shirt dampened with tears as you try to muffle your sobs. The Australian Grand Prix weekend has barely begun, but your heart is 16,000 kilometers away in London, where your five-year-old daughter Amelia is fighting a nasty fever. Your mother had called an hour ago - Amelia's temperature wasn't going down, and she kept asking for you between fitful naps.
The garage is a flurry of activity, with mechanics and engineers rushing around to prepare for the first practice session of the 2025 season. You know you should be at your station, going through the setup parameters with Kimi, who you'd worked with during his F2 championship run at Prema last year. The transition from F2 to Mercedes F1 had been smooth, largely because Kimi had practically begged the team to bring you along when they signed him. But right now, you feel like the worst mother in the world for being so far away from your baby girl.
"Hey, are you alright?"
The soft, distinctly British voice makes you jump. You quickly wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, mortified to find George Russell, your other driver, standing there with concern etched across his features. At 27, he's the same age as you, but while you're a mess of tears and worry, he looks immaculate in his race suit, the top half tied around his waist.
"I'm so sorry," you stammer, trying to compose yourself. "I'm being completely unprofessional. I should be with Kimi, going through his-"
"No, no, don't apologize," George interrupts, crouching down beside you. His eyes are kind, and there's genuine worry in his voice. "Kimi mentioned you seemed upset. He's worried about you too, kept asking if anyone had seen where his 'Team Mom' disappeared to."
You manage a weak laugh at that. Kimi had started calling you that in F2, and the nickname had stuck. "I should go find him, he'll be nervous about his first F1 weekend-"
"He's fine," George assures you. "What's wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?"
The kindness in his voice makes fresh tears well up in your eyes. "My daughter," you manage to say. "She's sick back home in London. She's only five, and I've never been away from her for so long, and now she has this fever that won't break, and I just-" Your voice cracks.
"I didn't know you had a little girl," George says softly. "What's her name?"
"Amelia," you reply, a small smile breaking through your tears at the thought of your daughter's bright brown eyes and untameable curls. "She was so excited when I got this job. She made me promise to bring home one of those tiny Mercedes model cars they give out during race weekends."
George smiles warmly. "I'm sure you have an amazing support system back home helping you out with her?"
You bite your lip, looking down at your hands. "It's just me and her, really. And well, my parents help when they can. I'm a single mum."
His expression shifts to one of deeper understanding. "Oh, I didn't know that. That must be really challenging, especially with a job like this."
"It is," you admit, wiping away another stray tear. "Most days I can handle it, you know? We have our routine, and Amelia's such a good girl. The team at Prema was amazing with her too, always making sure we could manage. But being so far away when she needs me..." You trail off, the lump in your throat growing bigger.
"Listen," George says, his voice gentle but firm. "Being a single parent in F1 is incredibly tough. I can't even imagine how you manage it all. But you're here, following your dreams, showing your daughter that anything is possible. That makes you an amazing mum."
You look at him, touched by his understanding. "It's just... I feel like I'm failing at both jobs right now. I should be focused on the race weekend, but all I can think about is Amelia."
"You're not failing at anything," he insists, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "And you know what? I bet Amelia is going to be so proud when she tells all her friends that her mum works for Mercedes F1. Speaking of which, we definitely need to get her one of those model cars. And maybe a signed cap too?"
You can't help but laugh through your remaining tears. "She'd love that. She's already telling everyone at school that she knows George Russell."
He grins, his eyes twinkling. "Well, now she actually does. Come on, let's get you some water, and you can tell me more about this little fan of mine. I've got some time before practice, and I'd love to hear about the girl who's apparently been spreading my fame in London playgrounds."
As you follow him toward the team's hospitality area, you feel a little lighter. Your worry about Amelia hasn't disappeared, but somehow, sharing it with someone who seems to genuinely care has made it a bit more bearable. Sometimes comfort comes from the most unexpected places, even from a Formula 1 driver in the corner of a garage in Melbourne.
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liked by georgerussell63, kimi.antonelli and 987,487 others
f1 NEW ADDITION TO THE SILVER ARROWS!
Mercedes F1 Team welcomes YN as their newest Race Strategy Engineer for the 2025 season! The 27-year-old British engineer joins from Prema Racing, where she spent three years working on race strategy and simulation.
Fun facts about YN:
First class honors in Mechanical Engineering from Imperial College London
Started her motorsport journey as an intern at Sauber in 2020
She was key to Kimi Antonelli's championship last year (he even calls her "Team Mom")
She's a mum to 5-year-old Amelia 👶
Youngest strategy engineer on the current Mercedes team
Welcome to the Silver Arrows family, YN! 💫
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username1 love seeing more women in F1! and a mum too, that's incredible!
username2 i already stan her so bad
mercedesmagf1 Welcome to the best team on the grid! 🏁
kimi.antonelli THATS MY TEAM MOM!
username3 impressive cv
username4 One of the minds behind Prema's brilliant season last year! Mercedes making smart moves for 2025
username5 Imperial College London grad 🤓 She's definitely got the brains for this!
username6 THIS DIVA
georgerussell63 Welcome to the team! 🌟
liked by georgerussell63, kimi.antonelli and 54,098 others
yourinstagram First race weekend with @/mercedesamgf1 in the books! ✨
Still pinching myself that this is real. What an incredible start to the season: P3 for @/georgerussell63 and P4 for @/kimi.antonelli! Proud to be part of the team that made this result possible.
Special shoutout to everyone in the garage who made this rookie engineer feel so welcome (especially when I was having a bit of a mum meltdown missing my little one 🥺). The Silver Arrows family is real!
And to my little Amelia back home: Mummy's bringing back some very special presents from George and Kimi (aka Baby Driver) Thank you for being such a brave girl this weekend. You're the reason I push myself to achieve these dreams ❤️
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username1 AWE THIS IS SO CUTE
username2 her little girl must be adorable
georgerussell63 Couldn't have done it without you! See you in China (with presents for a certain little fan )
↳ username1 THE WAY HE SAID LITTLE FAN I'M CRYING
↳ username2 George is so sweet omg
mercedesamgf1 Silver Arrows family forever! 🌟
friend1 So proud of you! Amelia was screaming watching the podium 😂
username3 living the dream! you're such an inspiration!
username4 From one racing mum to another - you're crushing it! 💪🏼
username5 the way the entire F1 community is rooting for you
username6 I BET AMELIA CALLS KIMI BABY DRIVER AHH
kimi.antonelli love you team mom
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📍Shanghai, China
The Shanghai paddock is relatively quiet this early in the morning, and you've found a peaceful corner in the Mercedes hospitality area to have your breakfast while FaceTiming Amelia. She's excitedly showing you her school art project, a rather creative interpretation of a Mercedes F1 car, complete with glitter.
"And look, Mummy! I made George extra tall in the drawing!" she giggles, holding up her artwork where she's drawn a stick figure at least twice the size of the car.
You're in the middle of laughing when a familiar voice comes from behind you. "Did I hear someone say my name?"
Amelia's eyes go wide as George Russell himself appears in the frame, leaning over your shoulder with a warm smile, a coffee in hand.
"George!" Amelia squeals, pressing her face closer to the camera. "I drew you! You're really tall in my picture!"
George laughs, pulling up a chair beside you. "Well, I am quite tall in real life too! How are you feeling now, Amelia? All better?"
"Much better! I got a golden star at school yesterday for my maths!" She beams proudly. "And Sophie believes me now that my mummy knows you because I showed her my signed cap!"
"That's brilliant!" George responds enthusiastically. "You'll have to show me your maths skills sometime."
"Okay, sweetheart," you cut in, noticing the time. "You need to get ready for school now. Be good for Grandma, alright?"
"Okay, Mummy! Bye George! Good luck in the race!"
After you hang up, you can't help but smile at how Amelia has somehow managed to wrap one of Formula 1's top drivers around her little finger without even meeting him in person.
"You know," George says thoughtfully, taking a sip of his coffee, "why don't you bring her to one of the European races?"
You look up from your tea, surprised. "Oh, I... I hadn't really thought about it. I mean, I'd love to, but managing a five-year-old in the paddock while working..."
"Bring her to Silverstone," he suggests. "It's home race, your parents could come too. The team would love to meet her - she's practically our mascot now, the way Toto smiles whenever someone mentions 'George Russell's biggest fan.'"
You laugh, remembering how the team principal had been thoroughly amused by the story of Amelia's reaction to George's message. "She would absolutely lose her mind. She's been begging to see a real race."
"Then it's settled," George says with that characteristic Russell determination. "I'll talk to Toto about getting extra passes for your family. We can set her up in the garage with some headphones, show her the cars up close." He grins. "Plus, I need to see if she's as good at maths as she claims."
"George, you don't have to-"
"I want to," he interrupts gently. "You're part of the team now, and so is Amelia, in her own way. Besides," he adds with a playful smile, "I need to make sure my biggest fan gets the full Mercedes experience, don't I?"
You feel a warm glow in your chest, touched by his thoughtfulness. "Thank you, George. Really."
"Don't mention it," he says, standing up. "Now, how about you tell me more about this artwork where I'm apparently a giant? Should I be concerned about how I'm being portrayed to the next generation?"
As you describe Amelia's creative interpretation of the Mercedes team, complete with glitter and impossibly tall drivers, you find yourself looking forward to Silverstone more than ever. The thought of sharing your new world with your daughter, of seeing her eyes light up at the sight of the cars and meeting the team she's heard so much about... maybe George is right. Maybe it's time to bring your two worlds together.
"Oh, and YN?" George adds as he's about to head to the engineering briefing. "Tell Amelia to practice her maths. I'll be testing her when I see her."
You shake your head, laughing. Who would have thought that your daughter would end up with a Formula 1 driver as her personal maths tutor?
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📍Suzuka, Japan
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liked by username1, username2 and 10,985 others
f1updates Spotted: Mercedes driver George Russell grabbing coffee with the team's new strategy engineer YN outside the Suzuka paddock this morning. Could there be a new F1 couple on the horizon?
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username1 omg they look so cute together!! did you see how he's looking at her? 🥺
username2 okayy let's not be weird about this
username3 please chill out they're coworkers grabbing coffee
username4 she's the one who came from prema with kimi right? love seeing her settling in at mercedes!
username5 wait isn't she the single mom everyone was talking about during the melbourne weekend? when george was so sweet about her daughter being sick?
username6 kimi's team mom and george
username7 george russell 🤝 having excellent taste in both coffee and women
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The Bahrain paddock is eerily quiet at 1 AM, most of the team having retreated to their hotels hours ago. The gentle hum of your laptop and the occasional click of your mouse are the only sounds in the engineering room as you pore over tomorrow's race simulations for the hundredth time.
"You do know quali ended six hours ago, right?"
You jump slightly at George's voice. He's leaning against the doorframe, changed out of his race suit into casual wear, looking at you with concern.
"Just want to make sure we've covered all the scenarios for tomorrow," you mumble, stifling a yawn. "Your start position gives us a real chance at a win, I just need to-"
"YN," he interrupts softly, walking over to your desk. "It's 1 AM. The simulations will still be here in the morning."
You shake your head, forcing your tired eyes to focus on the screen. "I'm fine. I just need to run through these few more scenarios. Can't afford to miss anything."
George pulls up a chair, sitting beside you. "Can't afford to, or won't allow yourself to?"
Something in his gentle tone makes your carefully constructed walls crack a little. You sit back in your chair, running a hand over your face.
"I just... I need to prove I deserve this position," you say quietly. "I need this job, George. It's not just about the racing anymore. I have to put food on Amelia's table, pay for her school, her clothes, her future." Your voice catches slightly. "I'm all she has."
"What about her father?" George asks carefully, then immediately adds, "Sorry, that's none of my business-"
"No, it's okay," you say, surprising yourself. Maybe it's the late hour, or maybe it's just George's caring presence, but you find yourself wanting to talk. "He left when I told him I was pregnant. Said he wasn't ready to be a father, that it would ruin his career plans." You let out a bitter laugh.
George's expression darkens. "What a-" he catches himself, but you can guess the word he's thinking of.
"Yeah," you agree. "Anyway, he signed away his rights before she was born. Hasn't seen her once in five years. Doesn't pay any support." You fidget with your pen. "So it's just me. Every promotion, every extra hour, every bit of overtime, it all goes to giving her the life she deserves."
"YN," George says softly, placing a gentle hand on your arm. "You're already giving her an amazing life. You're showing her what strength looks like, what dedication looks like. But you can't pour from an empty cup."
Tears prick at your eyes. "I'm just so scared of failing her," you whisper. "Every time I see a bill, or she needs new shoes, or I think about university fees in the future... I can't mess this up, George. I can't let her down."
"Hey, look at me," he says firmly. "You're one of the best engineers I've worked with. Toto wouldn't have hired you if he didn't see that. The team trusts you, I trust you. But working yourself to exhaustion isn't going to help anyone - especially not Amelia."
You wipe away a stray tear. "I just want her to be proud of me."
"She already is," George says with certainty. "I've seen how she talks about you, her mummy who makes the silver cars go fast. But I bet she'd be even prouder knowing her mum takes care of herself too."
You manage a weak laugh. "When did you get so wise?"
"Must be all those post-race press conferences," he grins, then stands up, offering his hand. "Come on. I'm calling you a car, and you're going to get some sleep. That's an order from your driver."
"Oh, pulling rank now, are we?" you tease, but you're already saving your files and shutting down your laptop.
"If that's what it takes to get you to rest, absolutely," he says. As you gather your things, he adds softly, "You know, you're not alone anymore, YN. The team... we look after our own. You and Amelia, you're family now."
Something warm unfurls in your chest at his words. As you walk with him through the quiet paddock, you feel a little lighter, like you've shared some of the weight you've been carrying for so long.
"George?" you say as you reach the paddock exit. "Thank you. For listening, for caring... for everything."
He smiles, that genuine Russell smile that makes his eyes crinkle. "Anytime. Now go get some sleep - we've got a race to win tomorrow. Can't have my strategy engineer falling asleep on the pit wall, can we?"
For the first time in weeks, you fall asleep without worrying about simulations or spreadsheets, George's words echoing in your mind: you're not alone anymore.
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liked by georgerussell63, kimi.antonelli and 67,890 others
yourinstagram Great triple header with a bunch of points for the team ! Super proud of George and Kimi and all the team who makes everything possible. Now it's home time where a certain little girl is waiting for me with hugs and drawings for her favorite drivers 🤍
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username1 WE LOVE YOU YNNN
username2 sometimes i forget that team members have families waiting for them at home and they spend so much time away at races
mercedesamgf1 Proud of our favorite engineer ✨
lando the famous amelia! eager to finally meet her
↳ yourinstagram She says her favorites are the silver arrow boys, but the papaya ones are also cool
username3 amazing job now time to resttt
username4 amelia must love kimi and george i'm crying
username5 you're a super mom! your little girl should be really proud
username6 rest queen you deserve it
kimi.antonelli love you team mom, say hi to my little bestie for me
↳ yourinstagram She says she can't wait to see you, baby driver
georgerussell63 Can't wait for more of Amelia's glittery good luck drawings
↳ yourinstagram She made you extra tall in those again
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You're curled up on your couch in your London flat, finally home after three grueling weeks of racing across different countries. The morning sun filters through your curtains, casting glow over Amelia's curls as she snuggles against you. She hasn't left your side since you got back yesterday, following you around the flat like a tiny shadow, even waiting outside the bathroom door. Now she's nestled into your side, her small hand playing with the sleeve of your jumper, a self-soothing habit she's had since she was a baby when she wants to make sure you're really there.
The TV is playing her favorite morning cartoons, but you can tell she's not really watching. She keeps glancing up at you, as if making sure you haven't disappeared in the last thirty seconds.
"Mummy?" she asks during a commercial break, twisting to look at you. "Does George miss us when we're not at the races?"
You smile at her use of 'us', even though she's never been to a race. "I don't know, sweetheart. Why do you ask?"
"Because you said he asked about me in Japan," she says matter-of-factly. "And he always says hi when you call me from the track." She pauses, then adds, "Sophie says her dad doesn't even remember to call when he goes on business trips."
You pull her closer, pressing a kiss to her head. Sometimes it startles you how perceptive five-year-olds can be. "That's because George is special. And you know what? You'll get to meet him at Silverstone."
"That's so far away," she pouts, crossing her arms. "It's ages and ages away. Does he know I got full marks in maths last week? Mrs. Thompson said my adding up was ex-cell-ent."
Before you can answer, your phone buzzes with a text. Speaking of the devil...
Your heart does a little flip as you read the message.
"Melia?" you say, running a hand through her curls. "How would you like to meet George today?"
The speed at which she sits up is almost concerning. "Really? Really really? Not just on FaceTime?"
"Really really," you confirm. "He wants to get coffee near the park."
Amelia launches herself off the couch, practically vibrating with excitement. "Can I wear my special cap? The one he signed? And my Mercedes shirt? And can I bring my drawings to show him? And-"
"Slow down, love!" you laugh. "Yes to the cap and shirt, and yes, you can bring one drawing. Now go get dressed while I text him back."
Two hours later, you're walking through Hyde Park, Amelia's small hand clutching yours tightly. She's wearing her prized Mercedes cap and has been chattering non-stop since you left home.
"Do you think he's as tall in real life as on TV?" she asks for the third time. "Will he remember that I said his car looked like a rocket ship? Can I show him my times tables? Do you think-"
"Breathe, sweetheart," you remind her gently, amused by her enthusiasm.
You spot him before she does, sitting at an outdoor table of the café. He's dressed casually in jeans and a white t-shirt, sunglasses perched on his head, looking nothing like the fierce competitor you see at races. He's doodling something on a napkin, and the sight makes you smile - he's nervous too.
"George!" Amelia calls out before you can stop her, and his face breaks into a bright smile as he stands up. He really is impossibly tall, you think, especially from a five-year-old's perspective.
"Hello there! You must be the famous Amelia," he says, crouching down to her level. "I've heard so much about you."
Amelia, usually so outgoing, suddenly turns shy, pressing against your leg. "Hi," she says softly, then adds with determination, "I got all my sums right at school. Even the hard ones with carrying over."
George's laugh is warm and genuine. "Did you now? Well, I brought something to test that." He reaches into his bag and pulls out a small notebook and some colored pens. "Thought we could do some racing maths while your mum and I have coffee. What do you say?"
Amelia's eyes light up, and just like that, her shyness vanishes. "Can we do sums about how fast you go? Mummy says you drive at three hundred kilometers per hour sometimes!"
"That's right," George grins. "Should we calculate how long it would take me to drive to the moon at that speed?"
"Don't get her started on space," you warn with a laugh. "We'll be here all day."
Soon, the three of you are settled at the table, Amelia perched on a chair between you and George as he draws race cars and creates simple math problems involving lap times and pit stops. You've ordered coffee for yourself and George, and true to his word, he's gotten Amelia a hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.
"Right then," George says, drawing a simple track layout. "If I'm two seconds ahead of Max, and each lap takes one minute and thirty seconds..."
"That's ninety seconds!" Amelia interrupts proudly. "Because sixty plus thirty is ninety!"
"Brilliant!" George exclaims, and Amelia beams. "Now, if we do ten laps..."
You watch them interact, your heart swelling. George is surprisingly good with children, patient and engaging as he turns mathematics into a game about racing. He listens intently to Amelia's stories about school, asks her opinions about different racing tracks ("Abu Dhabi looks like a spaceship!" she declares), and seems genuinely delighted by her quick mind.
"Your daughter is brilliant," George tells you during a moment when Amelia is focused on coloring a particularly detailed Mercedes car. "She's got quite the mind for numbers. Wonder where she gets that from?"
"Like mother, like daughter," you reply, then catch him giving you a soft look that makes your cheeks warm.
"Mummy's really good at numbers," Amelia pipes up, not looking up from her coloring. "She helps me count my pocket money and everything. And she knows exactly how many sleeps until every race."
The afternoon passes quickly, filled with laughter and racing stories. George tells Amelia about his karting days, and she hangs on every word, occasionally interjecting with facts she's learned from watching races with you.
"I started racing when I was about your age," George tells her. "Maybe a bit older."
"Really?" Amelia's eyes go wide. "Mummy, can I do racing?"
You see George trying to hide his smile at your slightly panicked expression. "Maybe we can start with something a bit less dangerous," you suggest. "Like your school sports day?"
"Oh!" Amelia bounces in her seat. "George, I'm going to run in races at school! We have a special day and everything!"
"Is that so?" George leans forward, genuinely interested. "When is this big race?"
"Next Thursday!" she says excitedly. "We get to wear our own clothes instead of school uniform and everything! And Mummy's taking the morning off work to watch." She pauses, then adds hopefully, "Will you come see me race? I'm going to run really fast, like you drive."
"Amelia," you start to say, not wanting her to put George on the spot, but he interrupts.
"Well, I'll have to check my schedule, but I'd love to come see you race," George says seriously. "What events are you doing?"
"The hundred meter dash," Amelia pronounces carefully, clearly proud of remembering the proper term. "And the egg and spoon race. And maybe the three-legged race if Sarah wants to be my partner."
"Those are very important races," George nods solemnly. "Almost as important as the British Grand Prix."
"More important," Amelia declares. "Because Mummy says taking part is what matters, not winning."
You catch George's eye over her head, and he gives you a warm smile that makes your stomach flutter.
As the afternoon light starts to fade, you reluctantly check your watch. "We should probably head home, love. It's nearly dinner time."
"Five more minutes?" Amelia pleads, in the middle of showing George her detailed drawing of what she thinks the Mercedes factory looks like (complete with a rocket launch pad, because according to her, race cars are basically rockets).
"Tell you what," George says, "why don't I walk back through the park with you both? It's such a nice evening."
The walk back is filled with Amelia's chatter as she skips between you and George, occasionally holding both your hands to swing herself forward. She's completely at ease now, telling George about her friend Sophie's hamster and how she wants a pet too.
"Maybe a racing dog?" George suggests with a wink at you.
"George!" Amelia says suddenly, stopping in her tracks. "Will you come to my birthday party? It's not for ages and ages, but Mummy says we can have it in the garden and there might be a bouncy castle!"
"Amelia," you say gently, "George is very busy with racing-"
"When's your birthday?" George asks, ignoring your attempt to give him an out.
"In the summer!" she says proudly. "I'm going to be six!"
"I think I might be able to make it," George muses thoughtfully. "If your mum says it's okay, of course."
You're about to remind them both that summer is months away when you reach your street. As you're saying goodbye, Amelia surprises both you and George by hugging his legs. "Thank you for helping me with maths," she says. "And for making the silver cars go fast with Mummy."
George's expression softens as he hugs her back. "Thank you for being such a great student. Keep practicing those sums, okay? I'll need to test you again at sports day."
Later that night, as you're tucking Amelia into bed, she asks sleepily, "Mummy? I like George. He's nice."
You smile. "Yeah, baby. He is nice."
"He listens when I talk," she continues, fighting to keep her eyes open. "And he makes you smile the pretty smile."
You brush her curls back from her forehead, your heart full. "Get some sleep, love."
"Can we see him again soon?"
"We'll see," you say, kissing her forehead. "Sweet dreams, love."
As you close her door, your phone buzzes with a text.
You lean against the wall, smiling at your phone like a teenager. Something warm and hopeful blooms in your chest, a feeling you haven't allowed yourself to experience in a very long time. The way George was with Amelia today, so patient and kind, so genuinely interested in her thoughts and ideas...
You fall asleep that night thinking about George's smile, Amelia's laughter, and the way your little family of two suddenly feels like it might have room to grow.
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liked by georgerussell63, lando and 72,037 others
yourinstagram Someone special showed up to support our champion🥇 Thank you @/georgerussell63 for being such a good sport (literally) and making a little girl's day!
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username1 THIS IS SO CUTE OMFG
username2 IT WAS REALLY GEORGE
kimi.antonelli my team mom and dad being cute again 😎 tell my bestie i'm proud of her medal!!
mercedesamgf1 Our driver taking his coaching duties very seriously!
charles_leclerc this is adorable! congratulations amelia! 🎉
georgerussell63 Best co-pilot ever! Thanks for letting me join sports day, champ!
username3 GEORGE RUSSELL SHOWING UP TO SPORTS DAY AND DOING THE PARENT RACE?? this man is unreal 😭
username4 the way he's just casually becoming dad of the year?? help??
username5 THIS IS NOT REAL
username6 kimi calling them team mom and dad i can't- this family dynamic is everything
username7 the way the entire paddock is just watching these two co-parent at this point
username8 george showing up to support his engineer's daughter at sports day?? this is literally a romance novel
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You're in the Mercedes garage at Monaco, triple-checking the timing screens when Kimi bounces in, still buzzing with energy despite just finishing FP2. At seventeen, he's the youngest driver on the grid, but his talent is undeniable, having him move up to Mercedes feels like watching your second child succeed.
"There's my favorite strategy engineer!" he announces, dropping into the chair next to you. "Where's my bestie? I thought Amelia was coming to Monaco?"
You laugh, ruffling his hair despite his protests. "Silverstone, kid. That's the plan for her first race."
"But that's so far away," he whines, sounding remarkably like Amelia when she's disappointed. "I need her to draw me a good luck picture too. George keeps showing off the ones she makes him."
At the mention of George's name, you feel your cheeks warm slightly. Kimi notices immediately, his face splitting into a mischievous grin.
"Speaking of George..." he starts, wiggling his eyebrows. "I saw you two in the engineering room yesterday. Looking pretty cozy over those strategy plans."
"We were working," you say firmly, though your blush deepens.
"Sure, sure," Kimi nods sagely. "That's why George gets this dopey smile every time someone mentions your name. Because of work."
"Shouldn't you be in your post-practice debrief?" you deflect, trying to hide your smile.
"Oh, I'm gathering important team information right now," he says cheekily. "Like when George is finally going to ask you out properly instead of pretending he needs to discuss strategy at midnight."
You swat at him with your notebook. "Focus on your driving, kid."
"I am!" he protests. "Now let me focus on my other job, getting my two favorite people together." He pauses thoughtfully. "Well, three favorite people. Amelia's my number one, obviously."
"Of course she is," you roll your eyes fondly. "She asked about you this morning, by the way. Wanted to know if her 'baby driver' was being good."
Kimi beams at the nickname. "Tell her I'm being excellent. Unlike some people who keep pining away instead of-"
"Who's pining away?" George's voice cuts in as he enters the garage, and Kimi's grin turns positively wicked.
"Oh, just talking about-"
"Your tire management," you interrupt quickly, shooting Kimi a warning look. "Which needs work, by the way."
Kimi gives you an exaggerated wink before turning to George. "Hey teammate, YN was just telling me about Amelia's new drawing. The one where she drew you holding the trophy in Monaco?"
George's face lights up. "She drew that? Can I see?"
"It's not finished yet," you say, making a mental note to kill Kimi later. "She wants to add glitter."
"Of course she does," George laughs. "Speaking of Amelia, I found this great book about space and racing. Thought she might like it for her school project. I can bring it by later when we go over the quali strategy?"
"Quali strategy," Kimi mouths behind George's back, making kissy faces. You resist the urge to throw your pen at him.
"That would be nice," you say, trying to maintain professionalism despite Kimi's antics. "Thanks, George."
After George leaves, Kimi leans back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. "You know, for someone who's supposed to be good with numbers, you're really bad at calculating how totally in love with you he is."
"Don't you have some sim work to do?" you ask, but there's no bite to it.
"Fine, fine," he sighs dramatically, standing up. "But tell Amelia her baby driver misses her and needs more good luck drawings. And tell her that her future dad is doing great in practice-"
"OUT!" you laugh, pushing him toward the door.
"Love you too, Team Mom!" he calls over his shoulder.
As you turn back to your work, you can't help but smile. Between Amelia's enthusiasm, Kimi's teasing, and George's... everything, your life has become wonderfully complicated.
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liked by georgerussell63, kimi.antonelli and 82,478 others
yourinstagram Couldn't be prouder of these two! P1 for George and first ever podium for our baby driver. Special thank you to a certain 5-year-old whose lucky drawings (and very specific corner-by-corner instructions) clearly did the trick! 💫
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username1 COME ONNNN
kimi.antonelli BESTIE YOUR DAUGHTER IS MAGIC!! her rocket drawings made me faster, i have proof 🚀
georgerussell63 The fairy wings definitely gave us extra downforce today! Thanks chief engineer in training!
mercedesamgf1 Proof that rocket drawings = extra speed
alex_albon Need to know more about these magic drawings tbh 👀
username2 okay but can we talk about how george keeps amelia's drawings in his driver room?? proud dad energy??
username3 MY SON'S FIRST PODIUM 😭 and him immediately showing yn's daughter the trophy i'm deceased
username4 not me crying over kimi calling yn "team mom" and showing off his trophy like a kid who got an A+ 🥺
username5 the cutest f1 family doesn't exi-
username6 LIVING for george and yn trying to pretend they're not basically dating and co-parenting at this point
username7 george russell handsome successful f1 driver who keeps a 5 year old's drawings for good luck?? my heart can't take this
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The Silverstone paddock is buzzing with its usual race day energy, but today feels different. Your parents arrived with Amelia an hour ago, and watching your daughter take in the F1 world for the first time is making you see everything through new eyes.
"And this is where all the computers are," you explain, showing her around the garage. She's wearing her special Mercedes outfit, a miniature team kit that appeared mysteriously in your flat last week (you suspect George), complete with her own headset and passes.
"It's like a spaceship!" she whispers in awe, clutching your hand. "Is this where you make George and Kimi go fast?"
Before you can answer, a familiar voice calls out, "BESTIE!"
Amelia whirls around to see Kimi bounding toward her, already in his race suit. "Baby driver!" she squeals, running to hug him.
Kimi scoops her up, spinning her around. "Finally! I've been waiting forever to see you! Your drawings give me good luck, you know."
"Really?" Amelia beams. "I made you a new one for today! Mummy, can I show him?"
You pull the carefully protected drawing from your bag. Kimi and George's cars racing with what appears to be rockets attached to them. Kimi examines it with exaggerated seriousness.
"This is perfect! The rockets are exactly what we need," he declares. "Should we go put it up in my driver room?"
Amelia looks at you questioningly. "Can I go with Kimi, Mummy?"
"Of course, sweetheart. Grandma and Grandpa can go too." You turn to your parents, who are watching the scene with amused smiles. "I need to check some things before the race."
"Come on, bestie," Kimi says, still holding Amelia. "I'll show you where I keep all your other drawings. They're my lucky charms!"
As they head off, Amelia chattering excitedly about her rocket design theories, you hear your mother say to your father, "Did you ever think our granddaughter would have a Formula 1 driver as her best friend?"
You're reviewing last-minute strategy changes when George arrives, looking sharp in his race suit but slightly nervous.
"Is she here?" he asks, peering around the garage.
"Kimi kidnapped her," you laugh. "Something about lucky charm drawings."
George's face falls slightly. "Oh. I, uh, I got her something. For her first race." He pulls out a small package wrapped in silver paper.
"George..." you start, touched by his thoughtfulness.
"GEORGE!" Amelia's voice echoes through the garage as she runs back in, Kimi following with a grin. She launches herself at George, who catches her easily.
"Hello, trouble," he says warmly. "Ready for your first race?"
"Kimi showed me his room! And all my drawings are on the wall! And he has a special chair that spins around and around and-"
"Breathe, love," you remind her, sharing an amused look with George.
"I have something for you," George tells her, setting her down and handing her the package. "Every proper race engineer needs one of these."
Amelia carefully unwraps it to reveal a personalized notebook with "AMELIA - Race Engineer in Training" embossed on the cover, along with the Mercedes logo.
"It's just like Mummy's!" she gasps, running her fingers over the lettering.
"Look inside," George encourages.
She opens it to find the first page filled with messages - one from George, one from Kimi, and to your surprise, messages from Lewis Hamilton, Toto, and the entire engineering team.
"Now you can take notes during the race," George explains. "Study all our moves so you can tell us what we did wrong later."
Amelia hugs the notebook to her chest, then throws her arms around George's neck. "Thank you! I'm going to write down everything! Even when you make mistakes!"
"Especially when he makes mistakes," Kimi adds with a wink.
The pre-race preparations fly by, and before you know it, it's almost time for the drivers to head to the grid. Your parents have taken Amelia to their seats in the garage, where she's already making serious notes in her new notebook.
"Right," Kimi says, giving Amelia a high five. "I've got my lucky drawing, so P1 is basically guaranteed."
"No way," George argues playfully. "My drawing has more glitter. That's worth at least half a second per lap."
As they head out, you hear Amelia ask your mother, "Grandma, why does George look at Mummy the same way Prince Charming looks at Cinderella?"
You feel your face heat up as Kimi bursts out laughing and George nearly trips over his own feet.
The race itself is intense. Through it all, you can hear Amelia's running commentary behind you:
"Mummy told George to go faster and he did!"
"The red car is being silly, Mummy make them move!"
"Baby driver is catching up!"
And even though the race itself didn't bring good results for the team, the smile on George's face when he hugged you and Amelia after the race could probably light up London after dark.
Hours later, you're packing up your things in the engineering room after a long day of post-Silverstone analysis when George appears in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically nervous. He's changed out of his team gear into casual clothes, hands stuffed in his pockets.
"Hey," he says, lingering in the doorway. "Good day?"
"Yeah, just finishing up the race report," you nod, trying not to notice how good he looks in that light blue jumper. "You?"
"Same, all done with media." He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Listen, I was wondering... would you like to get dinner?"
"Oh," you say, checking your watch. "I should probably get home soon. It's Amelia's bedtime and-"
"I meant just you and me," he interrupts softly. "Like... a date."
You freeze in the middle of putting your laptop away, your heart suddenly racing. "Oh," you say again, eloquently.
"I know this great place in Mayfair," he continues quickly, as if afraid you'll say no if he doesn't get all the words out. "And I already talked to your mum, she said she'd love to watch Amelia for the evening. If you want to, that is. No pressure at all, I just thought... well, after everything, and Silverstone was amazing, and you're amazing, and-"
"George," you cut off his rambling with a smile. "Are you asking me on a proper date?"
He runs a hand through his hair, that endearing nervous gesture you've come to love. "Yes. Very badly, apparently."
"You talked to my mum?" you ask, amused and touched.
"Well, yeah," he admits, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. "She cornered me after the race actually. Said something about being tired of watching us dance around each other and that she'd happily babysit any time."
You laugh, remembering your mother's knowing looks throughout the race weekend. "Did my five-year-old and my mother conspire to set us up?"
"Don't forget Kimi," George grins. "He's been sending me links to romantic restaurants for weeks. And threatening to tell Amelia all my embarrassing stories if I didn't, and I quote, 'get my act together.'"
"Sounds like we've been thoroughly outmaneuvered," you say, your heart feeling impossibly full.
"So..." George takes a step closer, hope written all over his face. "Is that a yes?"
You pretend to think about it. "Well, since you've already gotten approval from my entire family, including my self-appointed eighteen-year-old son..."
"YN," he groans, but he's smiling.
"Yes," you say softly. "I'd love to have dinner with just you."
His face breaks into that brilliant smile that never fails to make your stomach flip. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He takes another step closer, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "I've been wanting to ask you for ages," he admits. "Since Barcelona, really. Well, since before that if I'm honest."
"What took you so long?" you ask, even though your heart is hammering so hard you can barely hear your own words.
"I wanted to do it right," he says. "Make sure Amelia was okay with it, that you were ready. That I wasn't misreading things." He pauses. "Also, Kimi told me I had to wait until after Silverstone because he had money on me asking you out this week."
You laugh, shaking your head. "Of course he did."
"So," George says, taking your hand. "Tonight? I can pick you up at eight?"
"Seven sounds perfect."
As if on cue, your phone buzzes with a text from your mother:
Mum: Amelia and I are having a girls' night! Don't worry about bedtime, we've got it covered. Have fun on your date! 😘
George peers at your phone and laughs. "I think we've been set up by the most elaborate matchmaking scheme in F1 history."
"Seems like it," you agree, squeezing his hand. "Better make it worth their effort then."
His eyes soften as he looks at you. "I plan to."
As you walk out of the engineering room hand in hand, you can't help but smile at how perfectly everything has fallen into place. Your daughter adores him, your family approves, and even your teenage driver-turned-matchmaker is thrilled.
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georgerussell63 Not the Silverstone weekend we wanted on track, but having this little engineer-in-training in our garage made everything better. Thanks for the lucky drawings Amelia - we'll get them right next time! P.S. Your detailed notes about my "silly mistake in turn 3" were very professional 😅
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username1 AHH THIS IS THE CUTEST THING EVER I CANT
username2 GEORGE SOFT ERA
kimi.antonelli she told me your mistakes too 😎 bestie keeps it real
lando mate she really wrote "george needs to drive more zoomy" in her notebook i'm crying
mercedesamgf1 Our newest team member giving very thorough feedback! 📝
yourinstagram She's already planning your strategy for Spa. Apparently it involves fairy dust and "extra zoom buttons"
username4 the way george claimed both yn and amelia is just to cute
username5 WE STAN AMELIA
username6 not to sound weird but you can tell that george ADORES both of them
username7 THIS IS MY FAMILY
liked by username1, username2 and 12,095 other
f1gossip BREAKING: Mercedes driver George Russell and chief race engineer YN spotted having dinner together at exclusive Mayfair restaurant. First time the two have been seen together outside of work events. 👀
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username1 HELLO??? THIS IS NOT A DRILL?? look at the way he's looking at her omg
username2 someone write this romance novel immediately
username3 not me zooming in on every detail 👀 THE HAND ON THE TABLE NEARLY TOUCHING HERS I'M SCREAMING
username4 not to be That Person but the way he's always so sweet with her daughter?? and now this?? im crying in the club rn
username5 don't be weird about this
username6 someone check on kimi, bet he's having a proud son moment watching his team parents finally get together
username7 manifesting the cutest f1 family rn 🕯️🕯️🕯️
username8 GEORGE RUSSELL BOYFRIEND ERA STARTS NOW
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It's well past Amelia's bedtime when you unlock your front door, cheeks still flushed from the perfect evening, and the goodnight kiss that made you feel like a teenager again. You expect to find your mother reading on the couch, but instead, you hear small feet padding down the hallway.
"Mummy!" Amelia appears in her pink princess pajamas, clearly having fought off sleep to wait for you. "You're home!"
"Sweetheart, why aren't you in bed?" you ask, though you can't bring yourself to be stern when she looks so excited.
Your mother appears behind her, looking apologetic. "Someone insisted on staying up until you got back. Said she needed to make sure the date went well."
"Did you have nice dinner?" Amelia asks, taking your hand and pulling you to the couch. "Did George tell you funny stories? Did he make you laugh? Sophie says her mummy went on a date and didn't laugh at all and never saw the man again."
You catch your mother trying to hide her smile as she disappears into the kitchen, clearly giving you space for this conversation.
"Yes, we had a lovely dinner," you say, settling onto the couch. Amelia immediately climbs into your lap, her favorite spot for important conversations. "And yes, George made me laugh a lot."
"Good," she says seriously. "Because you have a pretty laugh, Mummy."
Your heart catches at her observation. Sometimes you forget how perceptive she is.
"Did you wear your sparkly dress?" she continues, playing with your necklace - the delicate silver one George had noticed and complimented over dinner.
"I did."
"George likes sparkly things," she nods sagely. "He always says my glitter drawings are his favorite."
You smile, remembering how George had shown you a whole folder on his phone of photos of Amelia's artwork. "He does love your drawings."
"Mummy?" Amelia looks up at you, her expression suddenly serious. "Are you happy?"
"What do you mean, love?"
"When George is around, you smile different," she explains. "Like when we have ice cream on Sunday or when I learn a new word. It's your happy smile." She pauses, thinking hard.
You pull her closer, pressing a kiss to her curls. "You're right. George does make me very happy."
"Good," she declares. "Because he makes me happy too. And he helps me with maths. And he remembers what I like. And he makes baby driver behave." She counts off these qualities on her small fingers.
"Does he now?" you laugh.
"Mhm. Today when you were getting ready, he called to tell me a bedtime story about racing cars while Grandma did my hair. But then I had to promise not to tell you because it was supposed to be a surprise that he called."
Your heart melts at this revelation. You hadn't known about the bedtime story.
"And Mummy?" she continues, fighting back a yawn. "I think George has a happy smile when he sees you too. Like when you wear your sparkly dress or when you tell him he did good racing."
"Did well racing," you correct automatically, making her giggle.
"Did well racing," she repeats. "So can we see him again soon? Maybe for pancakes? He promised to show me how to make them in funny shapes."
"Did he now?"
She nods enthusiastically. "He said he can make race car pancakes! And he said maybe next time we can both come to dinner with him, and he knows a place that has the best chocolate cake ever."
"We'll see," you say, but you're already smiling at the thought. "But right now, little miss, it's way past your bedtime."
"One more question?" she pleads, giving you her best puppy dog eyes.
"One more."
"If George makes us both happy, and we make him happy, and he makes good pancakes..." she thinks carefully about her words, "does that mean he can stay? Properly stay?"
Your throat tightens with emotion. "Oh, sweetheart..."
"Because I think we should keep him," she says matter-of-factly. "He fits good with us. Like my puzzle pieces when they click together right."
"Fits well," you correct softly, blinking back tears.
"Fits well," she agrees, snuggling closer. "So can we keep him? He remembers everything. That's important, Mummy. Mrs. Thompson says remembering things about people you love is very important."
"When did you get so wise?" you ask, hugging her close.
"I learned it from you," she says simply. "And George says I'm smart like my mummy. I think we should definitely keep him."
Looking at your daughter's hopeful face, thinking about the perfect evening and how naturally he fits into your lives, you find yourself agreeing.
"Yeah," you say softly. "I think we should."
"Good," Amelia yawns, finally letting sleep catch up with her. "Because he makes everything better. Like sprinkles on ice cream."
As you carry your sleepy daughter to bed, she mumbles, "Mummy? I'm happy you're happy."
You tuck her in, your heart so full it might burst. "I'm happy you're happy too, love."
"Tell George I said goodnight," she murmurs, already drifting off. "And that he better not forget about the pancakes..."
Looking at your sleeping daughter, thinking about George's words, you realize that sometimes the best families are the ones you build yourself, piece by perfectly fitting piece.
You fall asleep that night with a smile on your face, dreaming of race car pancakes, perfect puzzle pieces, and the way happiness feels when it finally clicks into place.
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The summer heat has turned your London flat into a lazy afternoon paradise. You're in the kitchen preparing cold lemonade while Amelia sits at the counter, tongue stuck out in concentration as she works on her latest masterpiece - a drawing of what she claims is Kimi's car with rocket boosters.
"Mummy, do you think baby driver will like the purple rockets?" she asks, reaching for another crayon.
"I think he'll love them," you assure her, just as there's a knock at the door.
"I'll get it!" Amelia scrambles off her stool before you can stop her.
"Amelia, wait-" but she's already running to the door.
"Who is it?" she calls out, following your safety rules.
"It's George!" comes the familiar voice, and Amelia beams at you.
"Can I open it, Mummy? Please?"
You nod, and she throws the door open to reveal George standing there in casual clothes, looking unfairly handsome in a simple white t-shirt and jeans.
"George!" Amelia launches herself at him, and he catches her with practiced ease. "Are you here to see my new drawings? I made one for baby driver with rockets!"
"Of course I am," he grins, carrying her inside. His eyes meet yours over her head, soft and warm. "Hi."
"Hi," you reply, trying to control your smile. "This is a surprise."
"Good surprise?" he asks, setting Amelia down.
"Look!" Amelia interrupts, grabbing his hand and pulling him to her artwork. "See? Purple rockets!"
"Very aerodynamic," George nods seriously, examining the drawing. "Though I think the Mercedes might need some rockets too, don't you?"
While Amelia launches into an elaborate explanation of her rocket distribution strategy, George catches your eye again, mouthing 'kitchen?' with a raised eyebrow.
"I'll get you some lemonade," you say, heading to the kitchen. Moments later, you hear him tell Amelia he'll be right back to help her with the Mercedes rockets.
As soon as he enters the kitchen, he's in your space, hands settling on your waist. "Hi," he says again, softer this time.
"You said that already," you tease, even as your heart races.
"Didn't get to say it properly though," he murmurs, leaning down. "Been thinking about doing this all week..."
His lips meet yours in a gentle kiss that makes your knees weak. You wind your arms around his neck, melting into it as he pulls you closer-
"Mummy? George? What are you doing?"
You jump apart like teenagers caught by their parents. Amelia stands in the doorway, head tilted in confusion, her purple crayon forgotten in her hand.
"We were just..." you start, face burning.
"Were you kissing?" she asks directly, making you both flush deeper.
"Um," George runs a hand through his hair nervously. "Yes?"
Amelia considers this for a moment. "Oh. Like in the princess movies?"
"Something like that," you manage, wondering how to handle this situation.
"Okay," she says simply. Then, "Can I have more lemonade?"
You blink at the sudden change of subject. "Of course, love."
As you pour her drink, she looks between you and George thoughtfully. "Does this mean George is your boyfriend now?"
George makes a choking sound beside you, and you nearly spill the lemonade.
"Well..." you look at George, who seems equally unsure how to answer.
"Because Sophie from school says when people kiss they're boyfriend and girlfriend," Amelia continues matter-of-factly. "And you smile a lot when George is here. And he brings me drawings from baby driver. And he remembers I like the blue cup not the red one."
She says all this while George hands her the correct blue cup, proving her point.
"Would that be okay?" George asks carefully. "If I was your mummy's boyfriend?"
Amelia takes a long sip of lemonade, clearly thinking it over. "Will you still help me with my drawings?"
"Of course."
"And tell me racing stories?"
"Absolutely."
"And you won't make Mummy sad?"
Your heart clenches at that, and you see George swallow hard.
"I promise," he says softly, "I will try my very best to only make your mummy smile."
Amelia nods, apparently satisfied. "Okay then. Can we do the rockets for your car now?"
"Lead the way, boss," George says, shooting you a relieved smile.
As Amelia skips back to her drawings, George quickly squeezes your hand. "That went better than expected?"
"Yeah," you breathe out. "Though we might want to be more careful with the kitchen kisses."
He grins, brushing his thumb across your knuckles. "Noted. Though I can't promise I won't want to kiss you every time I see you."
"George!" Amelia calls. "The rockets won't draw themselves!"
"Coming!" he calls back, then quickly steals one more kiss. "For the road."
You watch him join Amelia at the counter, the way he listens intently to her explanation of rocket physics (mostly gathered from cartoons), and feel your heart swell. It's early days still, but watching them together, you can't help but hope this is just the beginning of something wonderful.
"Mummy!" Amelia waves you over. "George says we need strategy for the rockets. That's your job!"
"Can't argue with that," you laugh, joining them at the counter.
As evening settles in, you find George and Amelia sprawled on the living room floor, surrounded by LEGO pieces. The instructions for her new F1 car set lie forgotten as George helps her create what appears to be a highly modified version.
"See, if we put this piece here," George explains, "it makes the perfect spot for your rocket boosters."
"Can we make the wheels rainbow colored?" Amelia asks through a yawn.
"Of course we- did you just yawn?" George teases, poking her side gently.
"No," she protests, even as another yawn escapes. "M'not tired."
"Really?" you ask from your spot on the couch. "Because it looks like someone's about to fall asleep in her LEGOs."
"But George hasn't finished helping me," she whines softly, rubbing her eyes.
George catches your eye, silently asking permission. At your nod, he says, "How about I help you get ready for bed, and tomorrow you can finish the car?"
Amelia perks up slightly. "Promise you'll come back tomorrow?"
"Actually, sweetheart," he says carefully, "I have to go to Monaco for a few days. But I'll be back for your birthday next week."
Her lower lip trembles slightly. "You won't miss my party?"
"Miss your sixth birthday party? No way," he assures her. "I've already got your present picked out and everything."
"Really?" she asks sleepily.
"Really. Now, bedtime?"
She holds up her arms. "Will you carry me like when I fell asleep at the factory?"
George scoops her up easily, and your heart melts as she immediately snuggles into his shoulder. "Story?" she mumbles.
"One story," you say, following them to her room.
You watch from the doorway as George helps her into her pajamas and tucks her in, making sure her favorite stuffed car is properly positioned.
"Can you tell me about Monaco?" she asks as he sits on the edge of her bed. "Since that's where you're going?"
"Well," he starts, smoothing her hair back, "Monaco is like a magical kingdom by the sea. The buildings are all white and shiny, and the race track goes right through the city..."
You listen as he weaves a story about princesses who race cars and dolphins who watch from the harbor. By the time he's describing the tunnel section, Amelia's eyes are fluttering closed.
"G'night George," she mumbles. "Love you."
George's hand stills in her hair for a moment, and you see the emotion cross his face. "Goodnight, princess," he whispers, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Sweet dreams."
He joins you in the doorway, both of you watching as she snuggles deeper into her blankets.
"You okay?" you ask softly, noting his expression.
He nods, leading you back to the living room. Once you're out of earshot, he pulls you close, burying his face in your hair.
"She said she loves me," he murmurs.
"She does," you confirm, wrapping your arms around him. "You've become very important to her."
He pulls back enough to look at you, his eyes intense. "You know you both are important to me too, right? I know we haven't been dating long, but..."
"I know," you assure him, reaching up to touch his cheek. "We know."
He leans into your touch. "I hate that I have to go to Monaco."
"It's only for a few days," you remind him. "And it's part of the job."
"Yeah," he sighs, pulling you toward the couch. You curl into his side automatically. "I just... I'll miss this. Miss you both."
"We'll miss you too," you admit. "But you'll be back for the party. Speaking of which, what exactly have you got planned? Amelia's been trying to guess all week."
His face lights up. "Ah, that's classified information. But I think she'll love it."
"George..."
"Don't worry," he laughs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Nothing too extravagant. Well, maybe a little extravagant. But she's only turning six once!"
You shake your head fondly. "You're going to spoil her rotten."
"That's my job, isn't it?" he asks, then seems to catch himself. "I mean, not my job, but... you know what I mean."
"I do," you say softly, understanding the weight of what he's not saying. It's early days still, but you both know this is heading somewhere serious.
He pulls you closer, and you sit in comfortable silence for a while, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm.
"When do you leave?" you ask eventually.
"Early tomorrow," he sighs. "Need to be there for some sponsorship events."
"Then we should probably clean up these LEGOs before someone steps on one in the morning."
He groans dramatically but helps you up. As you both kneel to collect the scattered pieces, he keeps stealing glances at you.
"What?" you ask after the third time you catch him looking.
"Nothing," he smiles. "Just... thank you."
"For what?"
"For letting me be part of this," he gestures around the flat, at Amelia's drawings on the fridge, the LEGOs, the life you've built. "For trusting me with her. With both of you."
Your heart swells. "Thank you for wanting to be part of it."
He reaches for you then, LEGOs forgotten as he pulls you into a soft kiss. It's different from the heated kitchen kiss earlier - slower, deeper, full of everything neither of you are quite ready to say out loud.
When you break apart, he rests his forehead against yours. "I should go," he whispers. "Early flight."
"Okay," you murmur, stealing one more kiss.
At the door, he turns back. "Tell Amelia I'll FaceTime her from Monaco? And maybe..." he hesitates, "maybe we could FaceTime too? After she's in bed?"
"I'd like that," you smile.
"And you'll text me if you need anything? Or if she does?"
"George," you laugh softly, "it's three days."
"I know, I know," he runs a hand through his hair. "I just... I got used to seeing you both every day. This is different."
"We'll be fine," you assure him. "Just come back in time for the party. Can't disappoint your biggest fan."
His expression softens. "Never." He kisses you one last time, gentle and sweet. "Sweet dreams, beautiful."
Later, checking on Amelia before bed, you find she's kicked off her blankets as usual. As you tuck her back in, she stirs slightly.
"Mummy?" she mumbles. "Is George gone?"
"Yes, love. But he'll be back soon."
"Good," she sighs, already drifting back to sleep. "He gives good hugs. And he makes you smile the proper way."
Looking at your sleeping daughter, thinking of George's gentle ways with her, his careful consideration of her feelings, the way he's slotted so perfectly into your lives, you can't help but smile "the proper way."
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liked by username1, username2 and 17,984 others
f1gossip George Russell pulled up to a Mercedes event in Monaco… and brought a model with him 👀
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username1 OHHHHH
username2 what about yn...
username3 THEY LOOK SO GOOD
username4 george single era is coming
username5 this is why i told y'all not to be weair about him and he merc strategist
username6 NOOO HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE WITH YN
username7 yn and amelia are literally right there
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The flat feels quiet without Amelia's laughter echoing through it. Your mother had taken her for a girls afternoon, and you stayed back home doing some chores. A certain British driver's smile coming to your mind as you move through the house.
You're curled up on the couch, mindlessly scrolling through your phone when they appear, photos that make your heart stop. George at some glamorous Monaco event, looking devastatingly handsome in his tailored suit. But it's not his appearance that makes your stomach churn, it's the stunning model on his arm.
They look perfect together - like something out of a magazine spread. The kind of couple that belongs at these events.
Your phone rings, making you snap out of it. Kimi's name appearing on screen. For a moment, you consider letting it go to voicemail, but he'd only keep calling.
"Hey," you answer, trying to keep your voice steady.
"Finally," he grumbles. "Been trying to figure out what to get the little monster for her birthday. Does she still like those unicorn games?"
"Yeah, she does."
"That's enthusiastic," he says sarcastically. "What about- hang on. What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong."
"Don't bullshit me, YN. I've known you too long. You're my team mum."
You sink deeper into the couch, pulling a throw pillow to your chest. "I'm fine."
"You sound like when George beat you at Mario Kart and you pretended it didn't bother you for two weeks."
"That was different," you protest weakly. "He cheated."
"Stop deflecting. What happened?"
You're quiet for a long moment, then, "Have you checked social media today?"
There's rustling, then typing. A long pause. "Ah, fuck."
"Yeah."
"YN..."
"Don't," you cut him off, voice thick. "Don't try to explain it away. I get it. She's gorgeous and sophisticated and probably knows all about sponsorship events and doesn't have a complicated life with a six-year-old and-"
"Stop," Kimi interrupts firmly. "First, you're spiraling. Second, you know these events are bullshit. Remember when they tried to set me up with that Instagram model?"
"This is different."
"How?"
"They look..." you swallow hard, "right together. Like they fit. Like they make sense."
"And you and George don't make sense?" Kimi asks skeptically. "Because from where I'm standing, you fit better than most things in this ridiculous sport. Like Amelia says, puzzle pieces."
"I thought..." your voice cracks. "I really thought maybe this time would be different. That maybe..."
"Have you talked to him?"
"No."
"YN..."
"I can't," you whisper, tears finally falling. "I can't hear him say that this was fun but he's found someone more suitable or-"
"Now you're being stupid," Kimi cuts in. "George isn't like that. You know he's not."
"Do I? Because I thought Amelia's father wasn't like that either, and look how that turned out."
There's a long pause. When Kimi speaks again, his voice is gentler. "George isn't him. You know that."
"I can't risk it," you say softly. "I can't risk Amelia getting hurt. I can't have her wait by the window, hoping he'd come back."
"And that's exactly why you should talk to George," Kimi insists. "Because he's not the kind of man who makes little girls wait by windows."
"But what if he is?" Your voice is barely audible. "What if I let her love him and then..."
"Then you'll deal with it. But you can't protect her from everything, YN. And maybe you're protecting her from something beautiful."
You wipe your eyes. "When did you get so wise? Why am I taking advice from my 18-year-old work son."
"I've always been wise. You just never listen." His tone turns serious again. "Have you checked your phone? Has he tried to contact you?"
You glance at your notifications - nothing from George. The realization makes your chest ache. "No."
"Give it time. There's probably an explanation."
"Yeah," you say hollowly. "The explanation is probably five-foot-ten with perfect hair and no emotional baggage."
"YN..."
"I should go," you cut in. "Amelia will be home soon and I can't... I can't let her see me like this."
"You don't have to handle everything alone, you know."
"Yes, I do," you say quietly. "That's what being a single mother means."
Before he can respond, you hear keys in the door. "They're back. I have to go."
"YN, wait-"
You hang up just as Amelia bursts in, already talking excitedly about her day with grandma.
"And then we saw the biggest dog ever and- Mummy?" she stops suddenly, looking at you with those too-perceptive eyes. "Are you sad?"
"No, love," you force a smile, quickly wiping your face. "Just tired."
She climbs onto the couch next to you, her small hand reaching up to touch your cheek where a tear had fallen. "You look sad though."
Your heart clenches. This is exactly what you were afraid of - her picking up on your pain, carrying it. You won't do that to her.
"I'm fine, sweetheart," you say, pulling her close. "Tell me more about your day with grandma."
"Well..." she starts, but then pauses. "When is George coming back? He promised to help me finish my LEGO car."
The innocent question feels like a knife to your heart. "He's very busy with work right now, love."
"But he'll be back for my party, right? He promised."
You hold her tighter, breathing in her familiar sweet scent, trying to find the right words that won't hurt her. "Sometimes... sometimes grown-ups have to change their plans."
"Oh," she says quietly, and you can hear the beginning of disappointment in her voice. It makes you want to cry all over again.
Looking down at Amelia, at her tiny fingers playing with the bracelet George gave her, you think maybe some risks aren't worth taking. You won't let her build hopes around someone only to watch them crumble.
Better to step back now, before she gets even more attached. Before those goodnight calls and LEGO sessions and racing stories become something she can't live without. Before George becomes a person she waits by windows for.
Even if it means breaking your own heart in the process.
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The soft knock at your door comes just after ten. You knew he'd come, George Russell isn't the type to let something go, especially not this. Still, your hands shake as you open the door.
He looks exhausted, still in his travel clothes, hair messy like he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. The moment he sees you, his face crumples with relief.
"YN," he breathes, stepping forward, but you move back.
"You shouldn't be here," your voice is barely a whisper, conscious of Amelia sleeping down the hall.
"Where else would I be?" He stays in the doorway, respecting your space even as his eyes plead with you. "Please, just talk to me. What happened? What changed?"
You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hold it together. "I saw the photos."
"The- oh god, the event photos?" His eyes widen. "YN, that wasn't- it was just PR. Mercedes arranged it, I should have told you but I didn't think-"
"It's not about the photos," you cut in, though your heart clenches remembering them. "It's about what they made me realize."
"Which is?"
"That this isn't fair. To any of us. But especially not to Amelia."
His face falls. "What are you talking about?"
You glance down the hallway, making sure her door is still closed, then move further into the living room. George follows, closing the front door softly.
"She never met her father," you say quietly. "He left when I told him I was pregnant. Said he wasn't ready for a family, for responsibility. Last I heard he was in Australia somewhere."
"YN..."
"She used to ask about him," you continue, voice thick. "When she was younger. Why didn't she have a daddy like other kids? Was it because she wasn't good enough? Did she do something wrong?"
"She was just a baby," George says softly. "It wasn't her fault."
"No, it wasn't. It was mine. For letting someone into her life who could hurt her." You look at him directly. "I won't make that mistake again."
"I'm not him," George steps closer. "I would never-"
"You can't promise that," you cut in. "You can't promise you won't wake up one day and realize this is all too much. The responsibility, the complications, the fact that you're barely twenty-seven and suddenly playing father figure to a five-year-old."
"I'm not playing at anything," he says fiercely. "I love her. I love you both."
"Now you do. But what about in six months? A year? When the novelty wears off and you realize you could have someone without all this baggage?"
"Is that what you think this is?" He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. "That you're some kind of novelty? That Amelia is baggage?"
"I think you're young and successful and have your whole life ahead of you. And I think one day you'll realize that life could be a lot simpler without us in it."
"You don't get to decide that," he says, voice rising slightly before he catches himself, lowering it again. "You don't get to decide what I want or how I feel."
"I get to decide what's best for my daughter."
"And you think pushing away someone who loves her is what's best?"
"I think..." your voice cracks. "I think protecting her from another heartbreak is what's best. You should have seen her face yesterday, when she thought you might miss her party. The way her whole world dimmed, just at the possibility. I can't... I can't watch her go through that for real."
"Then it's a good thing she won't have to," he steps closer again. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
"You can't promise that."
"Yes, I can." He reaches for your hand but you pull back. "YN, please. Look at me."
You shake your head, tears falling now. "I can't risk it. The way she looks at you... she trusts you completely. She loves you so much already."
"And I love her," he insists. "More than I ever thought possible. Do you know what I keep in my wallet? That drawing she did of us, where she put all three of us together and wrote 'my family' at the top. I look at it every day. It's not some game to me."
"George..."
"No, listen to me. I know you're scared. I know you're trying to protect her. But pushing me away isn't the answer. Let me prove to you that I'm not going anywhere."
From down the hall comes a small voice: "Mummy?"
You both freeze as Amelia appears, rubbing her eyes sleepily. The moment she sees George, her whole face lights up.
"George!" she runs to him and he catches her automatically, lifting her up. "You came back!"
The way she clings to him, the natural way he holds her, the absolute trust in her eyes - it makes your heart ache.
"Of course I came back, princess," he says softly, but his eyes are on you. "I'll always come back."
"Promise?" she asks, already drifting back to sleep against his shoulder.
"Promise," he whispers, pressing a kiss to her hair.
You watch them, your chest tight with love and fear and possibility. "I should put her back to bed."
"Let me?" he asks quietly. When you hesitate, he adds, "Please?"
You nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat.
You follow them to her room, watching as he tucks her in with practiced ease, making sure her favorite stuffed car is properly positioned.
"G'night George," she mumbles. "Love you."
"Love you too, princess," he whispers, smoothing her hair back.
Back in the living room, he turns to you. "That's what you're trying to protect her from? Love?"
"I'm trying to protect her from losing it."
"Then stop trying to make her lose it," he says gently. "Stop trying to make us both lose it."
"I'm scared," you admit, voice breaking.
"I know," he steps closer, and this time you don't move away. "But I'm not going anywhere. Not unless you make me."
"She needs stability."
"I know. Let me be that for her. For both of you."
"George..."
"Look at me," he pleads. "Really look at me. Do I look like someone who's going to walk away from this? From her? From you?"
You do look at him - at the sincerity in his eyes, the way he's still oriented toward Amelia's room like he can't help it, the drawing you know is worn at the edges from being taken out of his wallet so often.
"I can't lose you," you whisper. "Either of us."
"Then don't push me away," he reaches for you again, and this time you let him pull you close. "Let me love you both. Let me prove to you that some promises are worth believing in."
And there in the quiet of your flat, with your daughter sleeping peacefully down the hall and George's heart beating steady under your ear, you think maybe he already has.
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liked by georgerussell63, kimi.antonelli and 90,122 others
yourinstagram Six years ago, you made me a mother. Six years of endless love, racing car stories, messy art projects, and the kind of joy I never knew existed before you. You amaze me every single day with your kindness, your intelligence, and your incredible spirit. The way you see the world, the way you love so fearlessly, the way you make everyone around you smile. You're magic, my darling girl. Happy birthday to my little racer, my best friend, my greatest adventure. Here's to many more years of race car pancakes, LEGO building sessions, and hearing you explain aerodynamics to anyone who'll listen (sorry about that, fellow airplane passengers). I love you more than all the checkered flags in the world. ❤️
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username1 THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL
username2 happy birthday to little amelia !
georgerussell63 Happy birthday to the most amazing co-pilot anyone could ask for ❤️ Can't wait to finish that LEGO car with you today, princess. Love you lots x
kimi.antoneli happy birthday little monster. your present will make your mother cry. you're welcome.
carlossainz55 Feliz cumpleaños pequeña! 🎉 Still waiting for that rematch on the simulator!
lando HAPPY BIRTHDAY MELIA!
username3 the entire paddock loves her i'm crying
mercedesamgf1 Happy birthday to our youngest team member!
username4 yn is the best mama ever, doing it on her own too
username5 GEORGE THIS IS YOUR FAMILY
alex_albon Happy birthday Ames! 🎈 Still using those overtaking tips you gave me
username6 george bonus dad ever
username7 I LOVE THIS FAMILY SM
username8 Happy birthday to F1's favorite little princess
username9 george's comment 🥺 he loves them so much
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The house is finally quiet, scattered remnants of the party everywhere - wrapping paper, balloons, the racing track cake that took you hours to perfect. You're gathering paper plates when you hear George's soft footsteps coming from Amelia's room.
"She's finally asleep," he whispers, leaning against the doorframe. "Had to read the racing manual three times, but she's out."
You can't help but smile. "The manual? Really?"
"Her choice," he grins. "Said she needed to dream about proper racing lines."
"Of course she did." You shake your head fondly, continuing to clean up.
"Hey," he catches your hand gently as you pass. "Leave it. Just... sit with me for a bit?"
You hesitate, but nod, letting him lead you to the couch. You both sit, a careful distance between you that feels wrong after how close you've been these past months.
"She had a good day," you say softly, filling the silence.
"The best," he agrees. "Though I think Kimi might have gone overboard with the simulator."
"Might have? She's going to be impossible to get to school now."
George laughs quietly, then sobers. "YN... can we talk? Really talk?"
Your heart speeds up. "About?"
"Everything. Us. What happened this week. What you're afraid of."
You pull your knees up to your chest, making yourself smaller. "George..."
"Please," he says softly. "I need to understand. I need to know how to fix this."
"It's not about fixing," you say, staring at the birthday banner hanging crooked on the wall. "It's about... reality."
"What reality?"
"The reality that you're 27, successful, with your whole life ahead of you. And I'm..." you gesture vaguely, "complicated."
"You think that's how I see you? As complicated?"
"Isn't it true though? I come with so much... stuff. A child, responsibilities, limitations-"
"Stop," he cuts in, turning to face you fully. "Just... stop. You want to know what I see when I look at you both? I see family. I see home. I see the way Amelia's face lights up when she masters a new racing game. I see the way you scrunch your nose when you're concentrating on work. I see movie nights and pancake mornings and silly dance parties in the kitchen."
"George..."
"No, let me finish. You think you're some burden I'm carrying? You're not. You're the best part of every day. Both of you. Even when Amelia's giving me detailed critiques of my qualifying laps or when you're stress-cleaning at midnight before a deadline."
You feel tears forming. "But your life would be so much simpler without us."
"Simpler?" he laughs incredulously. "My life before you was empty. Sure, I had racing, but I came home to quiet rooms and takeaway for one. Now? Now I come home to crayon drawings on my fridge and LEGO cars in my shoes and two people who make everything better just by existing."
"But what about your career? The traveling, the events..."
"What about them?"
"I saw those photos, George. That world... it's so different from this one."
"You think I care about that world?" he moves closer. "You think I'd choose fancy parties over helping Amelia build racing tracks in the living room? Over watching you fall asleep during movies? Over this?"
"I don't want to hold you back."
"You don't," he says firmly. "You push me forward. Both of you do. Do you know what Amelia said to me tonight? She said we fit together like puzzle pieces. And she's right."
You wipe your eyes. "She's too smart for her own good."
"She gets that from her mum." He reaches for your hand, and this time you let him take it. "I know you're scared. I know you're trying to protect her. But I'm not going anywhere. Not unless you make me."
"I don't want to make you," you whisper. "That's what terrifies me."
"Why?"
"Because..." your voice breaks. "Because I love you. We both do. And if you leave..."
"I won't."
"You can't promise that."
"Yes, I can," he says fiercely. "I can promise that every single day for the rest of our lives if you'll let me. I can promise that I'll always come home to you both. That I'll always be there for school plays and birthdays and random Tuesday mornings. That I'll love you both more each day than the last."
"George..."
"You know what scared me most this week?" he continues. "Not just the thought of losing my girlfriend. The thought of losing my family. Of not hearing Amelia's bedtime stories or your laugh first thing in the morning. Of not being the person she runs to when she masters a new racing game or you turn to when you've had a hard day."
You're fully crying now. "When did you become so important to us?"
"Probably around the same time you became everything to me." He wipes your tears gently. "I love you, YN. Both of you. The busy mornings and quiet nights and everything in between. The complicated parts and the simple ones. All of it."
"Even when Amelia corrects your driving technique?"
He laughs softly. "Especially then. She's usually right anyway."
You lean into him finally, letting yourself feel the familiar comfort of his arms around you. "I'm sorry I pushed you away."
"I know why you did it," he kisses your hair. "But please don't do it again. Talk to me instead. Let me prove to you that some people stay."
"I'm still scared," you admit.
"That's okay," he says. "We can be scared together. Just don't shut me out."
From down the hall comes a small voice: "Mummy? George?"
You both look up to see Amelia standing there, clutching her stuffed race car.
"What's wrong, princess?" George asks.
"I forgot to say thank you," she says seriously. "For the best birthday ever. And..." she looks between you both. "Are you staying? For real this time?"
George looks at you, letting you take the lead.
Looking at them, at the man who loves your daughter like his own and the little girl who's already given him her whole heart - you make your decision.
"Yes, love," you say softly. "He's staying."
And sitting there, with your daughter asleep between you and George holding you both like he'll never let go, you think maybe it's okay to be scared sometimes. Maybe it's okay to let someone in, to trust that they'll stay, to believe in the kind of love that builds homes in hearts.
Because some puzzles are meant to stay together, even if it takes a six-year-old to show you how the pieces fit.
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georgerussell63 The best kind of Sunday 🚲❤️ From "I can't do it!" to "Watch how fast I can go!" in under an hour. Couldn't be prouder of my favorite co-pilot. Even if we had a few crashes into the bushes (sorry about that, YN). Worth every scrape and tear for that victory smile at the end. Now she wants to know when we can upgrade to a motorized version... Think that's a conversation for another day
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username1 THIS IS SUCH A PROUD DAD MOMENT
username2 he's protecting her from falling while letting her be brave
username3 george russell: world class driver, even better bonus dad
username4 "My favorite co-pilot" I'M NOT OKAY
username5 the way he naturally stepped into being her dad though 🥺
lewishamilton Next generation driver in training! 🙌🏾
lando should we be worried about our jobs?
yourinstagram Love you both, you troublemakers
username6 GEORGE REALLY IS THE FATHER WHO STEPPED UP
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The garage is a flurry of activity, screens displaying data streams and weather patterns while mechanics rush around with last-minute adjustments. You're deep in conversation with Bono about tire strategies when your phone buzzes with Amelia's FaceTime call.
"Hi baby," you answer, trying to keep one eye on the radar. "Ready for the race?"
"I've got ALL my lucky charms!" She holds up an assortment of trinkets, including the Mercedes keychain George gave her. "And Grandpa's watching with me! He says hi but he's pretending to be grumpy."
You hear your father's distinct grunt in the background and laugh. "Tell him I said-"
"Is that my favorite co-pilot?" George appears behind you, still in his race suit, hair messy from the helmet.
"GEORGE!" Amelia practically screams. "I miss you! Are you going to win today? I told everyone at school you would!"
His face softens in that way it only does for her. "Well, now I have to, don't I? Can't disappoint my biggest fan."
"I drew you a new good luck picture! Mummy has it!"
You pull the slightly crumpled paper from your pocket - a detailed drawing of a Mercedes car with "GO GEORGE!" written in wobbly letters.
"It's perfect," he beams. "Just what I needed."
"Mummy says it's going to rain," Amelia says seriously. "Remember what we practiced about wet weather racing?"
"Smooth inputs, gentle throttle, stay off the kerbs," George recites dutifully. "Did I pass the test?"
"Mmhmm. You can race now."
You both laugh at her solemn approval.
"Thanks, princess. Better go get ready now, okay? Watch out for me on the podium."
"Love you George! Love you Mummy!"
"Love you too, baby. Be good for Grandpa."
After you hang up, you notice George hasn't moved, still staring at the spot where Amelia's face had been.
"George? You okay?"
He seems to make a decision, turning to face you fully. "Move in with me."
Your heart stops. "What?"
"Both of you. Move in with me." His eyes are intense, certain. "The summer break is coming up. I've already been looking at furniture for Amelia's room, there's this racing car bed I found that she'd love, and the spare room would be perfect for your home office, and-" he stops, running a hand through his hair. "I know it's fast, but it doesn't feel fast, does it? It feels like we should have done this ages ago."
"George..."
"I hate coming home to an empty house," he continues. "I hate not hearing Amelia's morning chatter or your late-night typing. I hate that my fridge doesn't have her drawings on it, that my shelves don't have your books mixed with my racing magazines. I hate that when I buy groceries, I automatically get things for three people but there's only me there to eat them."
You glance around the garage, but everyone is deliberately focusing elsewhere, giving you privacy in the midst of chaos.
"The house is too big," he says softly. "Too quiet. Too... not you. Not us."
"Are you sure?" your voice barely a whisper. "This is a big step."
"I've never been more sure of anything." He takes your hands. "I want to wake up to Amelia jumping on our bed demanding pancakes. I want to fall asleep watching you work on race strategies. I want to build that LEGO city she's been planning in the spare room she already thinks of as hers. I want... I want everything. With both of you."
A mechanic calls out the five-minute warning.
"You need to go," you say, but don't let go of his hands.
"I need an answer more."
You look at him, this man who loves your daughter like his own, who makes you both feel safe, who wants to build a home with you.
"The racing car bed better be amazing," you whisper.
His face breaks into that brilliant smile. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You squeeze his hands. "Now go win this race so we can celebrate properly."
He starts to walk away, then turns back. "YN?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you. Both of you. So much."
You smile, feeling something settle in your chest. "We love you too. Now focus on the race, or Amelia will never let you hear the end of it."
"Yes ma'am," he grins, pulling his helmet on.
You watch him walk to the car, your heart full. Outside, the Belgian sky opens up with rain, but for once, you're not worried about the weather.
And as George's car roars to life, as Amelia undoubtedly bounces with excitement on your couch at home (soon to be your old couch in your new home) you think about puzzle pieces and racing car beds and the way love builds itself into something permanent when you're not looking.
The race is about to start, but really, you think, the best part is just beginning.
summary: your ex is coming back to collect some things he left behind and you accidentally tell him that you have a new boyfriend, so hangman accepts the role of your new (fake) boyfriend
notes: did i spent the last three days writing for 8-10 hours a day? yes... am i going slightly insane? also yes... but guys!!! fake dating!!! i don't know how i vomited this fic up so quick, jake is just so easy for me to write (i think it's because i love him but not in a soul-crushing way like the way i love rooster?) anyway, PLEASE enjoy and please, please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, reader is shorter than hangman (just want to mention it), allusions to sex, and it's pretty horny so 18+ ONLY please! let me know if i’ve missed anything!
word count: 10937
“This weekend?” Your voice is unsteady, but you hope the crackling from the poor phone reception is enough to mask it. “I’m not sure if I can do this weekend.”
Spencer sighs, clearly frustrated by your repeated attempts to keep him away from San Diego. “Look, I know you don’t want to do this—and honestly, neither do I—but it has to be done. I’ll only be in town for a couple of days. I’ll grab some boxes, hire a van, and get them shipped straight to my condo. Don’t you want your spare room back?”
You gnaw nervously on your bottom lip as you glance out at the open-plan office space, hoping none of your coworkers are listening too closely to your phone conversation.
You broke up with Spencer six months ago, after dating for nearly four years, and he left in such a rush that almost an entire room of his stuff stayed behind. It isn't anything important—mostly old sports gear and college memorabilia—and it’s not like he’s needed any of it. The breakup hit him hard, and he spent the following four months backpacking around Europe to clear his head. He’s only been back at his condo in Upstate New York for two months, and during that time, he’s been relentlessly bugging you to let him come pick up his things.
It’s not like you want to hold on to anything that reminds you of him, but you desperately do not want to see him again. You offered a few times to pack up his things and ship them to him, but he flat-out refused. He even called it a violation of privacy now that you’re no longer together. So, about a month ago, you told him you’d find a free weekend for him to come by and collect the rest of his stuff—and you’ve done everything you can to avoid it since.
“Okay,” you mutter, turning away from the office to face the window overlooking North Island Naval Air Station. “But you can’t stay at the apartment.”
“What?” Spencer snaps. “Why? It’ll be so much easier. I’ll be in an out in three days, tops.”
“Three days?” you echo. “Spence, that’s my whole weekend gone.”
“There’s a lot of stuff,” he argues. “I could bring Harry with me, if-”
“You are not bringing your brother, Spencer.” You stomp your foot, despite the conversation being over the phone. “Look, if that’s how long it’ll take, then fine. But you are not staying at the apartment. You can’t. My boyfriend just moved in last week.” The last few words slip out before you can stop them.
Fuck.
There’s a beat of silence before Spencer speaks again, his voice wavering. “Boyfriend?”
You tip your head back and take a deep breath. “Yes, boyfriend.”
Another awkward stretch of silence.
“Okay... I’ll stay at the motel around the corner,” he says.
You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Good.”
“See you Friday, then.”
“See you Friday.”
You pull the phone away from your ear and tap the red button, watching Spencer’s caller ID photo flicker out before the screen goes black. With a sigh, your arms drop to your sides, and you lean forward until your forehead rests against the windowpane with a soft, dull thud.
What the fuck did you just do?
-
Gravel crunches beneath your tires as you swerve into the parking lot of The Hard Deck bar. You pull up beside a familiar Ford Bronco, yanking the parking brake just a little too hard before practically stumbling out of the car. Your feet carry you across the lot and through the front door before coming to a stop as you survey the room, searching for the familiar face you came here to find. Across the bar, tucked into the booth closest to the pool table, are your friends. They’re sipping beers and chatting happily, blissfully unaware that an electrical storm of stress and anxiety is headed right for them.
You weave through the tables and other patrons with determination, your breath coming and going in quick, anxious bursts. Your feet only stop when you reach your friends’ table, and their conversation quickly dies as they each turn to look at you.
Jake’s brows pinch. “Hey, are you okay?”
You suck your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down nervously, unsure how to reply.
Javy, who was sitting next to Jake, stands up and nods toward the bar. “I’m going to grab another drink. Want anything?”
You nod. “Whatever you’re having.”
He gives you a cheeky wink before striding off toward the bar. You watch him for a few seconds before turning back to the booth and sliding in beside Jake, leaning into him and letting your head fall on his shoulder.
Natasha sits across from you, her head tilted and a curious glint in her narrowed eyes. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Not yet, I haven’t,” you say, before letting out an exasperated sigh. “My ex is coming back this weekend.”
She rears back and sits up straight, her brows raised. “Coming back to stay?”
You lift your head from Jake’s shoulder and shake it softly. “Nah. He just wants to pick up everything he left behind.”
Jake shifts beside you, his arm sliding around your lower back almost possessively—but you know he only means to comfort you. “Including you?” he asks, his tone playful but laced with a hint of uncertainty.
You snort and turn to face him, a little startled by how close those piercing green eyes are. “Of course not. Or at least, I hope not. I mean, I think I made it pretty damn clear he wasn’t getting me back, even if he was planning to try.” You trail off, turning away, unsure how to bring up the real reason you came here tonight—the question that’s been gnawing at you since your phone conversation with Spencer.
“Okay,” Nat says, “so, what’s the big deal?”
You suck in a deep breath, filling your lungs as you gather every shred of dignity you still have left. “I told him he couldn’t stay at the apartment because… my boyfriend just moved in.”
Natasha’s brows shoot up toward her hairline and her mouth pops open. Amusement dances behind her eyes, but she has the decency to hold it back as you drop your head into your hands and let out a groan. “I fucked up.”
Beside Natasha, Mickey leans forward. “But you don’t have a boyfriend?”
You look up at him and scowl. “No shit.”
“Oh.” He nods slowly, fighting the grin that tugs at his lips.
“So, what are you going to do?” Reuben pipes up from the other end of the table, looking just as amused as the rest of your friends.
“Well...” You lean back, pressing your shoulder blades into the vinyl of the booth as you twist your neck to glance at the man beside you. “I was going to ask Jake if he could help me... pretend.”
Jake’s smirk fades, and a flush creeps into his cheeks. His green eyes widen, the usual cocky confidence replaced by startled confusion. “What? Why me?”
You shrug, trying to act nonchalant about asking the man you regularly fantasise about to be your fake boyfriend. “It just makes the most sense. I’ve known you the longest.” Your eyes flick toward the other boys at the table. “No offense, but Jake and I just have better chemistry—and Spencer knew it. He was always a little threatened by our friendship.”
You shift your gaze back to Jake, who’s still looking stunned, his lips parted slightly.
“Plus, I only broke up with Spencer six months ago. I couldn’t have met someone new and asked them to move in that fast. It has to be someone I already knew.” You widen your eyes and bat your lashes dramatically. “Please, Jake. I’ll do anything.”
He blinks at you, cheeks still tinged pink. “Define anything,” he says, that cocky smirk slowly starting to return.
“Whatever you want,” you reply, planting both hands on his thigh closest to you—oblivious to the fact that it makes his dick twitch in his jeans. “You know I’m good for it.”
Jake coughs into his hand, shifting slightly, trying to hold onto his bravado while making sure your touch doesn’t creep any higher. “Alright,” he says, voice a little rougher than before. “I’ll do it.”
You raise a brow. “That easy?”
He lifts a finger. “On one condition.”
You narrow your eyes, suspicious. “Which is?”
He leans in, that cocky smirk curling at the edge of his lips. “I want a home-cooked dinner. Every night I’m there. Candles. Music. Maybe a little wine. You know... boyfriend perks.”
Natasha snorts across the table. “You mean domestic fantasy perks.”
Jake just shrugs, eyes still locked on yours. “Hey, if I’m going to play house, I want the full experience.”
You swallow hard, but your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Deal.”
He grins wider, and this time you’re pretty sure it’s not just cockiness—it’s anticipation.
-
You pace in circles around your kitchen island, one arm tucked under your breasts, holding your opposite elbow as you anxiously gnaw on your thumbnail. Jake is supposed to be here any minute, and the cork in the bottle of nerves rattling around in your stomach just won’t stay put.
You’ve known Jake for years. You met in college and, despite the distance with his deployments, have been metaphorically inseparable ever since. But physically? That was a little harder, obviously.
You’ve always had a soft spot for Jake—a bit of a crush, but you were never foolish enough to think anything could come of it. You’ve been perfectly content being his friend, never pushing for more. But every single one of your boyfriends? They hated him. You can’t blame them, really—Jake has that effect on people. That cocky, irresistible charm that makes it impossible for anyone else to ignore him.
Still, you can’t shake the guilt creeping in. Fooling Spencer into thinking you and Jake are together? After all those times you promised him there was nothing more than friendship between you and Jake? It feels wrong. Even if Spencer never really took your word for it.
A knock at the door pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts, and you hurry to answer it. Jake is standing on the other side, looking even more irresistible than usual. There’s no uniform today, no flight suit or polished boots. Instead, he's wearing a simple white t-shirt and jeans, and somehow that makes him look even better. His hair is messy, not gelled like it usually is, and the scruff on his jaw—a day’s worth of stubble—only adds to the allure. He looks... delicious in a way that’s totally different from the polished, put-together fighter pilot you’re used to.
“Hey, girlfriend,” he says with a smirk, “sorry I’m late.”
Your brain and mouth have completely short-circuited, leaving you with no choice but to smile, nod, and step aside to let him in. He’s got a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a box of random belongings in his arms—little odds and ends that someone might have lying around their apartment.
Jake drops the box onto the kitchen counter and turns back to you. “What time is Spencer the Snob getting here?”
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “In about an hour. Do you think you can manage to be civilized?”
“Yes,” he replies, his voice sharp as he props his hands on his hips. “Can he be civilised?”
“Spencer is always civilized.”
You walk over to the box and start pulling out items, mentally sorting them. But Jake isn’t done.
He scoffs, shaking his head. “Spencer is not always civilized. He’s just really good at hiding what a complete dick he is.”
You turn and lean your hip against the countertop, raising one eyebrow. “You only don’t like him because he didn’t like you first. And let’s be honest, that’s because you bought me lingerie for the first birthday that I was with him. He didn’t get the joke and thought it was way too suggestive.”
Jake snorts, his jade eyes lighting up with mischief. “Yeah, that was a good one. I’ll never forget the look on his face.”
You resist the urge to laugh and roll your eyes again, turning back to the box. “I’ll admit, Spence is a little snobby. But that’s just how he was raised. It’s not his fault he’s got money.”
Jake’s expression darkens, and he narrows his eyes at the affectionate nickname. “Spence?”
“Sorry,” you say, your cheeks flushing pink. “Force of habit.”
The two of you move quietly around the apartment, slipping into an easy rhythm as you make space for Jake’s things. You tuck two framed photos of his family onto the bookshelf, nestled between your novels, and slide one of his official Navy portraits beside them—one you definitely wouldn’t mind keeping.
He hangs a jacket and a couple of worn caps on the hooks by the door and drops two pairs of his boots beside your own lineup of shoes. You clear off a bedside table for him to clutter with his things, and listen to the soft clink of bottles as he unpacks his toiletries in the bathroom.
Finally, you add a towel for him to the rack beside the shower. And for a moment, you let yourself imagine it: the two of you in there together. His hot, slick skin pressed to yours, the steam curling around your tangled limbs. His hands sliding soap across your body, rinsing you slow and thorough. He’d wash your hair too, fingers working into your scalp until your eyes fluttered closed—and then you’d return the favour, watching his mouth part in bliss beneath your touch.
“Hello?” Jake waves a hand in front of your face. “Anyone home?”
You blink rapidly and turn to face him, only to find him standing way too close with that maddening smirk tugging at his lips. Your eyes flick up to his, and the look he gives you is downright dangerous—curious, cocky, and just a little bit amused.
“You good, sweetheart?” he asks, tilting his head. “You’re lookin’ a little hot under the collar.”
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Instead, you let out a weird half-laugh, half-scoff and sidestep him like he’s radioactive. “I’m fine. It’s just warm in here. Is it warm in here?”
Jake leans back against the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed and eyes glittering. “Could be. Or maybe you were just thinkin’ about something real steamy.”
You choke on air. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, all faux innocence. “Just sayin’... you’ve got that look. Like your brain wandered somewhere it probably shouldn’t have.”
You grab a towel—any towel—and smack him in the chest. “Shut up.”
Jake laughs, catching the towel with one hand like he knew it was coming. “Whatever it was, must’ve been good.”
When he finally steps aside, you scurry past like lingering too long might scorch your skin. Only once you’ve turned down the hall and reached the kitchen—putting a safe stretch of space between you and him—do you exhale the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“Okay,” you say, planting both palms against the cool, marble countertop. “Spencer is going to be here in half an hour, so we have exactly thirty minutes to practice being a couple.”
Jake smirks like this is nothing—like he’s been in this exact situation a hundred times before. “You tell me what you’re comfortable with, darlin’.” He steps up to the other side of the kitchen island and leans forward, mirroring your posture.
You tilt your head slightly, a playful smile tugging at your lips as you narrow your eyes at him. “We need to look convincing. No weirdness, no pulling faces. Just... act natural.”
Jake cocks an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “Natural, huh? So, no kissing? Not even a little peck?”
You try to focus, but the way he’s leaning across the island—just far enough to make the space between you feel electrified—throws you off. “Uh, no. Nothing like that. We’ll start slow. Hold hands, sit close... you know, the easy stuff.”
Jake’s grin widens, his gaze flickering down to your lips before locking onto your eyes. “Hold hands, sit close. Got it. But what if I make you want to kiss me? I’m really good at that.”
You feel the heat spreading through your chest, but you refuse to let him see it. “You think you can make me want to kiss you?” You raise an eyebrow, trying to match his cockiness.
He leans even further toward you and drops his voice low, the teasing edge still there but with a smouldering intensity you’re having a hard time ignoring. “Oh, sweetheart. I know I can. All I need is the right moment.”
You can’t help but laugh nervously, your pulse quickening as he stays there, so close you can feel the heat of his presence even if the island bench is still separating you. “Well, we’ve got thirty minutes to see if you can keep your hands to yourself, Seresin,” you tease, but there’s an edge to it now—a hint of challenge.
Jake leans in a little more, his gaze fixed on you, like he’s seconds away from crossing the line. “Trust me, darlin’. I can keep my hands to myself... but only if you can keep your hands off me.”
Your chest rises and falls faster than usual, your head spinning slightly from all the extra oxygen surging through your blood. You part your lips, ready to fire back something just as cocky—something to keep the volley going—but the sharp chime of your phone slices through the tension, and both your gazes snap to where it buzzes on the countertop.
You settle back onto your heels, and reach for your phone, huffing out a small, frustrated sigh before sliding the answer button and pressing it to your ear. “Hey, Spencer.”
“Hey, how are you?”
Your eyes slide toward Jake, who is looking almost as frustrated as you feel. “Fine. How far out are you?”
Spencer chuckles, and something inside of you instinctively recoils, even though the sound itself isn’t particularly offensive. “I’m great, thanks for asking. The flight was fine, a little bumpy, but we made it. I’m just waiting at baggage claim, so I’ll be about twenty minutes.”
“No worries,” you say, “see you soon.”
You hang up before he even finishes saying goodbye, drop your phone face-down on the bench, and glance back at Jake. “Alright, let’s go over the details. We started dating three months after Spencer left. You asked me out, and I was a little surprised.”
Jake frowns, already halfway to an objection, but you cut him off with a raised hand. “Just go with it, okay? It keeps my integrity intact. You have no idea how many times I had to convince him I wasn’t into you.”
His frown fades fast, replaced by that maddeningly smug smirk. “Go on, then.”
You roll your eyes, but continue. “I was surprised, but everything just... clicked. Being best friends made the relationship feel natural. That’s why things have moved fast. You were already here most nights, your rent went up, so you moved in two weeks ago.”
Jake nods like he’s logging it all away. “Okay, but more importantly—how’s the sex?”
You stare, deadpan. “Seriously?”
He shrugs, hands raised like a saint. “What? It’s a legitimate question. Spencer might ask.”
“I highly fucking doubt it.”
Jake chuckles. “Yeah, fair. Still worth a shot.”
With a long, theatrical exhale, you walk around the kitchen island and stop in front of him. “Alright, let’s talk touching.”
His eyes light up, devilish. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
You ignore him. “I’m ticklish, so don’t touch my ribs or ghost over my arms—I will flinch.”
“I know.”
You pause. “Okay…” You shake your head, ignoring the question trying to form. “I’m not huge on PDA, but I like lingering touches. Just small things, to remind each other we’re there.”
“I know,” he says again, that smirk glued in place.
The question in your head itches a little louder, but you push it aside. “And if we go out—which I really hope we don’t—make sure you’re always sitting next to me. I hate it when couples sit across from each other. I don’t want to gaze into your eyes, I want to feel your warmth.”
Jake’s smirk splits into a wide, boyish grin. “I know.”
The floodgates crack. “How the fuck do you know everything?”
He leans in just slightly, voice soft but sure. “Because I know you. I’ve watched you with every guy you’ve dated. Just because I wasn’t the guy doesn’t mean I haven’t been paying attention.”
You blink, reeling from the quiet truth in his tone. It hits you like a gust of wind—real, unshakable. You actually have to take a step back to steady yourself. There’s no teasing in his voice, no smug edge. Just Jake, earnest and open in a way that’s rare.
And it almost wrecks you.
Jake might be cocky and insufferable ninety percent of the time—but when he loves, he does it fiercely. Deeply. Fully. And you’ve always known you were lucky to be one of the people he loves.
But for the first time, you let your mind wander somewhere dangerous. What would it be like to be loved by Jake Seresin—not just as a friend, but as his person? His everything?
“So,” Jake says, cutting through the tension like a hot knife through butter, “where should I touch you first?”
You close your eyes for a beat, reminding yourself that this is still Jake—insufferable, irritating Jake. “You don’t have to be weird and over the top about it. When he gets here, you can just sit on the couch, then I’ll join you and sit close. You can put a hand on my thigh.”
Jake’s brows furrow, his face contorting with mild disgust. “I know you’re trying not to make him uncomfortable, but that’s not going to work. Think about it—your ex is coming over, and your current boyfriend is just sitting casually on the couch? Not buying it.”
You roll your eyes again, hoping to avoid yet another pointless argument. “Jake, this doesn’t need to be-”
“You told him you’re dating me,” he interrupts, poking his chest with a finger. “And if this was real, I’d be making damn sure I had a hand on you at all times.”
You raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore how your body reacts to his proximity and his words. Heat floods your chest and settles behind your hipbones, desire tightening in places you don’t want to think about right now. “You don’t need to stake your claim, Jake. Spencer isn’t here to win me back.”
Jake steps closer, cutting the distance between you until there’s barely two feet separating you. “You don’t know that.” His voice lowers slightly, making the air between you feel thick and electric. “And yes, I do. If you want him to believe we’re dating, then you need to let me do exactly what I would do if this was real.”
You’re not sure whether he’s just being cocky or trying to show off, but damn it, he’s making a good point. “Okay, fine. But don’t make him uncomfortable.”
Jake’s smirk widens, taking on that familiar, smug edge. “No promises, darlin’.”
You spend the next ten minutes pretending to clean—wiping already spotless counters, rearranging throw pillows, and dusting things that definitely don’t need dusting. All while Jake lounges on the couch like this is the easiest job he’s ever had.
“It’s three days, sweetheart,” he says. “By Sunday, Spencer will be back in his overpriced New York apartment sipping single malt and Googling himself.”
You snort but say nothing. Three days. Just two dinners and one brunch. You’ll keep the visits restricted to daylight hours, keep Jake close, keep your story straight—and by Sunday afternoon, Spencer will be out of your apartment and out of your life.
That’s the plan, anyway.
But as you glance over at Jake—sprawled out, so completely at ease in your space, looking infuriatingly good even in his most relaxed state—you start to question the rest of it.
Because it’s not Spencer you’re worried about fooling anymore. It’s yourself. And when Jake turns his head and catches you staring, smirking like he knows exactly what you're thinking?
Yeah. This might be harder than you thought.
The intercom buzzes, loud and sudden, startling you from your task of rearranging the flowers on the dining table. Your heart launches into your throat, pounding like you’ve just jumped from a plane without a parachute.
Jake chuckles and rises from the couch, strolling over to the intercom with infuriating confidence. He presses the button and leans in. “Come on up.”
You force your feet to move, carrying you toward him and not stopping until you’re right beside him. You press yourself against him and the moment your body meets his, heat blooms under your skin. It’s not new—you've touched him before—but it feels different. More charged. More deliberate. Jake’s arm slides around your waist without hesitation, and his fingers curl into your hip, firm and possessive. There’s a subtle squeeze and the pad of his thumb grazes a sliver of skin just beneath the hem of your shirt.
You feel it everywhere.
He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “It’s showtime, sweetheart.”
Your breath stutters. This is just pretend.
Your heart pounds against your sternum, each beat like the tick of a countdown clock. The elevator dings. Footsteps echo down the hallway. Closer, closer. You draw in a deep breath and hold it, ignoring the sharp ache it sends through your chest.
“Relax,” Jake murmurs, pulling you tighter against his side as he reaches for the doorknob.
The second the footsteps stop, he yanks the door open—no chance for a knock.
“Spence!” Jake beams, like they’re old frat brothers reunited. “Come in, buddy. How are you?”
You nearly snort. The absurdity of his enthusiasm bubbles up in your throat, but you bite your lip hard enough to keep it down.
Spencer looks good—but all it does is remind you how little you miss him. His perfectly coiffed blonde hair hasn’t changed one bit, but he’s tanner than you remember—courtesy of the European sun, no doubt. He’s not as tall as Jake, but he’s got that same overinflated ego. The difference? Jake’s cockiness comes from… well, let’s just say it’s probably anatomical. Spencer’s is inherited—passed down with a trust fund and a country club membership.
He’s dressed exactly as you expected: a sky-blue Ralph Lauren polo, crisp white pants with a crease so sharp it could slice bread, and tan boat shoes—an ironic choice, considering he’s terrified of boats.
But it’s his face that really seals the moment. Jaw unhinged, eyes wide, staring at Jake like he just opened the door to a ghost. Or maybe something worse: the ghost of his ex-girlfriend’s new sex life.
“Jake?” Spencer finally says. “Your new boyfriend is Jake Seresin?”
Jake’s grin is unbothered—like this is the moment he’s been waiting for his whole life. “The one and only.”
You feel his hand press a little firmer into your waist, anchoring you there like you might suddenly run—and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted.
Spencer steps further into the apartment, his eyes glued to Jake’s smug face. “I thought you said there was nothing going on between you two.”
Your stomach twists, but you keep your voice even. “There wasn’t. Not back then.”
Spencer glances at you. “You told me I was being paranoid. That he was just your friend.”
Jake chuckles. “I remember you telling me about that.”
You shoot him a look that’s supposed to say “not helping,” but he just smiles innocently and shrugs.
Spencer looks seconds away from spontaneously combusting. “I trusted you,” he says, starting to sound like the whiny, private-school rich kid you always tried to ignore. “You promised me nothing would ever happen with him.”
“Yeah, that was then, and this is now. Things change, Spence—and this has nothing to do with you,” you say, tone sharpening. If he’s going to act like a child, then you're going to treat him like one.
Jake’s hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, his thumb sweeping in a slow, easy circle like he’s soothing a spark before it ignites. “People change, bud. Timing is everything.”
Spencer folds his arms, visibly rattled. “So, what—he swooped in the second I left?”
Jake tilts his head, eyes full of mock offense. “Swooped? Come on. Give me a little credit. She came to me.”
You snap your head toward him, about to object, but his grin is wicked and the mischief in his eyes dares you to play along.
“Well...” You drag the word out, buying a few precious seconds to stitch your story together. “Technically, yes. I was upset after the breakup, so of course I turned to my best friend for comfort.”
Spencer’s blue-grey eyes narrow. “You broke up with me.”
“That she did, pal.” Jake tries for a sympathetic look, but you know better—he’s enjoying this a little too much.
“Just because I ended things doesn’t mean it didn’t rattle me,” you shoot back, trying to shift the focus away from Jake. “We were together for four years, Spencer. That’s a long time. I just had the guts to do what you didn’t. So, forgive me if I’m not in the mood to explain myself to you. I don’t owe you anything—and my new relationship? It’s none of your business.”
You see his expression twist into an offended scowl, and anger flickers in your chest. The nerve of him, acting like you still owe him something just because you pulled the plug first.
“For the record,” you continue, voice cool and firm, “yeah, I leaned on Jake. And somewhere along the line, I found something a lot deeper.”
Then, without missing a beat, you glance at Jake—who’s already wearing that cocky smirk—and let one of your own curve across your lips as you look back at Spencer.
“Actually,” you say, eyes narrowing with satisfaction, “I think it was Jake who found something a little deeper… if you know what I mean.”
Jake snorts, slapping his hand over his mouth, but he can’t suppress the gleeful chuckle bubbling from his lips. Spencer, on the other hand, looks utterly humbled—his cheeks are bright red and his jaw is hanging open like he’s just been slapped across the face.
You step away from Jake, waiting for his hand to drop so you can grab it. The second your fingers slide into his, a rush of warmth zips up your arm, and you try to ignore how good it feels, but damn, it’s hard.
“Get your boxes,” you say to Spencer, keeping your tone cool. “Jake will help you pack some stuff this afternoon, but it’s date night, so you’ve got exactly two hours. You can come back in the morning.”
Spencer's lip twitches, like he's about to argue, but then he stops himself. He nods curtly and unties the fancy cashmere sweater draped around his shoulders, hanging it carefully on a hook by the door. He hesitates when he notices Jake’s clothes tossed haphazardly alongside yours. After a moment, he huffs, shakes his head, and stomps out of the apartment.
You fight to suppress a grin as you turn to Jake, but he’s already beaming at you. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
You pretend to flick your hair off your shoulder with theatrical flair. “Oh, I know.”
He chuckles. “I can’t believe you just told your ex I’ve got a huge dick.”
You shrug, one shoulder rising nonchalantly. “You’ve got the ego to match, so I figured I could make an educated guess. Besides, it’s not like Spencer will ever know for sure.”
His brows shoot up. “Oh, so you were just guessing?”
Heat floods your cheeks, and suddenly his eyes are too intense to meet. “Well, obviously.”
He leans in, his hand tightening around yours, voice low and teasing—laced with a challenge that feels dangerously not like a joke. “Want to find out for real?”
Your breath hitches. Words abandon you. All you can do is stare at his face—too handsome and too tempting.
“Because I’d go a hell of a lot deeper than that weasel. So deep, you’d be screaming-”
The intercom buzzer cuts him off, and you’re hit with a wave of relief and frustration all at once. Your pulse is racing, your chest tight, and the thrum of your heartbeat fills your ears.
Jake chuckles, clearly amused by the timing, and leans back, releasing your hand to press the button on the intercom. He glances over at you, winks, and casually strides toward the lounge, sprawling out like he owns the place. Like he’s some modern-day Adonis—there to wind you up and then claim your couch like it’s his throne.
You force your limbs to move, opening the door for Spencer and helping him carry in the flattened cardboard boxes tucked under his arms. You lead him to the spare room—where all his abandoned belongings have been gathering dust for the past six months—and leave him to it.
You don’t have to ask Jake to help. The second you return to the living room, he stands, crosses the space without hesitation, and steps right up to you. His palm finds the back of your head as he pulls you in, pressing a warm, gentle kiss to the top of your hair.
You know he’s just doing what you asked—pretending to be your boyfriend. But the tenderness of the gesture feels heartbreakingly sincere. It sinks into your skin, fills your chest like warm water, and when he pulls away, he takes the comfort with him.
Your eyes trail after him as he walks toward the spare room, and you shamelessly ogle his ass on the way out. Then you collapse onto the lounge where he’d just been sitting, curling up in the lingering scent of his cologne. You tug a blanket from the wicker basket beside the couch and wrap it around yourself, clicking on a show you barely register—because all you can think about is the way Jake Seresin touches you.
This might not have been such a brilliant idea after all.
-
Spencer uses up his two hours like he paid for them, waiting until exactly 5:59 PM to dust off his palms on those stupid white pants—as if he hadn’t made Jake do all the heavy lifting—and announce that he “better get going.”
You give him a tight smile as you hold the door open, already half-relieved just watching him walk out. It's not that pretending to love Jake is hard—you do love him. It’s the reminder that all the lingering touches, the soft smiles, the stolen glances—they’re just an act. That’s what’s draining you.
The second the door clicks shut, you let out a long, theatrical sigh, like you’ve been holding your breath for the full two hours. “Oh, thank God. I don’t know how I’m going to survive a whole day tomorrow.”
Jake chuckles, but there’s something tight about it—like he’s forcing it out through gritted teeth. “Am I that hard to love?” he asks, and though his tone is teasing, something flickers behind his eyes that doesn’t feel like a joke.
Your brows knit. “No, it’s not that. It’s just...”
He steps closer, invading your space like he’s done all day—and you hate how much you don’t mind it anymore. In fact, you kind of want him to stay right there.
“What is it?” he murmurs, voice low and rough enough to make your skin prickle.
You swallow hard, suddenly aware of how close he is, how good he smells, and how charged the air between you feels. “It’s just Spencer, you know? Having him around is... exhausting.”
Jake’s lip quirks, but his eyes are sharp, studying you. “Oh? So you’re not struggling with this fake relationship thing at all? Not even a little confused? Frustrated? Having trouble remembering it’s not real?”
You blink, stunned silent. You’re not sure how, but you’re starting to believe Jake Seresin might actually be a mind reader.
“I-” The words catch in your throat, strangled by the weight of his stare. His piercing green eyes pin you in place, make you forget how to speak, how to breathe.
Then, just when it feels like you might combust, his smirk cracks into a grin and he takes a step back, letting the tension snap like a rubber band. “Alright then,” he says, clapping his hands together, “what’s for dinner, gorgeous?”
You inhale like you’ve just broken the surface of the water. Your lungs burn. Your head spins. This man is giving you whiplash.
It takes almost a full minute to regain control of your body, and when you finally do, you walk straight into the kitchen without giving Jake an answer. You can’t even look at him right now—but he has no trouble looking at you.
He watches you like he’s starving and you’re the feast. It makes focusing on dinner nearly impossible.
You busy yourself preparing the meal you planned yesterday—Italian sausage spaghetti with a pull-apart garlic loaf. You don’t usually go all out for dinner, but you’re using Jake’s presence as an excuse to cook something hearty and delicious. Maybe after eating, you’ll both be too full to maintain this unbearable sexual tension. He can crash on the couch, and you’ll curl up in bed. Or maybe you’ll take a long, steamy shower and do what you need to do to unknot the tension pulsing behind your hipbones.
Dinner comes together quickly, and after a few casual questions from Jake about the food, he drifts back to the couch, half-watching whatever show has been playing in the background for past few hours. You set the dining table just the way he asked—candles, wine, and soft music humming from the speaker on your bookshelf.
Finally, you place two full bowls of pasta on the table—opposite each other. Because you’re not really dating, so why would you sit beside him? To feel his warmth? Let him rest a hand on your thigh?
The thought alone sends a shiver down your spine.
You try to shake it off and glance at Jake—only to find him already watching you.
You clear your throat. “Lieutenant Jake Seresin, your dinner is served.”
He grins like a kid in a candy store, pushing off the couch and sniffing the air like a Loony Tunes character. “Damn, I think Phoenix might’ve been right. This is a full-on domestic fantasy.”
You roll your eyes and duck your head, hoping he doesn’t see the heat rising in your cheeks. “Just sit down and eat, Hangman. I’m tired and hungry.”
You flick off the kitchen lights, leaving the room bathed in the soft glow of the candles. The atmosphere feels far more romantic than you intended. Is this what Jake wanted?
You don’t give yourself time to overthink it—because the food smells amazing, and there’s a very attractive naval aviator sitting across from you, looking like he was plucked straight from a dream.
You spend the first few minutes eating in silence, both too busy shovelling pasta into your mouths and tearing into buttery garlic bread to speak. Somehow, Jake even manages to make slurping spaghetti look hot—and you hate when people make noise while they eat.
“So,” you say, slowing your pace and setting your fork down, “did you want to stay here tonight or head back to your place?”
He keeps his eyes on his plate, as if avoiding yours will mask whatever he’s really thinking. “Up to you, darlin’. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
“Well, Spencer did seem pretty suspicious about the whole thing… so I think it’s safer if you stay.”
His head snaps up, and that signature smirk spreads across his lips. “Is that so?”
“Yeah,” you say, fighting the heat rising to your cheeks, “he might sniff around tomorrow. Like, literally. He might be a creep and notice your towel’s untouched, or that your side of the bed hasn’t been slept in, and-”
“You want to share the bed?” he asks, looking far too pleased with the idea.
You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “We’ve shared a bed before.”
“Yeah,” he says, a low chuckle slipping out, “blind drunk.”
His eyes are too pretty, too intense, and your chest feels tight under their weight. You look away, eyes darting around the table until they land on the wine bottle.
“Well then,” you say, picking it up and refilling his glass, “drink up, Seresin.”
Two bottles of wine later, you’re both loose-limbed and laughing—less awkward about the day’s chaos, and a lot less anxious about sharing a bed tonight.
You giggle at one of Jake’s ridiculous jokes while clearing the table, and when he insists on helping clean up, you swat him away, telling him it’s all part of his domestic fantasy. He rolls his eyes but still hovers, drying dishes and pretending not to notice the way you keep throwing him side-eye glances every time he guesses wrong about where something goes.
“Do you want to shower?” you ask as you finish wiping down the stovetop.
His green eyes go wide, that crooked grin slipping across his face like sin itself. “Is this you offering?”
Your stomach flips, heat crawling up your chest. “I meant—do you want to shower first?”
“Oh,” he chuckles, almost disappointed. “Yeah, sure. If you don’t mind?”
“Wouldn’t have asked if I did,” you mutter, turning back toward the lounge.
You listen to his footsteps fade toward the bathroom, then collapse onto the couch, burying your face in a pillow that smells maddeningly like him.
What the fuck are you doing?
Yes, you’ve always had a little crush on Jake, but you’re not delusional. He’s out of your league. You’ve made peace with that. You’ve always been happy just being his friend. So why does all of this feel so good? Why is it getting harder to remember that he doesn’t see you the same way?
He’s thrown himself into this charade like it’s more than just pretending, and it’s messing with your head. Does he want something more? Something casual? A few nights, maybe? Or... does he want you—the whole messy package?
The shower starts, and you groan into the pillow. You’re confused. You’re also so fucking horny. Red wine was a terrible idea.
Ten minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open. “All yours,” Jake calls, his voice smooth and casual as he walks toward the bedroom where he left his duffel bag.
You drag yourself upright, every step toward the bathroom a battle against the mental slideshow of naked, wet Jake. You shut the door, strip down, and step into the shower, letting the hot water calm your skin and chase away the ache blooming low in your belly.
You don’t have the guts to do what you really need to make that ache go away—not with Jake just a paper-thin wall away. The thought creeps in, bold and reckless, whispering what if you just called him in here? But then you laugh softly under your breath and shake it off. As if. The idea of Jake rejecting you would be a level of humiliation you’re not prepared to face tonight. Or ever.
You shut off the water, swipe a towel from the rack, and give yourself a quick dry before wrapping it snugly around your body. The bathroom is thick with steam, your skin flushed and dewy, your pulse still thudding from thoughts you shouldn't be entertaining.
You open the door to let in some air—only to nearly collide with Jake.
He’s right there. Shirtless. Grey sweatpants slung low, a towel around his neck, and an annoyingly cocky smirk on his lips.
“Damn,” he says, leaning one arm against the doorframe, eyes roaming blatantly. “I was coming to see if you drowned, but now I’m thinking maybe I should’ve brought more wine.”
You try to step back, but he follows, slipping inside like he belongs here. You grip your towel tighter.
“Jake,” you warn, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing?”
“Just enjoying the view,” he says casually, his eyes far too warm for comfort. “This your idea of torture? Walk out here looking like a damn dream and expect me to just keep pretending?”
You’re not sure what’s pretending and what isn’t anymore, and you have no idea what his words mean. Is he just messing with you? He has to be.
“I didn’t ask you to come in.”
“And yet,” he says, grinning, “here I am.”
The heat in the room is stifling—and it's not just the steam. Jake moves in closer, crowding your space, eyes flicking from your lips to your towel and back. His fingers reach up, slow and deliberate, and tug lightly at the edge of the fabric resting on your collarbone.
“Think this is regulation towel length?” he teases.
“Do you want me to report you to HR?” you ask, trying not to smile. Your voice wobbles on the last word when his fingers brush across the swell of your breast.
“Only if HR gives out spankings,” he says with a wink.
You laugh, then immediately regret it, because the movement loosens the towel just slightly—and his gaze drops. The air between you crackles.
“Jake,” you murmur, breath hitching.
He leans in, his lips brushing your temple like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. “Say the word,” he whispers, voice lower than a dare.
You turn your face toward him, your lips just inches from his—and then:
BZZZZZZZZZZZT.
The intercom buzzes loudly from the living room, startling you both. You jump, and Jake curses under his breath.
“Saved by the buzzer,” you mutter, half annoyed, half relieved.
He takes a step back, eyes still dark with want, running a hand through his hair. “Or maybe cursed by it.”
You give him a pointed look. “Shut the door on your way out, Hangman.”
He backs out slowly, smirking the whole way. “You know I’m not going to forget this, right?”
You roll your eyes and wait for him to close the door before locking it for good measure. After drying off, you go through your usual skincare and haircare routines, trying not to think about whatever the hell just happened between the two of you. But one glance down the hall as you exit the bathroom makes your heart plummet.
Spencer is standing by the front door. And Jake—still very much shirtless—is looking smug as hell.
“Hey, darlin’,” Jake drawls, turning to Spencer with a wink. “We just finished up in the shower, if you know what I mean.”
You freeze like a deer in headlights, towel clutched to your chest. You feel like a naked model caught mid-pose in front of a life drawing class—except your ex is the one holding the sketchpad, and Jake is… well, Jake.
“Spencer,” you bite out, “what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I-I forgot my sweater.” He holds up the creamy cashmere one he’d left by the door, eyes darting anywhere but your body.
You raise a brow. “And that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it again—clearly trying not to ogle you while very aware of the broad, half-naked man beside him who is allegedly your boyfriend. Jake’s green eyes darken the longer Spencer’s gaze lingers.
“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters. “I guess I didn’t think-”
“Yeah, thinking’s never really been your thing, huh, pal?” Jake cuts in, clapping a firm hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “Now if you don’t mind fucking off, I’d like to get back to round two with my very satisfied girlfriend. And just so we’re clear—if you show up before 9AM tomorrow, all you’re gonna hear is her screaming my name in ecstasy.”
Your body lights up like a struck match. You don’t even look at Spencer as Jake all but escorts him out the door. Your focus is entirely on the shirtless man—the ridiculously hot, dangerously cocky, fake boyfriend who just made you feel completely and utterly claimed.
You’re not sure if it’s the wine or the caveman behaviour, but suddenly, the idea of crossing that line doesn’t seem so dangerous anymore. In fact, it sounds like the best idea you’ve had in years.
Jake shuts the door and flicks the deadbolt before turning those dark green eyes on you. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, and you’re gonna make my dreams—and Spencer’s nightmares—come true.”
His dreams?
Your breath catches in your throat. Then, like a startled chicken, you turn and bolt to your bedroom, slamming the door shut behind you. Your head spins as you scramble to grab the pyjamas stashed under your pillow. Every inch of your skin feels hypersensitive, like Jake’s gaze alone has lit up your nerve endings one by one.
Once you’re dressed and your face isn’t quite so scarlet red, you head for the bathroom. You hang up your towel—deliberately ignoring the sight of Jake’s hanging next to it—and start brushing your teeth. But the flutter in your stomach is relentless.
Jake appears a moment later and joins you silently, his eyes finding yours in the mirror. You try to avoid them, but your gaze keeps drifting back, always checking, always wondering. And every time, he’s still watching.
You rinse and spit, then flee the bathroom before your knees give out. You don’t bother with the rest of your night routine—you need sleep, or space, or maybe a total reset of your entire hormonal system.
You crawl into bed and flick on the TV perched atop your dresser, the hum of background noise a small comfort. But it does nothing to quiet the static under your skin when Jake steps into the room.
He flicks off the main light, shuts the door with a soft click, and then sits on the bed beside you. The mattress dips under his weight, and it feels like the whole room tilts with him.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He just sits beside you in the dim glow of the TV, his body so close you can feel the heat radiating off his bare skin.
You pretend to be engrossed in whatever’s on the screen, but your heart is thundering, and you can feel his gaze on you like a brand.
Then his voice, low and rough, slices through the quiet. “You always wear shirts like that to bed, or is this part of the fantasy?”
You try to scoff, but it comes out a little breathless. “You think everything’s about you.”
Jake chuckles. “You’re sitting here braless in a tissue-thin shirt, biting your lip like you want me to devour you—and I’m the one with the ego?”
You turn your head, ready to throw back some snark, but he’s already watching you with that look. That look that makes your insides clench and your breath catch. Like he’s starving. Like you’re the first real meal he’s had in days.
“Jake…”
His gaze drops to your lips, and his voice is rough around the edges when he says, “I’m not gonna make it through this night if you keep lookin’ at me like that.”
“I’m not looking at you like anything,” you whisper, but even you don’t believe that.
Jake leans closer. “No? Then why’s your chest rising like that? Why are your pupils blown wide? Why is every part of you screaming touch me?”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
He shifts toward you slowly, like a predator moving in, until his thigh brushes yours and his hand finds your jaw. His thumb drags lightly along your cheek, then down to your bottom lip, tugging at it just enough to make your breath stutter.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Just say the word.”
You stay frozen, heart galloping in your chest.
“Because if you don’t…” he leans in, voice barely audible now, “…I’m gonna lose every ounce of self-control I have left.”
Still, you say nothing. Can’t say anything.
Jake’s eyes search yours for a second longer. Then—
“Fuck it.”
He crashes into you like a storm. His mouth slants over yours, hot and possessive and desperate, like he’s finally giving in to something he’s been denying for far too long. His hands cup your face, then slide down, over your neck, your shoulders, gripping your waist like he needs to ground himself.
You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue sweeping in to taste you. It’s not gentle. It’s fire and tension and not just one day, but years of pretending finally snapping all at once.
Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging, pulling him closer. He groans against your lips and pushes you back into the mattress just slightly, moving over you, his body caging yours in without touching more than he has to.
You arch up into him, chasing his heat, his weight. And when his hand slips under the hem of your shirt, resting just above your waistband, your breath catches in your throat.
He pulls back just enough to look at you—his pupils dark, his lips kiss-bruised. “Still pretending?” he breathes.
You shake your head, dazed. “Not even a little bit.”
-
You wake up warm. Too warm.
Jake Seresin is sprawled across half your bed, one leg tangled over yours and an arm wrapped around your waist like you’re his personal body pillow. His bare chest is pressed to your back and his breath ghosts hot across your neck with every slow, sleepy exhale.
You’re painfully aware of two things: one, you’re very, very naked. And two, so is he.
And then... you remember everything.
The kissing. The touching. The downright Olympic-level sex. The way he looked at you like you were something he’d been starving for.
Your body aches in the best way, but your brain is in full meltdown mode. You try to untangle yourself without waking him. Emphasis on try. Because the second you shift, Jake groans and tightens his arm around you.
“Nuh-uh,” he mumbles, voice still rough with sleep. “You’re not goin’ anywhere.”
You huff, trying to wriggle free. “I have to pee.”
“Fine,” he says, releasing you with an exaggerated sigh. “But don’t even think about climbing out the window. You’re mine now.”
You roll your eyes as you slip out of bed, grabbing the closest shirt—his shirt—and tossing it over your head. It hangs low on your thighs, smelling like him and sex and very bad decisions.
By the time you return from the bathroom, Jake’s propped up on one elbow, watching you with the same hunger in his eyes as last night “Damn, you look better in my shirt than I do.”
You scoff and head for your dresser. “Don’t you get tired of hearing yourself talk?”
“Not when I’m this right.”
You grab a pair of shorts, but before you can pull them on, Jake is already moving. He slides off the bed, all muscles and tan skin, and corners you against the dresser.
“You know,” he murmurs, eyes dark and wicked as his fingers slip under the hem of his own shirt you're wearing, “you didn’t officially wake me up yet.”
Your heart kicks up a notch. “Is that a thing now?”
“Absolutely.” He leans in, brushing his nose along your jaw. “You gotta wake me up right, darlin’. Or I’m gonna be all cranky.”
You arch a brow. “Define right.”
He grins, lips brushing yours. “Tongue. Teeth optional.”
You laugh into the kiss he gives you—hot, deep, and toe-curling. His hands roam down your back, tugging you flush against him. You can feel he’s already half hard again, the cocky bastard.
But before things can spiral into round two, your phone buzzes loudly from the nightstand.
Jake pulls back with a dramatic sigh. “If that’s Spencer again, I swear to God-”
You smirk. “Jealous?”
He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Jealous? Sweetheart, I just spent the night making you scream my name.”
You roll your eyes, fighting a smile, and he grins like he just won the damn lottery.
To Jake’s great disappointment, it is Spencer. He’s on his way over, and the motel he’s staying at is only five minutes away. You both overslept—but can you really be blamed? No way. You were up most of the night tangled together, doing something that definitely didn’t feel pretend.
“Come on, Romeo,” you say, tossing Jake his shirt. “Get dressed before Tybalt gets here.”
Jake pauses, one brow arched as he tries not to stare at your naked chest. “Did you just imply that you used to date your cousin?”
A light laugh bubbles out of you. “Not intentionally, but I’m surprised you know Shakespeare.”
He grins, smug. “A little knowledge never hurt anyone. Helps win the ladies over, too.”
He’s joking, you know he is—but the way he says ladies—plural—hits you like punch to the gut. That’s what Jake is: a ladies’ man. It was stupid to think this could be anything more than a bit of fun. Some stress relief between two friends who spent all day teasing each other until they snapped.
If anyone can do casual sex, it’s Jake Seresin. It doesn’t matter how many pretty words he said last night—you can’t let yourself believe he actually meant them.
“Hey,” he says gently, catching the shift in your energy. “You okay?”
You nod a little too quickly, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. Your nose starts to sting, and you blink fast, trying to will the emotion away. Who the hell cries after the best sex of their life?
You gather your clothes and retreat to the bathroom, needing a buffer between you and Jake’s curious, overly perceptive eyes. You dress quickly, trying not to think about how good his shirt felt against your skin.
It isn’t long before Spencer buzzes the intercom again, and you’re almost grateful. Jake doesn’t get the chance to press you, to ask about the look on your face that feels like it could crumble into a sob at any second.
You’ve really fucked up now—because you let yourself believe it might’ve meant something.
The two men spend the morning in the spare room, exchanging nothing more than grunts and sidelong glances while packing Spencer’s things into boxes. You don’t bother checking on them—you're not sure you can look at Jake right now anyway. So, you remain firmly planted on the couch, stuck in a spiral of your own damning thoughts.
Around midday, you consider offering them lunch, but then you remember the mischievous glint in Jake’s eyes when he said that “it helps win the ladies over,” and you quickly decide against it. Instead, you grab your keys, tuck your phone into your back pocket, and head toward the door.
“I’m heading out for a bit. Won’t be long,” you call out, not waiting for a reply before stepping out.
“Wait,” Jake’s voice calls after you as the door swings shut. But you pretend not to hear.
You stride toward the elevator, pressing the button more forcefully than necessary, but it doesn’t arrive fast enough. By the time the doors finally slide open, Jake is already in the hallway, his brows furrowed in concern.
“Hang on a second,” he says, stopping right beside you, raising a hand to hold your jaw gently.
When you step back, his face falls, confusion and dread flickering across his features.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing,” you answer, stepping into the elevator.
But he follows you in, jaw ticking with tension. “Darlin’, if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna start thinking I broke you.”
You shake your head. “I’m not broken.”
“Then what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, hm?” His voice softens, but the underlying concern is still very present.
You take a deep breath, averting your eyes to the floor of the elevator as you try to carefully assemble your thoughts. You don’t want to hurt him, but you also can’t ignore how wrong everything feels in your gut.
“I just... I can’t do this, Jake,” you say, your voice almost cracking.
He looks absolutely gutted, like you’ve just sucker-punched him.
“I know it shouldn’t be a big deal. Plenty of people do it without any consequences,” you ramble on. “But I think there could be some huge consequences if we keep doing this. There’s just too much on the line. And while the sex was—God, it was mind-blowing—I just don’t think I can handle you doing it with other people while I’m over here trying to... figure out what this is.”
The hurt on his face quickly morphs into utter confusion. “What the hell are you talking about, sweetheart?”
“This,” you gesture between the two of you. “Last night. Us having sex and the whole ‘friends with benefits’ thing.”
Now, he looks genuinely offended. His eyes widen, green irises flashing with disbelief. “You think that’s what this is?”
Your heart races, the pulse in your throat thrumming. “Isn’t that what you want?”
Jake lets out a short, humourless laugh, running a hand through his hair. He glances briefly at the elevator doors before locking his gaze on you, intense and unyielding.
“Is that what you think?” he asks, his tone a low warning.
Suddenly, you feel very small—not in a sad way, but in a vulnerable, exposed way. He steps closer, stalking toward you with predatory intent, and you instinctively back up against the elevator wall. His presence fills the small space, and the hunger in his eyes is unmistakable.
You swallow thickly and nod. Just a small movement, but it’s enough to make him pounce. He presses his body to yours, trapping you between him and the wall, the metal rail digging into your lower back as he cages you in.
“I thought I made it pretty fucking clear last night, darlin’,” he whispers, his voice low and almost dangerous. “But if I didn’t, then let me say it now.”
He pauses, eyes burning into yours as you breathe in each other’s air, hearts racing in sync.
“I want you. Only you. All of you,” he growls. “I’ve been waiting years to do what I did last night. And now that I’ve had a taste?” He lets out a deep, throaty chuckle. “I’m never letting you go. You’re mine.”
Your mind goes blank. Your mouth is dry, and your heart’s thundering in your chest as his words hit you like a freight train.
“Say it,” he whispers, his lips brushing against yours as he pulls you closer. “Tell me you understand.”
“I’m yours.” The words fall from your mouth before you can stop them, but they feel right. Like they were meant to be said.
Jake smirks, a wicked, cocky grin that makes his eyes sparkle with unspoken mischief. “Good.”
And just like that, his lips crash into yours—urgent, fiery, and full of need. The kiss is wild and untamed, teeth clashing, tongues battling for dominance. His hands drop to the curve of your ass, lifting you effortlessly, forcing your legs around his waist as he presses you harder against the elevator wall.
Every inch of your skin hums, the heat between you two scorching. You can’t get enough of him, his touch, the rawness of this moment. You claw at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours, and before you can even think, you're already lost in him, all logic and restraint flying out the window.
But then, right on cue, your personal cockblock arrives. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Spencer stands there, completely flustered, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Neither of you had pressed a button when you entered, but the look on Jake’s face suggests that it might have been intentional.
“Sorry, pal,” Jake grins, his lips bruised and swollen. “I just can’t get enough, you know what it’s like.”
Spencer’s mouth moves, but no words come out.
Jake casually takes the box from Spencer’s arms. “Let me help you with that. Go grab another one. Let’s get you out of here before you see more than you’re willing to, hm?”
Spencer nods woodenly, still staring in complete shock.
You can’t help the giggles that escape you as you slip past Spencer and out of the elevator, back toward your apartment.
There’s nothing fake about you and Jake anymore—not that there ever really was. And now, you can confidently say that Jake’s ego is as well-proportioned as the monster between his legs.
summary; Enemies with a deal: play the perfect couple for one week. But in the heart of Texas, under one roof and one lie too many… They forget where the act ends and the feelings begin.
warnings; fake dating au, enemies to lovers, age gap (reader is in her late twenties, jake's in his late thirties) smut, oral (fem receiving), jake has a praise kink, reader has mommy issues (too self-indulgent haha), slight angst, happy ending
ask me anything | status: COMPLETED | total word count; 19.5k |
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while on vacation, pato helps you get back at your douchebag ex—by being your designated ‘instagram boyfriend’ during the trip.
ꔮ starring: pato o’ward x reader.
ꔮ word count: 15.3k + smau elements.
ꔮ includes: romance, humor. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. fake dating lite, mentions of infidelity (neither pato nor mc), mc is elba’s friend, sibling dynamics!!!, feelings realization/denial, google translated spanish. title is from taylor swift’s better than revenge.
ꔮ commentary box: oh look at me i’m pato o’ward, kae’s newest favorite driver! boy fuuuck u.. anyway. this one has been on my mind for weeks. behemoth of a fic is well-deserved after the season he had. this also goes out to the anon who requested an adjacent plot 🏖️ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
You’re not supposed to be on this trip.
Pato drags his suitcase across the tile, wincing when the wheels rattle with each step. It’s barely dawn, the airport shuttle is due in twenty minutes, and he’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that you’re coming with them.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks for the third time, tossing his backpack onto the couch where Elba is zipping up her carry-on. “Vegas isn’t exactly a spa weekend. It’s obscene. It’s bright. It’s—”
“Fun?” Elba cuts in, arching a brow. She shoves a pair of sneakers into her bag without ceremony. “Relax, Pato. She’ll be fine.”
He leans against the armrest, arms crossed. “I’m just saying, I thought she was more of a… book-club-and-brunch type. Not a twenty-four-hour-casino-bender type.”
Elba rolls her eyes. “You underestimate her.”
“No, I don’t,” Pato says, voice dry. “I’ve known her for years. She’s been to our house a hundred times. She always helps Mom clean up, she never forgets birthdays, and she once turned down sangria because she had an early morning yoga class.” He tilts his head. “Does that scream Vegas to you?”
“She’s allowed to surprise you,” Elba bites back, hauling her bag upright.
Pato narrows his eyes. “What’s the catch?”
“There’s no catch.”
“There’s always a catch.”
Elba fiddles with the zipper, not meeting his gaze. That’s all the confirmation he needs. He straightens, invested. “You’re hiding something.”
“Pato.” Warning tone. Big sister mode.
“Spill.”
She exhales through her nose, annoyed. “Fine. She just... had a rough breakup, okay?”
His eyebrows rise. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Oh.”
Silence hangs for a beat. He shifts his weight, running a hand through his hair. “So this is like... a rebound Vegas trip?” he hums.
“Don’t say it like that.”
“How am I supposed to say it?” He gestures vaguely, words tumbling out faster than he can stop them. “Vegas is literally the rebound capital of the world. You want me to just—what—pretend she’s not going to be spiraling the entire time?”
“Pato.” Elba fixes him with a look sharp enough to cut through his dramatics. “Do not overreact.”
“I’m not overreacting.”
“You’re vibrating.”
He glances down at his hands, clenched tight around the suitcase handle. He is shaking, though it’s more of a physical manifestation of his shock to the news. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Elba sighs. “She doesn’t need your commentary, alright? She needs a break. Eso es todo.”
He presses his lips together, trying to reel in the hundred half-formed comebacks bouncing in his head. Still, one escapes. “You really think Vegas is a break?”
Elba shoves past him with her suitcase. “For her, maybe it is.”
Pato watches his sister go, torn between skepticism and reluctant curiosity. He tells himself he doesn’t care. He really doesn’t. It’s just you.
The airport smells like burnt coffee and too many perfumes competing for dominance. Pato shoulders his bag, trudging after Elba as she waves you over from the check-in line. You come bounding up with a grin that makes his sister light up, like you’ve just handed her a winning lottery ticket.
“Hey!” you say, practically squealing as you hug Elba. The two of you slip into that easy rhythm of rapid-fire chatter—weekend plans, outfits, the state of Elba’s nail polish—that makes Pato feel like background noise in his own family trip.
He lifts your suitcase without asking and rolls it toward the baggage drop. It’s heavier than his, which is impressive considering he packs three pairs of sneakers for every trip. He mutters something under his breath about weight limits and hernia risk, but no one’s listening.
By the time they’ve printed the luggage tags, Elba and you are still giggling about something he didn’t catch. Pato slaps the stickers onto the bags with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times and drags everything onto the belt. He’s sweating by the end, while you and his sister are comparing playlists like the departure gate is a sleepover.
Finally, a lull. Elba darts off to find a bathroom, leaving you beside him. The crowd hums around you—rolling announcements, a kid screaming about an iPad, the scrape of suitcases on tile. You glance at him, a little awkward now without your co-conspirator. “Thanks for hauling my stuff,” you say, voice softer than it had been with Elba. “That was nice of you.”
Pato twitches, caught off guard. People rarely thank him for things like this. Usually it’s assumed he’ll just handle it. He shrugs, trying to play it off. “Don’t mention it.”
But it sticks. The way you’d looked him in the eye when you said it. The way you’d meant it.
He tells himself he only tolerates you because you’re one of Elba’s constants. Unlike the revolving door of flaky friends and temporary party girls, you actually show up. You were there when Elba had to be hospitalized for typhoid. You once volunteered to drive their mom to the airport when Pato overslept. You’re easy to have around, like furniture that’s actually useful instead of decorative. Pato likes to think he tolerates you.
As you smile faintly and adjust the strap of your carry-on, he wonders—just for a second—if tolerating you has always been his word for something else.
The boarding process is chaos, as always. People shoving oversized carry-ons into overhead bins that clearly aren’t built for them, babies already crying before takeoff, the whole plane smelling faintly of stale pretzels and sanitizer. Pato slides into the aisle seat, buckles in, and closes his eyes like maybe if he pretends hard enough, he can fast-forward to landing.
Then Elba leans over from two rows ahead. “Switch with me. She wants the aisle.”
Pato cracks one eye open. “And I want the aisle.”
“You don’t even like the aisle.”
“I don’t like the window either. But I like sitting here.”
“Eres una persona terrible.”
“Hace falta uno para conocer a otro.”
Elba huffs. “Come on, just switch.”
“Nope.” He tilts his head back, smirking at the ceiling. “Enjoy row seventeen.”
“Pato—”
You laugh, cutting her off. “It’s okay, Elba. Really. I don’t mind.”
He glances sideways. You’re already tucking your bag under the seat, pulling out a paperback with that practiced ease of someone who knows exactly how to survive air travel. Your smile is genuine, not forced, and it makes his sister’s glare feel even more unnecessary. Elba mutters something about men being insufferable and disappears into her row.
The plane takes off. A short flight, barely an hour, but long enough for Pato to find himself watching you out of the corner of his eye. He tells himself it’s curiosity. Research, even. If you’re really spiraling post-breakup, there should be signs.
Tear tracks? None.
Listless scrolling through old photos? No. You’re reading, underlining sentences in the margins with a pen.
Random sighs of heartbreak? Nothing. You hum quietly to yourself when the beverage cart rattles by.
Honestly, you don’t look like someone falling apart. You look like someone holding it together with suspicious ease, which might be worse. People who are actually fine don’t need to underline entire paragraphs of some novel. People who are fine don’t smile like that when flight attendants hand them a ginger ale.
Pato shifts in his seat, suddenly aware of how intently he’s staring. He scratches at his jaw, looks out the window he swore he didn’t want, and tells himself he’s only noticing because Elba made such a big deal about it. That’s all.
Still, when you look up and catch him watching, he blurts the first thing that comes to mind. “That book any good?”
You grin, unperturbed. “Better than your company.”
He chuckles despite himself.
Vegas doesn’t greet you so much as it assaults. Strobe lights bleeding through the cab windows, people in sequins at three in the afternoon, the kind of heat that makes the air feel sticky even in September. By the time you check in, the hotel lobby reeking of dollar bills and coconut sunscreen, Pato can’t help but wonder what he’s agreed to.
The suite isn’t bad. Two bedrooms, decent view, balcony that looks out over the strip. Elba calls dibs on a closet before anyone can fight her for it and promptly disappears with her suitcase, mumbling about reorganizing her entire wardrobe for the weekend.
Which leaves him with you.
You step out onto the balcony, resting your arms on the railing. The street buzzes below, chaos wrapped in cheap plastic, and you sigh in a way that doesn’t sound sad so much as guilty. “Sorry for crashing your family trip,” you say lightly.
Pato leans on the opposite side of the railing, pretending the sun doesn’t cling to him like a second skin. “Elba didn’t mention plus-ones,” he responds, “but it’s alright.”
You glance at him, eyebrow arched. “You mean to tell me she didn’t explain why I’m here?”
He shrugs, casual. Too casual. “I don’t ask questions I don’t want answers to.”
“Right,” you say, turning back to the lights. “Because the two of you never tell each other everything.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. You’ve got him there. He can practically hear Elba in his head, scolding him not to be a pest about it. He forces himself to grin. “Fine. Maybe I didn’t want to hear the sob story on repeat.”
It’d be calloused to anyone else, but you’ve had a front seat to the O’Ward show for what feels like years now. “Fair.” You nudge the railing with your hand, fingertips drumming absentmindedly. “Still. I don’t want to be a burden.”
Pato looks at you again, really looks, like maybe he’ll find the cracks Elba swore were there. He doesn’t. You look the same as you did at the airplane. Composed, too composed. Someone running a performance they’ve memorized word-for-word. It makes him feel bad for you, the same way one might anticipate a car crash is about to happen and brace for impact.
“I don’t mind,” he says, and it’s not a lie. Surprisingly. It’s a little annoying, but it’s true. You’re probably the best of Elba’s friends to get stuck with for an indefinite amount of time.
You glance at him again, that quick spark of a smile tugging at your lips. Then Elba yells from inside about someone stealing her conditioner, and the moment cracks like cheap glass. Pato huffs a laugh. Of course. Family vacation, plus-one or not.
Vegas doesn’t sleep, and apparently neither does Elba.
By the time morning shifts into late afternoon, she’s already dragged both of them through half the Strip. Slot machines clanging, tourist traps swallowing wallets whole, the sun bouncing off mirrored glass towers. Elba narrates everything like she’s a tour guide auditioning for a job she already thinks she deserves.
“This is where Celine used to perform,” she announces, pointing at a theater marquee. “Icónica.”
Pato mutters, “Yeah, so is a nap,” but she ignores him, tugging you along like her favorite accessory.
You play along. Laughing when Elba insists on souvenir sunglasses, gamely posing beside fountains, clapping when street performers breathe fire. Pato trails half a step behind, hands shoved into his pockets, offering running commentary mostly for his own amusement. Every now and then, you glance back at him with a grin that says you heard every word. And that’s enough to keep him going.
Dinner ends up at an old-timey diner with burgers the size of helmets. Elba insists on ordering milkshakes ‘for the vibes.’ Pato groans but drinks his anyway. You steal a fry off his plate without asking, and when he gives you a look, you just shrug.
Afterwards, when Elba disappears into a boutique because she absolutely needs a dress she’ll wear once, it’s just the two of you leaning against a railing, watching a fountain show blast water into the sky in choreographed bursts.
“You’re holding up,” Pato says nonchalantly.
You tilt your head. “That a surprise?”
“A little. Elba’s treating you like a charity case.”
You laugh softly, eyes catching the fluorescent glow. “She means well,” you say. “Besides, it’s easier to let her try.”
Pato studies you in profile, water glittering across your face. He still can’t find it. The aches, the cracks. Somehow, between Elba’s overcompensating energy and your polite deflections, he’s closer to you than he expected to be after one day.
He doesn’t say that part. He just grins, pushes off the railing, and says, “Hope you packed stamina. Vegas with Elba is like running the Indy 500.”
Your laugh follows him back into the neon, and he tells himself it’s just part of the trip.
Day two, and Elba wakes up like she’s been injected with pure caffeine. More landmarks. More attractions. More everything. Pato lasts until midday before staging a small rebellion in the hotel hallway.
“Elba, we need a break.”
“You’re twenty-six,” she snipes. “You don’t need breaks.”
“I do if you’re trying to kill me.”
You step in, merciful. “Maybe just a couple of hours by the pool?”
Elba narrows her eyes, considering. “Está bien,” she concedes, “but only because I want to even out my tan.”
The pool is an oasis compared to the chaos of the Strip. Loungers lined up, sunlight bouncing off the water. Pato thinks he’s ready for it—until you step out in a bikini. His brain trips over itself like a car hitting gravel.
He’s seen you a hundred times. Jeans. Dresses. The kind of casual sweaters people wear to brunch. Never this. Pato blurts in Spanish before he can stop himself. “¿Qué carajos? ¿Ella siempre se vestía así?”
Elba, sprawled on a lounger, doesn’t even look up from her phone. “Es su ‘hot girl summer’, idiota.”
Hot girl summer. Of course. He groans into his hands. You glance over, half-amused. “Should I be worried about whatever you two are plotting?”
“Nothing,” Pato says too quickly. “Absolutely nothing.”
You don’t press, just sit on the edge of a lounger with a bottle of sunblock in hand. “Could you help me with this?” you ask, a little shy. “Can’t really reach my back.”
He freezes. Elba snorts.
“Sure,” he manages, taking the bottle. He squirts too much onto his hands, mutters a curse, and tries not to notice how warm your skin is under his palms as he spreads the lotion across your shoulders. Too slow, probably. Too careful.
You say a soft ‘thanks’ when he’s done, glancing at him over your shoulder. His ears burn. He drops back onto his lounger, shoving sunglasses on to cover the fact he’s staring at the sky like it holds answers. He only stands when he’s fairly certain there’s nothing pressing into the front of his swim shorts.
The water is cool, a relief after the desert heat. Pato dives under, comes up slicking hair out of his eyes, and tells himself it’s just swimming. Just two people in a pool. Normal. Nothing to short-circuit over.
You’re there, treading water beside him in the deep end, laughing when he splashes too close. Sunshine cuts across the surface, broken into shards that glint against your shoulders. He forces his gaze away, focusing on the pool tiles like they’re fascinating.
“Alright,” you say, floating back on your heels. “I guess I should tell you the whole story. You’ve been polite about not asking.”
Polite. He almost laughs. More like terrified Elba would bite his head off. He shrugs, trying to look casual as he hangs on to the pool’s edge. “If you want.”
You take a breath, steady but not dramatic. “We broke up. Me and… well, you probably saw him. On my Instagram.”
Pato nods. Yeah, he remembers. The guy with the wire frame glasses. Always in button-downs. College boyfriend, if he recalls correctly. The kind of guy you thought you were supposed to end up with. He never paid much attention beyond that, except to note the way you looked happy in those pictures. Comfortable.
Then you drop it like it’s nothing. “He cheated on me.”
Pato balks. “Sorry—what?”
You glance at him, tone maddeningly even. “Yeah,” you say, the tidbit more fact than emotion. “Apparently for months.”
He stares, something hot spiking under his ribs. Months. He grips the pool ledge tighter, jaw flexing. He doesn’t even know the guy, never knew him beyond a name and a face, but the thought of anyone cheating on you is enough to make his skin buzz.
“Asshole,” he mutters, too sharp, too fast.
You laugh. It sounds soft, tired. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”
He wants to say more. To ask how you’re not furious, how you can tread water so calmly while dropping a bomb like that. Instead, he dunks his head under, comes back up with a shake, as if chlorine might wash the anger off. It doesn’t.
When he catches your eyes again, there’s something unspoken there. Like maybe you expected him to react exactly this way.
The pool glitters as you two climb out, water streaming down your arms, dripping off your hair in steady rivulets. Pato trails behind, hauling himself onto the deck with less grace than he’d like to admit. He tells himself he’s just following because it’s the only way out of the deep end—not because he doesn’t want to let the conversation go.
He grabs a towel, scrubs at his hair, then glances sideways. “So. Months?” he asks, his voice a little sharp. “You said he was at it for months.”
You wrap yourself in a towel, sit on the edge of a lounger. “Yeah. That’s what I found out, anyway,” you say, sounding almost bored. “Dating apps and all that bullshit.”
He frowns. “And you’re just… fine? Sitting here like you lost a bet, not like—”
“Like my whole life fell apart?” you finish for him, tone light. “Guess I’m just built different.”
Pato snorts, throws the towel around his shoulders. “No one’s built different about that.”
You glance at him, calm, steady. Too steady. “You’d be surprised what you get used to.”
It knocks the wind out of him, how you say it without blinking. He wants to shake you, or maybe shake himself for asking. Instead, he presses again. “Seriously, though. You don’t even sound mad.”
“I was.” You stretch your legs out, toes catching the sun. “Then I got tired of being mad.”
He bites down on a response, unsettled by how cleanly you say it. No tremor in your voice. No cracks. Just fact. He’s not sure why he wishes you were mad, wishes you were teary. Maybe he thinks that’d be easier to deal with.
Finally, you let out a small laugh. “Didn’t you say you didn’t want to hear the sob story?”
Pato winces, rakes a hand through damp hair. “Yeah. Sorry,” he grumbles. “I’m asking too much.”
You wave him off, like it’s nothing. “Don’t worry about it.”
Elba’s voice cuts across the pool deck, calling your name with that familiar urgency, as though the world might end without your immediate attention. You stand, tightening the towel around you, and head off toward her without looking back.
Pato watches you go, jaw tight.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur. Elba drags the three of you from one overstuffed itinerary stop to the next: iced lattes from a café where the baristas wear nothing but aprons, slot machines tucked in every corner of the hotel lobby, a slow crawl through Caesar’s where she insists on posing by every marble fountain. Pato goes along because he always does; his sister has the stamina of an endurance race and the social appetite of a golden retriever.
But today, he’s tuned in differently. He catches things. Little things.
Like how you laugh too quickly at Elba’s jokes. Or how your smile seems just slightly delayed whenever someone asks if you’re having fun. How your hand lingers at your cup a beat longer after a sip, knuckles whitening just enough. He isn’t pitying you. No, pity is cheap. He just… notices. More than he wants to.
It pisses him off. Not at you—never you—but at the idiot who made you learn how to wear that calm like armor.
At the slot machines, Elba pumps in coins with the vicariousness of a champion in the making. You lean on the side, arms crossed, watching with exaggerated fascination. Pato drops into the seat beside you, one eyebrow raised. “You know she thinks she’s going to beat the house, right?”
You crack a grin, eyes still on Elba. “She’s committed. I respect it.”
He lets the corner of his mouth curve. “You respect insanity?”
“Sometimes it’s charming.” You finally glance at him, the weight of your expression lighter than before. “Besides, she’s having fun. That’s what matters.”
He could say something. That fun isn’t supposed to look like desperation in heels. That you’re just propping his sister up because it’s easier than examining your own bruises. Instead, he raises his shoulders and a shrug and leans back in the chair. “Then I guess you’re a better person than me.”
The words catch you off guard, your laugh breaking sharp and real this time. “That’s generous.”
“I don’t do generous,” he says, but his voice has gone softer, betraying him.
Later, at another restaurant, Elba orders three desserts ‘or the table’ and takes the lion’s share. You nudge the last spoonful of tiramisu Pato’s way without a word. He looks at it, then at you. “What, you trying to bribe me?” he drawls.
“Trying to be nice.”
“Dangerous habit,” he mutters, but he eats it anyway. Because the truth is, every time you turn toward him, he can’t stop himself from softening.
Dinner is a production. Elba’s idea, obviously, because there’s no universe in which Pato would willingly sit through a two-hour reservation at one of the Strip’s most ostentatious restaurants. White tablecloths, chandeliers dripping crystal, menus that don’t bother putting prices because if you have to ask, you shouldn’t be here.
There’s you. Swept into some designer dress that Elba must’ve bullied you into. It looks like trouble. Looks like the kind of thing that makes Pato suddenly very interested in his water glass, or the bread basket, or literally anything that isn’t you.
He compensates to the best of his ability. Orders a bottle of wine for the table like it’s no big deal, as if that explains the sudden heat crawling up his neck.
“Qué generoso, hermano,” Elba needles, eyes glinting across the table. She raises her eyebrows like she knows exactly what she’s doing. “Mira nomás, acting like Mr. Rico Suave tonight.”
Pato rolls his eyes. “Cállate. I just didn’t feel like drinking soda water in a place that costs this much.”
Elba giggles, clearly satisfied she’s gotten under his skin. They bicker in low voices, the usual rhythm of siblings who can do this all night. Pato thinks it’s working, distracting him from noticing the way the soft restaurant light plays against your skin. Until you cut in.
“Thank you, Pato,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, fingers brushing the stem of your glass. Not loud enough to make it a scene. Just enough to hit like a punch to the gut.
He blinks, caught off guard. “It’s nothing,” he chokes out. “Just wine.”
He tries to make it sound casual, like you didn’t just unspool him with two words. Like he isn’t suddenly hyperaware of the fact that you’re sitting right there, and he’s running out of places to hide his eyes.
There’s too much wine, too much sugar at dessert, and Elba’s voice only climbs like she’s auditioning for the role of ‘angry best friend’ in a telenovela. She’s slamming her fork into cheesecake, eyes flashing, saying words Pato doesn’t think the surrounding tables need to hear.
“Ese cabrón! I swear, if I ever see him—” She points the fork like a weapon, and a bit of cream cheese flies. “Cheating? On you? He’s blind. He’s—he’s…” She’s out of insults, so she just mutters another string of Spanish curses.
Pato sets his wineglass down before she breaks something. “Alright, alright. Chill. Not everyone here needs to know about this dude.”
His tone is casual, but his eyes flick to you. He expects to see you shrinking. Instead, you’re giggling into your spoon, cheeks flushed from the wine. “It’s fine,” you say, blushing and tipsy and so out of reach. “Let her get it out.”
Elba slaps her palm on the table. “Fine?” she screeches. “It’s not fine. Who cheats on you?”
“Apparently him,” Pato mutters.
Wrong move. Elba rounds on him like he’s complicit. “Exactly! Who cheats on her?”
“You already asked that.”
“Because it makes no sense!”
Pato pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can you not scream about it like we’re on some reality show reunion?”
Elba doesn’t let up, sliding into Spanglish like she always does when she’s half-drunk and overdramatic. “Seriously, hermano, you don’t get it. She’s a catch. And this pendejo? He’s lucky she even looked at him. And then he—ugh. No. No puedo.”
You’re laughing harder now, which makes Pato feel weirdly protective and annoyed all at once. “She said it’s fine,” he reminds, voice sharper this time. But when your eyes flick to his, all warm and tired and a little too glassy from the alcohol, he gentles. “Right?”
“It is,” you say, smiling like you’re trying to convince both of them. “Really. I don’t care anymore.”
Elba exhales dramatically, takes another gulp of wine. Then, out of nowhere, she says, “And the worst part? He was obsessed with motorsports. With you, Pato.”
The air shifts. Pato freezes mid-reach for the bottle. “What?”
You wave your hand lazily. “Ignore her.”
But Elba is relentless. “No, no, tell him. This guy. Constantly asking about you. Always, ‘Do you get free tickets? Can we meet Pato?’ Él era una sanguijuela.”
Pato stares at you. “Hold up,” he says slowly. “That’s true?”
You groan, head dropping into your hand. “It’s not a big deal.”
“The hell it isn’t.” His voice rises before he reins it back, aware people are watching. He leans closer, seething. “So, let me get this straight. This clown cheats on you, but he’s in my DMs through you?”
“He wasn’t in your DMs.”
“He wanted to be!” Pato runs a hand through his hair, half laughing, half furious. “You’re telling me he was using you for tickets?”
You look up at him, eyes hazy but honest. “Maybe. Sometimes. I don’t know. He liked free stuff.”
Pato sits back in his chair, wine swirling in his glass, trying not to imagine punching someone he’s never even met. He tells himself he doesn’t care. He tells himself it’s stupid. But the heat beneath his ribs says otherwise.
By the time the plates are cleared, the wine has burned holes in everyone’s composure. Elba is still mumbling in Spanish about your ex being a disgrace to humanity. You’re slouched in your chair, cheeks pink, laughter bubbling too easily. And Pato—he’s staring into his glass like it holds divine inspiration.
Then it hits him. The brilliant, stupid, absolutely perfect idea. He sets his glass down with a little too much ceremony. “You know what we should do?”
Elba perks up immediately. “Revenge?”
“Kind of,” he says, pointing at you. “Take a picture of me. Post it on your story.”
You stare at him. “Why?”
“Porque.” He leans back, already halfway to a pose. “So that idiot sees it. So he knows you’re fine. Thriving. Hanging out with me in Vegas. Imagine the meltdown.”
Elba gasps dramatically, clapping her hands like he’s solved world hunger. “Sí! Sí, sí, sí. This is genius. I love it.”
You’re less enthused, shaking your head. “I don’t know. That feels… cheap. Like I’m using you.”
“You’re not using me,” Pato shoots back without missing a beat. “I’m offering. There’s a difference.”
You chew your lip, considering, and he catches the flicker of hesitation in your eyes. For some reason, it makes him want to insist even more. He leans in, treading lightly now. “C’mon. It’s just a story. No captions, no drama. Just… us.”
Elba is already fishing her phone out, drunk and determined. “Do it. Post him. Post his stupid face.”
You laugh, torn between resistance and amusement. Finally, you sigh, raising your phone. “Fine. But if this backfires—”
“It won’t,” Pato says, flashing the camera his best I’m-having-the-time-of-my-life smirk. “Trust me.”
Everything is buzzing and too bright, the three of you weaving through the crowd like you own the sidewalk. Elba is a comet blazing ahead, heels clicking fast, voice carrying over the noise. “Notifications are a good sign! Means it’s working!” she shouts without looking back.
Pato lags a step behind with you, his arm hooked under yours, keeping you vertical. You’re leaning into him, warm and giggly, your phone lighting up every three seconds in your other hand. “It won’t stop,” you complain, half whine, half laugh. “Every time I look, it’s another one. I regret everything.”
He snorts, tightening his hold when you stumble on the curb. “Welcome to the internet, cariño. Post me once and suddenly your phone is famous.”
You bury your face into his shoulder, muffling another laugh. “This is your fault.”
“Gladly taking the blame,” he says, trying not to grin too much, trying not to think about how natural it feels to have you leaning against him.
He adjusts his step to match yours, keeping steady while you’re anything but. Ahead, Elba throws her arms in the air like a conductor, commanding chaos. “For a good cause!” she yells again, practically twirling under the multicolored signs. “We’re building your legend!”
Pato rolls his eyes skyward but doesn’t let you go. Your weight is solid against him, your laughter hiccuping in his chest. For once, he doesn’t have a single complaint.
Morning hits like a truck, though.
The hotel room reeks faintly of tequila and bad decisions, all three of you nursing hangovers with greasy breakfast plates on the table. Elba wears sunglasses indoors, muttering about her head. You cradle coffee like it’s salvation, curled up sideways against Pato’s chest on the couch because standing feels like a war crime.
The boundaries are gone, blurred by wine and neon and bad choices. Touchy, co-dependent, soft in ways none of them have energy to call out. Your phone buzzes again and you groan, shoving it at Pato without lifting your head. “It hasn’t stopped,” you whine. “All night, all morning. I’ve created a monster.”
Elba peels her glasses down just enough to squint. “How many?”
You sigh dramatically. “Responses. Reactions. Like… a dozen? Maybe more. And he saw it.”
Pato straightens a little. “Wait. He viewed it?”
“Didn’t react,” you sigh. “But yeah. He saw it.”
Elba sits up like she’s been resuscitated. “Then we double down. Obviously. We post more.”
You groan, burying your face deeper into Pato’s chest. “Bad idea. Feels evil.”
“Evil is good,” Elba insists, stabbing a fork into her eggs. “He deserves evil.”
Pato chuckles, resting his chin lightly on top of your head without thinking. “I don’t mind,” he says, surprising himself with how easily he gives in. “If it makes him squirm, I’ll do it. Keep it going. ¿Por qué no?”
You tilt your head just enough to look at him, bleary-eyed and incredulous. “You’d actually do that?”
“Yeah.” He grins, though it feels softer than usual. “For the cause.”
The day unravels into chaos disguised as strategy, Elba operating with the conviction of a film director who thinks she’s capturing a once-in-a-lifetime romance. In reality, she’s herding two hungover idiots down the Strip while barking stage directions. Pato isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Probably both.
She insists on cafés strung with fairy lights that don’t photograph right in daylight, casino lobbies dripping in gold, fountains that mist too aggressively and leave him squinting as if he’s a drowned cat. Every few feet, Elba throws out orders: “Closer! Hand on her waist! No, not like a mannequin, like you actually like her. Dios mío, put some passion in it!”
It’s less romance and more farce, a comedy of errors where he plays the reluctant leading man. Pato swears you’ve snapped fifty photos of him in the span of an hour, all nearly identical, all equally unflattering in his opinion. His smile has begun to calcify into something that feels suspiciously like rigor mortis. He loses track after the third time he’s forced to lean against a marble column, pretending to brood like some tragic poet.
By midafternoon, he’s convinced your camera roll is now seventy percent Pato O’Ward, professional race car driver turned accidental Instagram model, trapped in witness protection.
You don’t look much happier about it. Every time you scroll through the growing collection of pictures, your frown deepens, and you mutter about how none of them look right. Elba, of course, dismisses all protests, already plotting the next photo op in front of some gaudy sign. Pato follows because he has no choice, half-amused, half-ready to collapse into the nearest seat with a drink.
By the time the Strip begins to glow with its evening electricity, the three of you are weaving toward dinner. The air buzzes with the shift from day to night, tourists flooding sidewalks, neon bleeding into the desert sky. You’re glued to your phone, scrolling with a dramatic sigh. “There are too many,” you remark. “I can’t pick.”
Pato leans in, shoulder brushing yours, eyes catching the endless grid of his own face. “That one,” he says instantly, pointing. “In the casino. Where I’m smiling.”
You zoom in. “Why that one?”
He shrugs, casual but not careless. Lips quirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “That’s probably how I’d look at someone I’m in love with.”
The words hang, heavier than he expects. For a second he worries he’s tipped too far into sincerity, but you recover quick, teasing. “Oh yeah? And what exactly does the ‘look of love’ entail, O’Ward?”
He’s about to craft some cocky retort when Elba, ever the saboteur, cuts in with all the subtlety of a megaphone. “You just know with him. He doesn’t hide it. Remember that girl he liked back in—”
“Elba!” The shout rips out of him, too sharp, too fast. He lunges before she can dig up the memory. Tourists glance their way as if they’re part of the evening entertainment. “¡No digas nada!” he hisses, scrambling to get around her arm.
She laughs, dodging effortlessly, tossing insults. “Qué dramático eres. You’re worse than when you lose a qualifying session.”
“Shut up!” He grabs her elbow, she twists out of reach, and suddenly they’re in the middle of a mock-wrestling match on the sidewalk.
He catches sight of you doubled over on the curb, clutching your phone to your chest, laughter spilling unrestrained. Wide grin, eyes shining. For once, you’re not carrying that careful mask you wear so often.
Pato knows he’s lost this round. No way to salvage dignity from this spectacle. But he tells himself it’s worth it, because your laughter feels like a winning lap. Better than any posed photograph Elba could orchestrate.
The morning is still soft, Vegas pretending to be calm before the city remembers itself. Pato tugs on his running shoes, half-asleep, ready to pound out a few miles and sweat off last night’s shots. But when he slides open the balcony door for some air, you’re already out there, knees tucked up, phone glowing against your face.
He pauses, one shoe half-laced. “You’re up early,” he greets. “Couldn’t sleep, or are you just waiting for the Strip to explode again?”
You don’t look at him, just thumb at your screen. “He reacted.”
Pato frowns. “Who?”
You finally turn, holding up your phone. The tiny emoji mocks him from across the screen. Just a laughing face. Nothing else. Like your ex didn’t buy it for a second.
“That’s it?” Pato blurts. “A laugh? After everything?” He’s more offended than you are, and it shows. “That’s—what? Him saying he doesn’t believe it? Or that you’re a joke? Qué idiota.”
You shrug, curling deeper into yourself. “Doesn’t matter. Really. It’s just a stupid emoji.”
Pato ties his other shoe tighter than necessary. “No. No, it matters. Because he’s not supposed to laugh. He’s supposed to choke on his regret. He’s supposed to look at that story and—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. Too much, O’Ward.
Your smile is faint, almost apologetic. “It’s fine, Pato. You don’t have to get worked up for me.”
But he’s already worked up. It feels personal now, this douchebag ex scoffing at what’s right in front of him. Pato straightens, a spark of determination lighting up where irritation sits. “Then we up the ante. You’ll see. He won’t be laughing next time.”
You stare at him, caught between amusement and hesitation. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe. But I’m committed ridiculous.” He points at you, grinning despite the tightness in his chest. “Leave it to me.”
Before you can argue, he jogs out into the morning, headphones in, needing the rhythm of his feet on the pavement to cool the fire in his blood.
Pato spends the run doing what he calls “research,” which is really just him sprinting on fumes while muttering to himself about emojis, then slowing to a jog so he can scroll Pinterest on his phone like a lunatic. He tells himself it’s a game plan. By the time he circles back toward the hotel, the desert sun frying his brain, he has tabs open about ‘Instagram boyfriend’ like he’s about to defend a thesis.
When he gets back upstairs, Elba and you are curled up in the suite’s living room, sipping iced coffee. Pato drops onto the couch between you with the air of a man about to deliver a sermon. “Okay. Listen. I’ve figured it out,” he says solemnly. “The only next step is soft launches.”
Elba immediately snorts, then actually slides off her chair, wheezing. “Soft launches? ¿Qué te pasa, Pato?”
You throw a pillow at his head, which he barely catches. “That’s ridiculous,” you snort. “We are not staging some fake PR campaign for my Instagram.”
“Yes, we are,” he insists, eyes alight, dead serious in a way that makes both of you laugh harder. “We have to play it smart. Strategic photos. Casual hand placement. Hints. A shadow here, a reflection there. It’s the art of the tease.”
Elba is choking with laughter on the carpet. You’re trying to hide a grin behind your coffee, shaking your head like he’s absurd. And maybe he is. But Pato leans back into the couch cushions, resolute, heart pounding for reasons he won’t admit out loud. This isn’t just a bit anymore. Not for him.
Pato decides that if you’re going to play this game, he’s the one calling the shots now. Enough of Elba’s ‘candid-but-not-really-candid’ instructions, enough of you fumbling with angles like you don’t know your best side. He’s in charge. Director. Cinematographer. Boyfriend-for-hire.
“You. Stand there,” he orders, pointing at a ridiculous marble fountain. “Tilt your chin. No, higher. Perfect.”
You give him a flat look but do it anyway, lips twitching as if you’re suppressing laughter. Elba, phone in hand, is already giggling behind him. “Pato, esto es ridículo.”
“Ridiculously good at this,” he shoots back, adjusting your arm until it’s looped through his. He leans closer, just enough that the warmth of your skin skims his, and gestures to Elba. “Take it. Quick. Before the magic fades.”
The photos that follow are far from magical. It’s him pretending to whisper secrets in your ear, you rolling your eyes but leaning in anyway. His hand resting just a second too long on your waist, your laugh caught mid-frame as he tries to lift you in a hug in front of a neon-lit sign. Each pose is more dramatic than the last, equal parts parody and commitment.
Elba is living for it, providing commentary like a reality TV host. “Oh my God, yes. The fake proposal. Do it, do it!”
You groan, putting some distance between you and the insane siblings, but Pato just grins. “Don’t tempt me,” he warns.
It’s comical. Over the top. Completely unnecessary. Yet, as the shutter keeps clicking, Pato doesn’t pull away as quickly as he should. His hand lingers at your back, his gaze catches yours longer than needed.
Once the photoshoot has wrapped up, Pato is scrolling through your phone like a ruthless editor, swiping past photo after photo with a shake of his head. “No. No. Definitely not. Dios mío, who even stands like that?”
You snatch the phone back, exasperated. “They all look fine, Pato. And by fine, I mean silly, which is the whole point.”
He leans back against the couch, arms crossed, expression infuriatingly smug. “If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it properly,” he protests. “The angles are off. The lighting is bad. Half of these don’t even look like I’m invested.”
Elba, sprawled on the floor with a bag of chips, snorts. “You’re too invested, brother. It’s called Instagram, not Vogue.”
Pato opens his mouth to argue, but then Elba waves her phone like a trump card. “Look at this one,” she proclaims.
On her screen plays a five second clip, shaky but golden. You and Pato in the hotel kitchen earlier that day, laughing while you half-dance, half-bump into each other. It’s chaotic, unplanned. He remembers it clearly. Trying to get past you to the fridge, spinning you around like a joke, both of you mocking Elba’s playlist. “Otra vez Kali Uchis?” he’d groaned, and you’d laughed so hard you nearly tripped over his feet.
Now, watching it back, the laughter feels different. Softer. Real.
You chew your lip, hesitant. “It’s not staged. Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?”
Pato pretends to consider, but he knows. He knows it’s the most genuine thing out of the whole batch. He catches himself smiling, almost unwillingly, and you catch it too.
“Only if he says yes,” you tell Elba, eyes flicking toward him.
He shrugs, feigning nonchalance even as something twists warm and reckless underneath his skin. “Post it,” he says. “Let him choke on it.”
Elba whoops, triumphant. Before Pato can rethink, the clip is live—proof that sometimes the best shots are the ones no one meant to take.
Pato wakes to the sound of Elba shrieking like she’s just hit the jackpot on a slot machine. He jolts upright, hair sticking in every possible direction, heart thudding like he’s missed a fire alarm. “What?” he sputters, stumbling out into the living space. “What happened?”
Elba is waving your phone like a victory flag. “Blocked! He blocked her!”
You roll your eyes from where you’re seated on the arm chair. “Can you not announce it to the entire hotel?”
Pato’s mind takes a minute to catch up. Blocked. He squints at you, noting the way you try to play it cool, shoulders shrugging like it doesn’t matter. Except your lips tug up at the corners, betraying you. It’s a small smile, but it’s there. It’s a good look on you.
Elba practically bounces. “Girl world translation?” she says excitedly. “He cared. He saw, he cared, and he couldn’t handle it.”
Pato can’t help it, either—he grins. It feels like a win, like crossing a finish line and hearing the roar of the crowd. Not his race, not his victory, but watching you glow like you’ve just stolen something back? It’s better than qualifying pole.
“Alright,” he declares, stretching his arms over his head. “We’re celebrating. Drinks, food, whatever you want. On me.”
You look up, surprised. “Pato, you don’t have to—”
“I insist.” His voice leaves no room for argument.
Elba snickers, shooting him a look in Spanish. “Mira nada más, el caballero.”
Normally, he’d roll his eyes, fire something back. But right now he doesn’t care. He’s too focused on the way you’re smiling, soft and triumphant, like you’ve just done something you weren’t sure you could. And if that means footing the bill for a night out in Vegas? He’ll happily pay twice over.
The hotel room turns into a pre-game war zone. Clothes scattered, hair products lining the counter, Elba flitting around like she’s a stylist backstage at Fashion Week. Pato buttons up his shirt, but he barely gets through rolling his sleeves when the real drama kicks off.
You’re standing in front of the mirror, tugging at the hem of a dress Elba has strong-armed you into. It’s all slinky fabric and bare shoulders, and you’re muttering that it’s too much, that you’re not wearing this out in public. Elba plants her hands on her hips. “Stop. You look gorgeous.” She spots Pato and immediately pounces. “Pato, tell her she’s hermosa.”
Pato freezes. Betrayal. He wasn’t prepared to be dragged into this.
His tongue feels too big for his mouth, his brain short-circuits like an engine blowing out mid-race. He catches your reflection in the mirror—how uncertain you look, how the dress frames you in a way that makes his throat dry—and he knows he can’t joke his way out of this one.
“Yeah,” he says, and it comes out more earnestly than he intends. “You… you look beautiful.”
Your eyes flick to him, quick and startled. There’s color blooming high on your cheeks, a shy smile tugging at your lips even as you duck your head. “Thanks,” you mumble. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I wanted to,” Pato blurts before he can stop himself. Too much, too much, too much.
He looks away, tugging unnecessarily at his cuffs, like the shirt suddenly needs adjusting. His ears feel like they’re on fire. He’s grateful for the chaos of Elba spinning back toward her closet, too busy crowing about how she knew it would work to notice his face spelling out what he can’t say. You let out a sigh, softer this time, and turn back to the mirror. “Fine,” you concede. “I’ll wear it.”
Elba claps her hands in victory, already plotting the night ahead. Pato pretends to be focused on his watch, but his pulse is hammering, and he tells himself it’s just pre-game jitters.
The restaurant he chooses is all velvet booths and golden chandeliers, the kind of place that makes Pato feel like he should’ve ironed his shirt but also like he owns the room. He doesn’t blink when he orders steak—medium rare, obviously—and a cocktail that sounds fancier than it probably tastes. He’s leaning back, legs stretched, watching you skim the menu to order the cheapest thing on it.
When the food arrives, it’s obscene. Plates the size of racetracks, portions that somehow disappear faster than he expects. He doesn’t notice he’s smiling until Elba points it out, kicking him under the table and calling him extraño. He ignores her, focused on you stealing bites from his plate and lighting up at the sight of dessert.
The real chaos begins when the check lands. You’re subtle—well, you think you are—sliding your card toward the server with all the stealth of a magician pulling a rabbit. Pato catches it instantly. “Oh, no you don’t.”
You glare. “I can pay.”
“And I can not let you,” he fires back, leaning across the table to physically intercept the poor server’s hand. Suddenly it’s a wrestling match, his fingers closing around your wrist, the two of you half-laughing, half-serious as you try to shove your card forward.
“Pato!” You hiss, laughing anyway. “Stop being difficult.”
“I was born difficult.” His grin is sharp, triumphant, as he finally snatches the check, swapping your card for his like a magician with a better trick. The server bolts, wisely deciding survival trumps customer service.
You slump back, exasperated but smiling, muttering something about stubborn racecar drivers. Pato just shrugs, a little smug, a little warm in the chest at the way you’re looking at him now.
Elba watches, eyebrows raised. She’s always been too perceptive for her own good. “¿Y eso qué fue?” she says pointedly, rapid-fire Spanish spilling like bullets. “Estás actuando mucho como un novio.”
Pato throws her a glare, the kind that says shut up without saying it. “Comes with the job description,” he mutters under his breath, stabbing his steak like it insulted him.
She cackles, leans back, and waves it off. “Fine, fine. Enough romance. We’re going to a club.”
The club is already packed when you arrive, bodies pressed together under shifting neon lights, the bass line so heavy Pato feels it in his ribs. Elba takes one look at the crowd, then turns to him with the authority of a general. “Ve por una botella. Something nice. We deserve it.”
Pato doesn’t argue. He never wins with her anyway. You’re already scanning the room, muttering something about finding a booth before someone else snags it. He watches you go, cutting through the crowd with surprising ease, and then he heads for the bar.
Ordering is quick enough—until someone slides into the open space beside him. She’s tall, glossy-haired, flashing him a smile that’s practically rehearsed. Exactly his type, if we’re talking stats: long legs, knowing eyes, a laugh that lingers just too long. She leans in, brushing her arm against his like it’s accidental, and shouts over the music, “You here for the weekend?”
He can play this game. Normally, he likes this game. He gives her a grin, answers something flirty, though his delivery’s off, a beat too flat. Because when he glances past her shoulder, his gaze snags on the booth across the floor. You’re there with Elba, laughing at something she’s said, head tipped back, phone tossed carelessly on the table. Neon paints you in blue, then pink, then gold.
Your eyes catch his. Just for a second. Quick, electric. Like maybe you hadn’t expected him to be watching. You look away almost immediately, pretending to fuss with your drink napkin.
The girl at the bar is still talking, her lips curving around words he doesn’t bother processing. Something about the DJ. Something about how crowded it is. He nods, tries to feign interest, but it feels like going through motions on autopilot.
All he can think about is that flicker of guilt crawling up his throat. Like he’s just been caught red-handed, even if there’s nothing to be caught for.
Pato comes back to the booth feeling as if he’s just survived a pop quiz in charm school. The girl at the bar had handed him her number scribbled on a tissue, complete with a kiss-print. He bundles it in his palm without a single glance, but when he slides into the booth, he notices your eyes catch the faint red mark. You don’t say anything. That silence is worse than any quip you could have thrown at him.
Elba, blissfully oblivious, claps her hands and pushes a bottle toward him. “¡Órale, hermano! Pour for her. Don’t be cheap.”
Pato sighs, but he takes the bottle, and you tip your head back with a grin that looks more like a dare than consent. He pours.
The liquid slips past your lips, some of it sliding down your chin, catching on your neck. It’s messy. It’s supposed to be funny. Instead, his pulse jumps like he’s missed a restart. You come up, choking and gagging a bit, and it does him absolutely zero favors. Unfortunately, Pato is still just a man.
He grabs the nearest thing—the tissue from the stranger—and presses it to your skin. You flinch, murmuring, “Hey, that’s… isn’t that—”
“Don’t need it,” Pato says quickly, wiping gently, ignoring the lipstick mark smearing faintly across your collarbone. The tissue crumples, useless now, but he doesn’t care. The number, the kiss-print—all gone. He tosses it aside and grabs a fresh one, this time working on cleaning the red from your skin.
You blink up at him, lips parted like you’re about to argue, but no words come out. Elba whistles low, grabs the bottle, and takes a swig herself. Pato leans back, heart hammering, pretending like pouring tequila down your throat and wiping your neck with someone else’s number is all standard procedure.
The booth turns into a pit stop: shots poured, glasses clinked, laughter already loosened by the alcohol humming through veins. Elba’s on a mission, tossing back her drink with one hand and grabbing yours with the other. “Come on, vámonos!” she orders, practically dragging you off the seat.
Pato stays planted, elbow on the table, watching the two of you push through the crowd. You look like you’re trying to remember how your limbs work, shoulders stiff at first, eyes darting around. Then the music swells, and the liquor does its job. Your hips start to move with more rhythm, more abandon. Elba spins you, hollering, her jewelry catching the strobe lights. People glance. Some stare. And maybe Pato’s imagining it, maybe he’s just drunk enough to be paranoid, but the attention lingers longer than he likes.
He tips back what’s left in his glass, jaw tight. Why should it matter? People look. It’s Vegas. That’s the point. Still, something unsettles him. He tells himself it’s just a protective instinct. That’s what he’ll call it, anyway.
Then you turn. In the swirl of bodies, you find him.
Your eyes catch his, and you crook your finger, a drunken, lazy gesture like you know exactly what you’re doing. Pato stills, heat crawling up his neck. He tries for cool, but his legs betray him, stumbling to his feet before his brain can catch up. The floor tilts under him as he shoulders past strangers.
The bass rattles through his chest and makes every thought arrive half a second too late. Pato doesn’t realize when he reaches you that his hands settle on your hips like they belong there, like this is some automatic muscle memory he didn’t know he had. He tells himself it’s just practical—crowd control, balance, whatever—but the lie barely lasts a beat.
You move against him with abandon, messy and free, as if the alcohol has peeled back whatever restraint you normally wear. Elba’s nowhere near, already swallowed by a cluster of laughing girls, leaving the two of you in the swirl of the crowd. The air feels wet, heavy, and Pato has to lean down to make himself heard.
“Are you trying to get us kicked out?” he teases into your ear, voice rough from shouting over the music.
You tilt your head just enough to glance back at him, lips curved. “Depends,” you slur. “Are you trying to keep up?”
He matches your rhythm, chest pressed to your back, hands steady at your waist like he’s bracing both of you. He knows he should pull back, give you space, but the song is loud and your laughter is louder, and it feels like gravity doesn’t give him much choice.
His hands shift without permission, sliding higher, fingers splayed along your ribs. The move is subtle, but you shiver all the same. For one dizzying second, he panics, until he realizes you’re not pulling away. You’re still moving with him, giving as much as you take.
Pato leans back down. His voice is half-mocking, half-sincere; his breath, warm against the shell of your ear. “Guess I am keeping up,” he hums.
Your answer gets lost in the music, but it doesn’t matter. He feels it in the way your body presses back, in the way the crowd dissolves, leaving just the two of you and a bassline that feels like it’ll never end.
The crowd swells and shifts, bodies pressing closer until the air feels like static. Pato’s hands stay firm at your hips, anchoring him when every drop threatens to scramble what’s left of his brain. You move against him without hesitation, and he thinks maybe you’re both gone past the point of return.
On some drunken, traitorous instinct, he dips his head and presses a quick, chaste kiss to the side of your neck. He doesn’t mean to. Or maybe he does. He can’t tell anymore. All he knows is the second his lips brush skin, you tip your head back onto his shoulder, your body grinding against his with a kind of surrender that makes his pulse stutter.
Pato’s entire chest tightens. He feels every gasp that slips out of you like it’s lodged directly in his own throat. He’s going insane—actually insane—and the worst part is that he doesn’t hate it. He doesn’t hate it at all.
And then salvation—or disaster—arrives in the form of Elba. She cuts through the crowd like she owns it, seizing your hand with zero preamble. “Bathroom,” she screeches, eyes unfocused in a way that indicates she probably won’t remember a thing tomorrow. “Now.”
You’re tugged from his grasp, leaving Pato standing alone, hands suddenly useless at his sides, the ghost of your warmth already fading. He stumbles back toward the booth, jaw tight, trying not to picture the feel of your hips rolling against his or the sound of your gasp in his ear. He fails miserably.
Heading home, Pato has never been so grateful to be the least drunk person in the group. Which is saying something. He’s not exactly sober, just… functional. In the cab, Elba’s slumped against his right shoulder, mouth open, snoring softly. You’re curled into his left, cheek pressed against him like his arm is the world’s least ergonomic pillow. Both of you are dead weight, and he’s the unlucky middle seat.
The driver’s muttering along to some late-night radio, lights blurring outside the windows, Vegas still screaming at them even though the night should be winding down. Pato keeps his eyes forward, jaw set. He tells himself he’s fine. He’s responsible. The only one holding it together.
Except his brain refuses to shut up. It’s busy cataloging things it shouldn’t. Like how you smell faintly of the overpriced perfume Elba bullied you into at Sephora. How your hair tickles against his neck. How he’s way too aware of the slow, steady rise and fall of your breathing.
You’re Elba’s friend.
That reminder loops like a mantra in his head. He’s not supposed to look. Not supposed to think. And yet—he thinks. About your ex, the whole stupid revenge plan, the way you laughed when he grabbed the bill at dinner. He thinks about the dance floor, about the way his self-control wavered when your body was pressed against his. He thinks about how you looked at him like maybe he wasn’t imagining it.
It’s Vegas, he tells himself. Everything’s louder here. Brighter. Hotter. Nothing is real. It’s all neon illusions and cheap tricks. When the break’s over, he’ll go back to racing his car, and you’ll go back to your life, and none of this will matter.
Your hand shifts in your sleep, fumbling across the seat, and without thinking, you lace your fingers through his. Pato goes completely still. His chest tightens, breath caught like the cab has suddenly forgotten how to pump oxygen.
He should let go. He knows he should.
But he holds on, thumb brushing your knuckles in the dark, quiet and tentative. He thinks to himself, everything else can be fake and plastic—but this, this, is real. Your hand in his, looking for him even in your sleep.
The next morning, Pato shuffles out into the living space, hair messy, still tasting the bad mix of whiskey and regret at the back of his throat. The hotel room is quiet. Too quiet. Elba’s not here, which is weird, because she’s usually the one orchestrating everyone’s suffering the morning after. Instead, it’s just you. Slouched on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, remote in hand like you’ve claimed squatter’s rights.
You look up, caught, sheepish. “I may have lied to Elba about being hungover,” you admit. “She went shopping. I… didn’t want to.”
Pato lets out a laugh, rubbing his face. “Wow. Faked a hangover to get out of shopping?” he rasps. “That’s impressive. I’ve pulled that exact move before. Respect.”
You grin at him, but it’s small, guilty. He watches you shift on the couch, fiddling with the blanket, and for a beat he considers bailing. Ducking back into his room, pretending he’s got calls to make, avoiding the mess of thoughts still circling from last night. Because you don’t seem to remember. The dance floor. The closeness. The part where he nearly lost his mind when you tilted your head back against his shoulder.
Instead, his mouth betrays him. “So,” he says, leaning against the wall, crossing his arms, “what do you actually want to do on this trip? Because I feel like Elba’s been running the schedule, and you—” he gestures vaguely, “—you haven’t really gotten a say.”
You stare up at him, clearly not expecting the question. And Pato tells himself he’s just being nice. Just filling the silence. Just making sure you’re not left behind.
You give him your honest answer, and Pato takes it upon himself to inform Elba you’re hanging out with him for the day.
Except nothing about the day is what he expects. Vegas, in his head, is glitter, pool parties, overpriced cocktails, and maybe waking up with a regret or two. Not… museum tours. Not standing shoulder-to-shoulder with you while a guide talks about art stolen and reclaimed, or mob history told with a little too much enthusiasm. Pato keeps waiting to be bored, but he isn’t. Maybe because every time he glances at you, you’re lit up, grinning like this is exactly what you wanted. And that—it does something to him.
“Not gonna lie,” he says, hands shoved in his pockets as you walk through the Fremont canopy of lights, “this is probably the least Vegas-Vegas trip I’ve ever had. And I’ve been here Nolan.”
You laugh, shoulders bumping into his. “That sounds like trauma.”
“It was.” He grins, watching you snort at that. He can’t believe he’s actually enjoying this. Fremont Street smells like beer and fried food, there’s someone singing badly off-key two blocks away, and still he’s content. Annoyingly so.
By the time the two of you are weaving through the Paris Hotel’s perimeter, his legs are sore and his brain is running circles. You stop to stare at the faux Eiffel Tower, head tilted back, eyes wide in a way that makes him look twice. Like you’re not seeing plaster and steel, but something else. Something bigger.
“You know it’s fake, right?” he says, sidling closer, voice dry. “You’re such a cliché.”
You don’t flinch, just smile without looking at him. “I know. But I can’t help it. Part of me will always be a bit of a romantic, I guess.”
For once, he doesn’t have a smart retort locked and loaded. Just a sudden, sharp constriction in his ribs, like someone’s punched him and he forgot how to breathe. Romantic. Of course you are. That’s the whole reason you’re here, nursing wounds from some idiot who didn’t deserve you in the first place. Hearing you say it, it feels like something else. It’s a confession not meant for him, one that lands on him anyway.
He shoves the feeling down, laughs instead, because that’s easier. “So what, you’re gonna make me take a hundred pictures of you with the fake tower?” he teases. “You want to kiss under it too, for the full package?”
You roll your eyes but your cheeks pinken, and God, he shouldn’t notice that. He notices anyway. To save himself, Pato insists on the pictures.
You’re groaning, swatting at him, begging him to stop, but he’s relentless, tilting your chin toward the fake Paris skyline, telling you to stand a little closer to the rail. Every snap of his phone is a victory, even if you look ready to tackle him to the pavement. He tells himself it’s for the bit. He tells himself you’ll thank him later. He ignores the way his chest is doing that uncomfortable squeeze thing again.
Finally, you throw your hands up. “Pato, enough. Seriously,” you beg. “My phone is going to combust from all this.”
“Good,” he grins, lowering the phone only to immediately lift it again. The flash goes off. “That’s the point. Combustion. Viral combustion.”
You laugh despite yourself. He catches it all—your smile, your exasperation, the way you’re glowing under the fake Eiffel Tower light. He doesn’t think about how obvious he’s being until he hears his own voice asking, too casually, “How do you do it?”
You tilt your head to one side. “Do what?”
“Still believe in this stuff. Romance. Fairy lights. Eiffel Towers that aren’t even real. After—you know.” He regrets the question the second it leaves his mouth. It’s none of his business. Except it is, because he wants it to be.
For a second you’re quiet, eyes tracing the steel beams above you. Then, softly: “Because if I don’t, then he wins. He takes the part of me that wants to love and be loved, and that’s the only thing I can’t let anyone take. Not even him.”
Pato swallows.
The Strip buzzes around them—cars, music, laughter—but it all feels like background noise. He wants to say something, something to lighten the weight in his chest, but nothing comes. Just that squeeze again, unbearable this time.
You brush past him, heading toward the exit. He follows, phone heavy in his hand. You don’t notice when he lifts it one last time, catching you from behind, your gaze still caught on the fake Eiffel Tower.
Pato wakes up to impact. A pillow collides with his face, followed by the unmistakable sound of his sister’s hiss: “¡Levántate, idiota!”
He groans, dragging the pillow off his head. “What the hell, Elba?”
Another swing, softer this time, smacks against his shoulder. He’s seconds from starting a full-blown sibling wrestling match when Elba jabs a finger to her lips. “Shh. Quiet. She’s asleep.”
That stops him. Just barely. He sits up, rubbing his eyes. A quick glance at the wall clock shows it’s a little past midnight. “Then why are you trying to suffocate me in my sleep?” he hisses.
“Because,” Elba hisses, climbing onto the edge of his bed like a vengeful goblin. “What the hell was that Instagram story?”
Pato doesn’t mean to play dumb. He just woke up, for Christ’s sake. “What story?” he croaks.
“The one of her. Looking at the fake Eiffel Tower like you just shot a damn perfume ad.” Elba’s eyes narrow. “What are you doing, cabrón?”
He drags a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “It’s nothing,” he manages. “It’s part of the act, right? The whole ‘Instagram boyfriend’ thing? Her ex probably follows me. Quiero que se muera de celos.”
Elba gives him a look sharp enough to decapitate. “Estúpido. You know what it looks like. To her. To everybody.”
Pato wants to argue. Wants to say it’s fine, wants to shrug, wants to go back to sleep. But he sees her face—dead serious under the dim hotel light—and something twists in his stomach. “It’s not like that,” he mutters.
“Then prove it.” Elba crosses her arms. “Delete it.”
He scoffs under his breath. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being protective. For her. She doesn’t need people speculating, she doesn’t need you making her life messier than it already is.”
Pato reaches for his phone, stares at it for a moment, thumb hovering. The photo’s still up. Your face lit, something private in the way you’re looking at fake Paris. He feels a flicker of guilt, maybe even grief, but he doesn’t let it show.
“Fine,” he mutters. He deletes the story with a few taps.
Elba exhales, satisfied. “Gracias.” She slides off the bed, whispering as she heads for the door. “Try to think next time.”
Pato flops back down, phone clutched in his hand. Sleep doesn’t come easy after that. Not when all he can see is the image he saved for himself, the one that no one else will ever get to see. How that, too, had to be taken from him. He falls asleep, chest heavy with implication.
When he wakes up, he’s determined to prove a point to no one in particular. If Elba thinks he’s getting carried away, fine. He’ll swing the other way. Civil. Detached. So detached he could win a medal for it. You’re just his sister’s friend. You’re just here for Vegas. Nothing more.
For most of the day, he nails it. Elba, ever the puppeteer, makes it easy. She has you distracted with brunch plans, shopping detours, and a labyrinth of errands that keep Pato comfortably on the sidelines. He’s polite, even cheerful, like some guy who’s never in his life held your hand in the back of a cab. Neutral. Switzerland with better hair.
It’s only when the night folds into music again, the three of you sliding into a pool party, that the façade starts to crack. JHAYCO blares, the water glows an artificial blue, people splash and laugh. You turn to him with that earnest gleam, nudging his arm. “Come on, let’s play something. You’re not just gonna sit there.”
He doesn’t even know what possesses him. Some awful reflex, maybe. The need to overcorrect.
He scoffs, sharper than intended. “Play?” he echoes. “What are we, five?”
The words cut. He sees it—the flicker across your face, quick as lightning but unmistakable. The way your mouth opens, then shuts again. You try for a smile, brittle at the edges. “Right,” you say, “guess that was kind of dumb of me.”
Pato’s stomach drops.
Guilt crashes in, heavy and uninvited. He wants to take it back instantly, wants to say he didn’t mean it like that, but you’re already looking away, pretending to be invested in the pool lights. He’s left with the sour taste of his own mistake, wondering when exactly trying to be detached turned into hurting you.
The pool party thrills with a drunken rhythm, bass thudding through the water and the air sticky with chlorine and cheap cologne. Pato tells himself he doesn’t care. You’ve wandered off, you’re not his to worry about, and he’s already proven he can be detached. Detached and civil. A regular monk, if monks happened to lounge shirtless by lit-up pools. But then he spots you.
You’re crouched by a poolside table with some tall, too-handsome stranger, both of you hunched over a tray of colored kinetic sand like it’s the Louvre. The stranger laughs, dimples and all, as you press the sand into a little mold, your eyes lighting up as if this is the most important architectural project of your life. Pato feels something in his chest that’s less monk and more caveman.
Elba’s somewhere else—probably trading tequila shots with girls in pink cowboy hats—so Pato doesn’t have backup. It’s just him, stewing. Watching you laugh at this stranger’s dumb jokes, like it’s the funniest thing on earth. He tries not to, but his legs betray him, marching across the tiles until he’s standing over your masterpiece-in-progress.
“Seriously?” Pato says, voice dripping with judgment. “A sandcastle?”
You glance up, annoyance flickering across your face. “It’s fun. You should try it sometime.”
“I’d rather drown in the pool,” he fires back, crossing his arms. He can hear himself and he knows he sounds like a dick, but it’s too late.
The stranger raises an eyebrow, clearly amused at the drama. “She’s actually really good at this,” he says casually, as if Pato cares about sandcastle rankings.
Pato steps closer, gesturing at you. “Come on, let’s go. Party’s over.”
You squint up at him. “No, I’m fine here.”
There’s a bit of a squabble. Some sharp words exchange. None of it matters, not when his foot shifts, his balance tips, and his heel comes down right on the edge of your neon sand fortress. The turrets crumble in an instant, collapsing into a sad, shapeless heap.
You freeze, staring at the ruins. Then you look up at him, and the flicker of hurt in your eyes hits harder than any punch. He wants to blame the tiles, gravity, maybe even the bass vibrating underfoot, but the truth is simple: he just stomped on your castle like a jealous idiot.
Your tears start before Pato even realizes what’s happening. One second you’re blinking fast, jaw tight, the next you’re welling up, eyes glassy in the fluorescent wash of the pool lights. Great. Fantastic. He’s officially the villain of the pool party, and all because he couldn’t handle you sculpting a sandcastle with some random dude who probably has a PhD in jawlines.
The stranger does exactly what Pato wishes he could do—backs away, palms up, muttering something about drinks before vanishing into the crowd. Traitor. Now it’s just the two of you, you tearing up over a mound of kinetic sand like he just kicked a puppy. Which, to be fair, he kind of did.
“Hey, hey, no llore,” Pato blurts, reaching out like his hands can catch tears before they fall. He’s already scrambling for damage control, brain short-circuiting between panic and guilt. “I didn’t mean to—okay, maybe I did mean to, but not this.”
You’re babbling through breaths, words spilling faster than you can catch them. “It was making me happy, and you’re just—” you hiccup, “mean, Pato. You’re mean.”
That one hits worse than the sand crunching under his shoe. Mean. Out of everything you could call him, that’s the one that sticks like a dart in the middle of his chest. He sinks down, knees hitting damp concrete, palms scooping at the ruined little tower. He knows it’s pathetic. He does it anyway.
“Look,” he says, working with absurd precision, like the tiny turrets are fragile masterpieces and not chunks of neon-colored sludge. “There’s nothing broken I can’t fix. Nada. Give me five minutes, it’ll be better than before.”
You sniff, shaking your head, voice cracking when you try to stop him. “You can’t fix it. It’s—it’s ruined.”
Pato keeps building anyway, stubborn to the bone, piling sand back into crooked walls and lopsided towers. He glances up, grin trembling around the edges but still there, because that’s his armor. “Watch me. Architect Pato’s got this,” he insists, practically begging you to believe him. “UNESCO is gonna call me any second.”
Pato has no idea what he’s doing.
His hands aren’t exactly trained for delicate construction. Steering wheels, sure. Simulators, yeah. But a bucket and wet sand? The thing keeps collapsing on itself, like it’s mocking him, and his knees are already digging awkward grooves into the damp ground. Still, he mutters to himself, determined, because he said he could fix it. If there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s being wrong in front of you.
“Stupid castle,” he grumbles under his breath, trying to pat a wall into place. It leans like it’s drunk. Maybe it fits the party.
When you shuffle down next to him, knees pressing into the ground too, he nearly breathes out in relief. You don’t say anything at first, just start smoothing one of the towers that looks more like a lopsided muffin. He steals a glance at you. Damp cheeks, eyes a little puffy. His fault. His stupid, jealous, running-mouth fault. Yet here you are, fixing his mess—literally. It makes him want to cry a bit himself.
Between the two of you, something resembling a sandcastle eventually rises. It isn’t half as pretty as the first one. Towers are uneven, moat is a mess. But when you sit back, brushing sand off your hands, there’s this quiet in the air that feels almost forgiving.
Your voice comes small, almost tentative: “Can we get ice cream?”
It shouldn’t undo him, and yet it does. That single, shy question feels like a lifeline tossed his way. Halfway forgiven, maybe more, if he plays it right. He scrambles upright so fast he nearly knocks over the new castle. “Yes. Sí. Whatever flavor you want, you got it,” he says. “Double scoop, triple scoop, I don’t care. You want sprinkles? I’ll get you all the sprinkles in Vegas.”
You crack the smallest smile, wiping the last of your tears with the back of your hand. Pato is quickly growing convinced he’d build you a hundred crooked sandcastles if it means keeping that look on your face.
The two of you end up at the fringes of the party, where the music is muffled and the only glow comes from lights bleeding across the pavement. Pato has a half-melted popsicle dripping down his fingers. You’ve already finished yours, lips stained cherry-red, and he’s trying very hard not to notice. Or think about. Or let himself spiral about.
He clears his throat. “I was a dick earlier.” The words come out blunt, no finesse. He’s never been good at apologies, but he figures honesty counts for something.
You glance at him, eyebrows lifting, then back at the pool. “I noticed you were… different today.” A careful pause. “I wondered if I’d done something. Overstepped.”
The knot in his stomach tightens. He made you feel like that. He shakes his head too quickly, voice rough. “No. No, it’s not you. It’s—” He stops, because what does he even say? That he’s confused out of his mind? That he wants to punch himself every time he notices you in ways he shouldn’t? “It’s me being dumb.”
You let out a soft laugh that doesn’t sound convinced. He despises that he put that hesitation in your voice. He fumbles, tries again. “You haven’t overstepped. You’re Elba’s friend, that’s all. I just—” His throat closes around the rest of it. He shrugs, helpless, like that explains anything.
Something flickers across your face. You nod anyway, voice flat in agreement. “Right. Elba’s friend,” you echo, and it sounds so utterly wrecking when you say it that way.
Pato shoves the rest of his popsicle into his mouth to shut himself up before he says anything even dumber. The cold bite doesn’t stop the fire roaring in his veins.
Elba is the only one who doesn’t pace herself, so by midnight she’s draped between the two of you like a very loud, very stubborn scarf. Pato and you are hauling her through the hotel, both of you half laughing, half groaning every time she tries to squirm out of your grip to yell something about tequila being her blood type. Heads turn. Security stares. Pato decides he’s not paid enough to explain this.
Back in the hotel suite, you finally wrestle her into bed. She goes down like a sack of potatoes, face half-buried in the pillows, already snoring. The silence that follows is jarring. Almost intimate. The two of you just stand there for a beat, breathing like you’ve run a marathon.
“Thanks for helping,” Pato mutters, rubbing his shoulder where Elba had been clinging like a koala. He’s expecting you to just say good night, maybe laugh at how ridiculous his sister is.
Instead, you linger in the living space. The glow from the lamp softens everything. It makes the whole scene feel warmer than it has any right to. You turn to him, and there’s this nervous curve to your mouth, like you’re debating something in real time. Before he can decode it, you lean in and press a kiss to his cheek.
Pato freezes. Absolutely short-circuits. His first instinct is to joke, make some crack about how this is a dangerous precedent. But the words never come because your lips hover, just inches from his. Your breath ghosts over his skin. Your eyes flutter closed like you’re waiting—waiting for him to close the gap.
And God, he wants to. He wants to more than he’s wanted anything all week. His heart is pounding so loud it’s humiliating. For a second, it feels inevitable, like gravity itself is pulling him into you.
But then he yanks himself back, as if distance is the only weapon he has left. He pulls away, swallowing hard, eyes darting anywhere but yours. His chest feels tight, like he’s made the dumbest mistake of his life in real time. “Good night,” he says, voice rougher than he’d like.
He retreats to his room before he does something he won’t be able to take back.
Understandably, Pato doesn’t sleep. Not really.
He lies there in the dark, sheets twisted around his legs, eyes burning from the evening bleeding in through the curtains. He’s never been good at shutting his head off, and tonight it’s worse. Your kiss on his cheek is on loop, phantom heat pressed to his skin. Every time he tries to close his eyes, he sees yours fluttering shut, waiting. He hates himself for pulling away. Hates himself for wanting not to.
By the time he finally knocks out, the sun is already sliding over the Vegas skyline. The reprieve lasts all of thirty minutes before his door bangs open, and Elba storms in like she owns the place.
“¡Órale, levántate, cabrón!” she snaps, flinging the edge of a pillow at him. He knows how this film goes, and he still falls for it. “What happened last night?”
Pato groans, dragging the pillow over his head. “What happened is you got drunk, we dragged your ass home, and I was finally getting some sleep,” he snarks.
“No.” Elba yanks the pillow away. Her eyes are sharp, arms crossed, all business. “She booked an early flight. Home. This morning.”
That lands like a sucker punch. His stomach drops, mouth going dry. You left. Just like that. He knows you enough to recognize you’ve done it because you don’t want to make things awkward, because you think you really have overstepped this time. He tries to play it cool, leaning back against the headboard. “So?” he says coolly. “Maybe she had things to do.”
Elba narrows her gaze. “Cut the crap, Pato. Something happened.”
He swallows hard. For half a second, he considers lying. He can’t stand the thought of Elba knowing, of her putting words to the thing he’s already tearing himself apart over. But she’s relentless, perched at the edge of his bed, jabbing questions in rapid-fire Spanish that make his temples throb.
Finally, it bursts out. “She tried to kiss me, alright?!” His voice cracks, too loud. He’s on his feet, suddenly, because this isn’t the kind of conversation he wants to have while splayed on his hotel bed. “And I didn’t let it happen. Because of you.”
Elba freezes, the fight draining from her face. Pato instantly regrets the words, chest heaving, jaw tight.
Pato’s starts pacing the room. His hands keep dragging through his hair, tugging like he can pull the right answer out of his scalp. He doesn’t even remember standing up, doesn’t even remember the first words spilling out, but now he’s on a tear and can’t stop.
“Of course I find her attractive. I’m not blind, Elba. She’s… she’s gorgeous. And smart. And funny in that annoying way that makes you want to keep arguing with her forever. She drives me insane, in the best possible way. You think I haven’t noticed? You think I haven’t wanted—” He stops, sucks in a sharp breath.
“But she’s your friend,” he pushes on. His chest is heaving. The rant keeps tumbling, raw and jagged. “That’s the line. That’s the one rule I’m not supposed to touch. And I haven’t, okay? I didn’t. Because you’re my sister. There isn’t a thing in the world I’d do to cross you.
“Even if she and I could be something… even if I haven’t felt this way in—God, I don’t even know how long—it doesn’t matter. Because you’re standing there. And you’d never forgive me. And maybe you’re right not to. Maybe you don’t want me anywhere near her because of my reputation. Because I’m the guy who jokes around too much, who flirts with everyone, who never takes things seriously. The playboy, right? That’s what people say. That’s what you’ve probably said. And you’re not wrong. I wouldn’t want me for her either.”
The words land like punches in his own stomach. He laughs once, humorless, and drops onto the edge of the bed, palms pressing against his knees like they’re the only things holding him up.
“I’m not good enough for her. I know that,” he concludes, “and I can’t even blame you for thinking it.”
Elba doesn’t answer. She just stares at him for a long, unnerving moment, her expression impossible to read. Then she turns and walks out, the door clicking shut behind her.
Pato’s left in the silence, his pulse pounding in his ears. He thinks maybe the worst part isn’t that he said it all out loud. The worst part is that it feels true.
He spends thirty more minutes locked in his room, pacing like a caged animal, rehearsing apologies that all sound stupid even in his own head. He’s decided that, fine, he’ll fix things with Elba first. Sibling détente, clean slate, no more explosions. That’s the plan. He opens the door with something almost resembling humility, an expression his face doesn’t wear well.
Elba is sprawled on the couch, scrolling through her phone like nothing in the world is broken. She doesn’t even look up when he clears his throat.
“Took you long enough,” she says. Flat, but cutting. “I booked you a cab. If you leave now, you’ll just about make it to the airport in time.”
Pato balks. “I—what? No. No, I’m not—”
“Yes, you are.” She looks at him, her eyes sharp in that way that makes him feel twelve again. “Get out of here.”
He laughs, sharp and incredulous, because it’s easier than admitting his chest has just cracked open. “That’s insane. You want me to chase after your friend?” he spits. “After the whole speech I just gave you about why I can’t?”
Elba raises an eyebrow. “You already gave me that speech. And I’ve already decided it’s garbage.”
Pato throws up his hands. “Elba, come on,” he says. “She’s your friend. You think it’s a great idea if I—if we—” He can’t even finish the sentence. Not without feeling the whole world tilt beneath him.
“I think,” Elba cuts in, softer now, “that I’ve seen the way you look at her. Look of love, remember?”
That quiets him. Knocks the wind out of his lungs in a way all her earlier jabs didn’t. Elba knows; Elba has always known. The way only siblings could. Before he could even catch it himself, Elba was already reading him like a book.
He’s still searching for something clever, some retort that can dig him out, when she stands and presses the cab receipt into his hand. “Go,” she says simply.
He hesitates, the coward in him scrambling for one more excuse. But then Elba adds, almost as an afterthought—
“For the record, I don’t think you’re not good enough for her.” A pause. Not dramatic, but thoughtful. “I think you’re the best person in the world, Pato.”
That’s what sells it. Pato steps forward and pulls her into a hug, tight and uncharacteristic. He mutters something about how she’s unbearable and he hates her, which is code for thank you, thank you, thank you.
Then he grabs his bag and heads for the door, heart hammering, chasing after a plane and a person who might already be gone.
Twenty-seven minutes later, Pato barrels through the sliding glass doors of the airport, already sweating like he just ran qualifying laps instead of sitting in the back of a cab muttering at every red light. He has no plan. Zero. Not a clue what terminal you’re at, what airline, what gate, what time. For all he knows, you could already be halfway through security, boarding pass scanned, sipping a tragic overpriced latte. Fantastic. A flawless strategy, O’Ward.
He storms past check-in counters, scanning faces, heart punching faster with every stranger that isn’t you. He tries departures screens like they’ll miraculously list: Flight to Get Pato’s Life Together – Gate 12. Nothing. Just a hundred numbers and destinations blurring until his eyes sting. He’s muttering half-Spanish curses at himself when he finally spots you.
There. By the rope lines of security, duffel bag slung on your shoulder, eyes red-rimmed like you didn’t sleep either. When your gaze lifts and catches him, you freeze. Shock, confusion. Maybe he’s a mirage conjured by lack of caffeine.
He comes up to a stop in front of you, and your voice cracks a bit when you greet him with, “Pato? Did I forget something?”
Here’s his moment. Time to deliver something suave, cinematic. What comes out instead is a rushed, graceless: “Yeah. Uh. Another flight. To Paris. With me.”
It hangs there, pathetic and wild all at once. He immediately wants to crawl into the floor tiles, but it’s too late. You’re staring at him like he’s completely lost his mind. Which, honestly, maybe he has.
You’re staring at him like he’s an escaped lunatic—and maybe that’s fair, because he just blurted out something about Paris, and not in a casual way. He knows he sounds like a deranged travel agent. Your eyebrows shoot up, your mouth quirks, and he can see you fighting back a laugh that’s one heartbeat away from spilling over.
“You know,” you say, voice lilting with amusement, “you’re kind of a cliché. Airport chase, flight to Paris. What’s next? Holding up a boombox? Running alongside the plane on the tarmac?”
Pato huffs, chest pounding like he’s sprinted the whole terminal. “I don’t mind if I’m a cliché. I’ll be the idiot at the airport, the guy in every rom-com you mock with your friends. I’ll buy the trench coat, I’ll stand in the rain, I’ll do the whole pathetic package.”
His throat goes tight, but he barrels on, because he’s already gone off the cliff and might as well see if he can fly. “I just want you to have good things,” he blurts out, “and if that’s a flight to Paris, so you can see the real tower that keeps you believing in love, then I’ll do it. I’ll do it, if it means someday you might want to give some of that love to me.”
The words hang there, ridiculous and raw, louder than the tinny boarding announcements scolding someone to proceed to Gate C17. He feels them echoing in his bones, feels the heat crawl up his neck. Part of him wants to laugh at himself, wants to reel the whole speech back and bury it six feet under.
But then—your expression changes. Softens. As if you’re seeing him stripped down to the wiring, and you don’t hate what you see. The kind of look that makes him feel like maybe, somehow, all the chaos and bad decisions of the past few days were pointing to this exact, absurd moment.
A look of love.
You take a hesitant step closer, the nervous kind that makes his pulse trip. He’s used to your sharpness, your deflections. This is something else entirely.
“Are you going to pull away again?” you say, voice barely above a whisper, eyes flicking from his lips back up to his eyes.
Pato’s heart spikes, hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. His hands move before his brain catches up. He cups your face, thumbs brushing against your skin, like he’s anchoring himself to something real.
“Not happening,” he says, just as gently. “I’m not going anywhere you’re not, hermosa.” ⛐
I👏🏼NEED 👏🏼SECRET👏🏼RELATIONSHIP 👏🏼LANDO PLEASEEEE 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼 I loved “winning hand” and I have reread it a few times already, hope you’ll do something like that again soon queen xo
Two can keep a secret | LN⁴
☆ summary ──── She was convinced they had found the secret recipe for happiness. A year later though, she finds out that the very things that brought them together are the same things that now threaten to tear them apart.
☆ pairing ──── Lando Norris x SecretGf!Reader
☆ rating ──── explicit
☆ warnings ──── 18+, secret relationship, angst, gaslighting undertones, SMAU (please be kind, it’s my first time trying to insert social media in my writing 🙏🏻😭), swearing, mentions of alcohol and drinking, graphic sexual content, descriptive language, smut, teasing, mutual masturbation (detailed handjob & fingering), bottom!Lando, praising, pet names, and dirty talk, unprotected sex, physical roughness, overstimulation, cockwarming, messy aftermath.
☆ word count ──── 9.4k
☆ date ──── Aug. 18, 2025
☆ a/n ──── Been a hot sec since I’ve been abusing my keyboards like this, but coming back to writing isn’t always easy. However, thank you so much for being patient with me while I try to find my rhythm again. If you haven’t already (because it flopped horrendously when I first posted it), maybe give Winning Hand a shot too. Anon liked it, hihi 😌🎀 ANYWAY. I missed you guys sm!! Enjoy your reading my lovelies ^^
A couple more things:
Everybody, including me, be calling X Twitter, and I didn’t make an exception for this one-shot.
I didn’t check any of the usernames mentioned. I pulled those out from the depths of my brain, but if some of them happen to exist, please do not contact the respective accounts lmao. And if I accidentally used yours and you want me to edit it out, please let me know 😁
IT HAD STARTED so beautifully stupid for them, nearly a year ago, on Max’s birthday.
It hadn’t been planned, and maybe that’s what made it so exciting at first. They’d always been part of the same chaotic circle of people, drawn to fast cars and faster living, late nights at each other’s apartments, beach weekends, and group chats full of memes and half-plans, because everybody was so busy.
She remembers the heat of that night, and the fact that she thought there were way too many people at the villa; not necessarily her type of party, but all of her friends were there.
She also remembers turning around with a drink in hand, catching Lando’s eyes across the pool. He was a bit drunk, and she knew that from the beginning, because he has a very unique facial expression when he drinks, with half-closed eyelids and a little grin in the corner of his mouth that’s nothing but trouble.
He came to rescue, and pulled her away from the noise. They ended up chatting more in a couple of hours than they did their entire friendship combined. Lando made her his signature drink, and she convinced him not to jump into the water fully clothed. Then she woke up in his room the next morning, her dress on the floor and his arm slung heavy across her waist.
She hadn’t meant for it to last this long. But it turned out they’re both good at keeping secrets.
The thrill of sneaking around, the quiet satisfaction of pulling him into a dark corner at parties, all the plans and fake excuses, the constant adrenaline beneath her skin every time they made eye contact in public and pretended they weren’t thinking the exact same thing. All of it was so intoxicating. Being his secret made her feel powerful. And why wouldn’t it, since she got the parts no one else did: the sleepy post-race calls, the lazy mornings with her hand tangled in his curls and his head between her thighs, the soft way he spoke when no one was listening but her. It was like living a double life, one where she had this bright and much tender version of Lando that didn’t belong to the world.
Maybe it should’ve ended after the first night together, but instead, they made rules:
No one should find out.
No social media.
No strings, just fun.
For months, they’d carved out an intimate space between the noise of their public lives, stolen glances at group dinners, quick texts under the table, and lots of hotel rooms booked under fake names when they ended up in the same cities.
But gradually, what started as a thrill, it’s just exhausting a year later.
It’s the constant vigilance. The quiet ache of standing across a room from him and acting like he’s just her friend. The mental strain of remembering who knows what, how close she can stand, whether her laugh gave too much away or how long she can look at him before someone notices the hearts in her eyes.
Ultimately, there is just too much pretending.
Too much pretending that she’s just a part of his friend group when she’s standing two feet away from him, her hands shoved so deep into her pockets only to stop herself from reaching out.
Too much pretending that she doesn’t care when someone asks him — again and again, for fuck’s sake — about who he’s dating, and his answer is always ‘no one seriously’ while displaying the biggest smile known to man.
And too much pretending she doesn’t want to walk with him in public, hand in hand.
It’s the secrecy that bothers her lately, not the privacy, though. Because she loves the quiet nights and the way he kisses her like he’s always missed her, even if it’s only been a day. She still loves his stupid impressions and the way he sings in the car, off-key and not caring he’s making her ears bleed.
That’s the thing. She loves it all and she loves him and that’s what makes everything worse.
═════════════════════════
📍Silverstone, United Kingdom
THE BATHROOM DOOR swings open with a soft hiss of steam, and she steps out, towel wrapped around her body, another twisted tightly around her wet hair. It’s an early, very quiet Friday morning, but she knows it won’t stay like that for long.
Lando stands near the mirror, a towel slung low on his hips, chest still damp from his own quick shower. He squints at his reflection, one hand stroking the scruff along his jaw as if he’s thinking pretty intensely about what to do in order to solve the world hunger.
She watches him for a moment, amused. “You’ve been staring at yourself since I got in. Are you okay?”
He flicks his eyes to her in the mirror, pretending to look wounded. “I’m in the middle of an existential grooming crisis, actually.”
“Must be exhausting,” she teases, walking past him toward the bed where her clothes are laid out. “All that beauty. All that... mild stubble.”
Lando turns to face her, rising one hand as if he’s holding something that he wants to show her. “To shave, or not to shave?”
The girl pauses mid-motion, a small smile creeping across her lips. “If you’re asking me,” she says, glancing at him over her shoulder, “I like it better when you don’t.”
Lando tilts his head, curiously. “Because it makes me look more manly or?”
She walks back to him, closing the space between them until she can trace her fingers under his jaw, the coarse edge of his stubble brushing her skin. “No,” she shakes her head lightly. “Because of how it feels between my thighs,” she says, placing a tiny kiss on his cheek.
Through the mirror, Lando just stares at her for a few seconds. Then he lets out a short laugh, nearly choking on it. “Jesus, okay. Starting the day like that?”
The girl shrugs innocently, letting both of her towels pool at her feet once she goes back to the bed, grabbing the dress to pull it over her head. “You asked.”
Lando crosses the room to close the distance between them once again, looping his arms loosely around her waist from behind and letting his chin drop to her shoulder. “Yeah, I did,” he mumbles, pressing a soft kiss beneath her ear.
For a little while, everything is simple and nothing hurts. His warmth wraps around her like it’s shielding her from things she doesn’t even have names for. Things that live out there in interviews, in headlines, in the judgmental eyes of people who don’t know what they are, but question every single person that gets near Lando, one way or another. With him, right now, there is no hiding. There is only the sound of his breathing, and the way his thumbs circle softly over her stomach. The smell of his skin and the half-wet curls brushing against her temple.
She turns in his arms and rests her hands on his chest, fingers absently tracing the lines of muscle, then slides one up to gently push his hair back from his forehead. “Are you nervous?” she asks quietly. “About this weekend?”
Lando is silent, content to study her face for a moment. “Mm, dunno. Maybe a litte. Every year, it’s different but, I mean, it’s home.”
She nods, understanding very well the pressure he’s putting on himself to deliver in front of his home crowd. He’s told her stories of coming to the circuit as a kid, climbing fences just to get a better view of the garages. Of how his heart used to pound just from hearing the engines fire up. And now, he’s on the other side of the fence, while the crowd is chanting his name.
“I’m only asking because you get quiet around it,” she adds gently. “Not in a bad way,” the girl rushes to explain, “Just… stiller. So not like you.”
He frowns for a fraction. “How come?”
She shrugs. “Like you’re trying to hold something in. Apart from the obvious,” she tries to joke.
Suddenly, he’s quiet again, but this time there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I am.”
The girl steps closer, into the cradle of his body. Her hands settle at the nape of his neck at the same time her eyes fix on his. “You don’t have to around me, you know.”
“I know,” Lando assures her, and leans down to delicately press his lips on hers.
It’s not a hurried kiss. Just lazy, warm, and deeply familiar. The kind that speaks in layers to her: I hear you. I see you. Thank you for knowing the difference.
He kisses her again when they part, this time on her jaw, then her shoulder. “Thank you,” whispers Lando only for her to hear as if someone else can eavesdrop.
“For what?”
“For knowing when I’m pretending.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Of course she knows when he’s pretending. She’s got front-row seats at that show, and she watched him perform it for almost an entire year now.
“Anyway. I’ll be busy for chunks of the day. PT1 starts at 12:30, then straight into the engineering briefings after,” says Lando and, just like that, all the weight creeps back in. “I’ll try to come find you between things, but it might be tight,” he continues, making her stiffen slightly in his hold. It’s not much, but it’s enough for him to notice. He watches her carefully, but doesn’t say anything.
“Don’t worry about me,” she tells him. “What time will the others get here?”
“Fuck if I know,” laughs Lando. “But I don’t want you stuck waiting around for me. Or any of them.”
She smiles faintly. “I won’t be. Besides, you know I’m happy just watching.”
“Still,” says Lando, resting a hand on her hip, squeezing it lightly, “I want you to have fun. Abuse that pass, alright?”
═════════════════════════
📍 Monte Carlo, Monaco | FIVE WEEKS LATER
THEY FUCKED A couple of hours ago. Her skin still carries the ghost of his hands and the way he moaned her name against her throat like it was the only word left in his vocabulary. And yet, they rolled up to the venue in different cars.
Lando didn’t even looked in her direction, although she’s sure that he noticed her. He didn’t come to casually greet her, either. Reserved, he spent most of his time around the birthday boy, taking over the DJ booth and downing shot after shot with his friends. That wouldn’t have been a problem for her because, after all, they are both here to celebrate Max. But what bothers her is that, over time, their relationship has gotten so well-defined in public that Lando has almost become two different people. He can change his behavior so quickly that it amazes her how effortlessly he seems to flip that switch.
This part doesn’t sit right with her, no matter how hard she tries to convince herself.
She knows why they do it, but tonight it feels cruel. It brings her back, whether she wants it to or not, to last year, when this whole thing began. Back when it was easy and fun, when she could sneak off with Lando without the weight of her heart in her chest, because there were no feelings involved then. They were just two friends, playing Monica and Chandler for a night.
Now, she walks into the party with a knot in her stomach.
The place is buzzing with the kind of manic vibe only Max can gather: mutual friends, a couple of drivers from his racing days, influencers, and enough bottles of champagne lined up to keep the night running until no one can walk straight the next morning. The lighting is flattering, a warm golden shade that cascades over the entire venue.
She smiles when she needs to, accepting a drink when it’s handed to her but for some reason, she feels like a fraud, even though she belongs here as much as everybody else.
Already tipsy and grinning ear to ear, Max snatches a mic, speaking into it louder than necessary. “Oi, alright! Before everyone gets absolutely trashed, we’re doing a photo, yeah? All of you on the terrace now. Come on.”
The group is noisy, half-drunk and impatient, everyone shuffling around on the terrace as they try to wedge themselves into frame, beneath a banner that screams Happy Birthday Max!
People laugh, tugging each other closer, arms looping over shoulders, champagne glasses raised at odd angles. The photographer looks exasperated already, waving at them to just stay still for five seconds.
Lando slips into the cluster of bodies as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, shoulder brushing hers as he stakes his claim on the narrow space beside her. She feels the shift in her body before she even sees him, but that’s because she already knows his scent and the warmth radiating off him all too well. His arm folds loosely behind her, close enough that the tiny gap between gets heavy instantly. The line of his solid frame angles toward hers so familiar, his chest hovering just a breath behind her shoulder. And when she tilts her head the smallest fraction, it’s like they’re caught in orbit.
Lando might think he’s being slick, and she can tell. His expression is easy, careless even, like he hasn’t considered what the camera sees or what it could capture. But she can feel the weight of it: the way his proximity speaks louder than any touch, how her body leans almost imperceptibly into his without meaning to.
“Closer, closer!” the photographer calls out, making everyone laugh, stumbling into each other.
At that, Lando chuckles too, his palm landing firmly on her ass, fingers squeezing, as he uses it to pull her flush against him.
Her heart races so hard it’s a wonder she can keep a straight face. To conceal her expression, she tilts her champagne flute to her lips, lets the glass shield her, and stretches her mouth into a wide, glittering smile. To anyone watching, she’s just another friend enjoying the moment. Meanwhile, Lando looks like he’s forgotten entirely that they’re surrounded by people; his eyes are bright and his grin way too smug.
He leans down, lips brushing lightly against her ear, “Can you believe no one here knows I’ve had you twice today?”
Her knees nearly buckle, and that’s when the camera clicks. The flash freezes them in the act: her body tucked into his like it belongs there, Lando’s head bent toward her ear, his hand hidden but very much there. No one pays attention to them, too busy laughing and stumbling out of frame for the next drink after it’s done.
It’s right under their noses, she thinks.
A closeness that doesn’t belong in the background of a birthday picture. Or… under the table, a few hours later.
The music has grown louder now. Everyone is flushed yet still energized, lost in conversations and unfinished drinks. It’s the perfect cover for Lando to switch the flip again.
She sits with her phone in hand, eyes down, pretending to scroll as if she’s reading something really important that has her undivided attention. In reality, it’s the only shield she has against the warmth that’s growing inside her.
Under the table, Lando’s hand is on her thigh, thumb brushing lazy circles against bare skin where her dress has ridden up. Every pass is so gentle, enough to make her nerves spark like live wires.
“Lando,” she protests, lips barely moving. “Can you stop that?”
She can’t look at him without blushing, but she feels the smirk curve his lips even before he answers. “Relax. Everyone’s too drunk to notice.”
Her thumb taps uselessly on her screen, trying her best to ignore a touch that has become so normalized behind the closed doors. She wouldn’t have believed that Lando was such a touchy guy, but can’t complain about his need to have his hands on her at all times either.
“This dress,” Lando pauses to drag his thumb slowly along the hem, brushing her skin in a way that makes her spine straighten. “You look like an angel. From every angle. I can’t stop staring.”
The girl swallows the lump in her throat, forcing her face to remain impassive, as though she’s still absorbed in whatever is on her phone.
And then he leans closer, adding, “Can’t wait to get you home and take it off you.”
Everything around fades, leaving just the weight of his hand on her thigh. She turns her head then, finally meeting his smug grin with curious eyes. “Since when are you the type to wait?”
The words land like a dare and, before Lando can reply, she pushes his hand away, the absence of his touch a cold shock, and stands. Her dress clings to her thighs as she adjusts it, then she gives him one last look, slipping away from the table with the faintest sway of her hips.
Lando frowns, caught off guard. For a moment, he stays put, watching her disappear into the crowd and down the hall. Then instinct takes over. He glances left, then right, ensuring no one is paying him too much attention, before sliding out of his seat and following her while keeping a careful distance that he’s been perfecting over months of hiding.
The various sounds muffle as they move through the hallway, shadows swallowing the chatter until it’s just them. Lando shuts the bathroom door with a soft click and then his hand is on her throat in a heartbeat. The motion is fast, almost desperate, and he kisses her hard, crushing their mouths together like it’s the only language he knows. The subtle burn of alcohol lingers on their tongues as though the champagne is still fizzing between their lips. None of them minds it though. If anything, they welcome each other in like they always do.
Her back hits the door, rattling against the frame, and she doesn’t hesitate before her fingers dive into his curls, tugging with enough force to make him wince.
Lando groans against her mouth, breaking the kiss only to breathe and question, “What’s wrong with you tonight?” he pants, tight with frustration, but there’s a trace of worry behind his voice too.
Her chest rises quickly in uneven breaths, his curiosity only making her emotional. She wants to cry. Scream. Confess. But instead, she steels herself, building walls brick by brick before she can collapse.
“We’ve had a good run,” she admits, “But I think we should stop after this.”
Her words take her by surprise too, causing them both to pause, their mouths still pressed together. Slowly, Lando pulls away from her, his lips lingering on hers before parting, as if they are not ready to say goodbye yet.
Standing still, his hand slackening against her throat, Lando’s eyes search for her, studying her face like he didn’t hear her right. The girl doesn’t give him the chance to ask any other questions. Her gaze drops to his chest then down at the floor, anywhere but his eyes, because if she looks at him now, everything will crumble under the weight of her mixed feelings.
“No… why?” tries Lando, his voice suddenly so small. “Did something happen? Did anyone—”
“Nothing happened,” she rushes to say. “We made very sure of that.”
The silence that follows is uncomfortable for the first time they’ve known each other. She can hear his heavy breathing and his snort, which suggests that he can’t quite figure out what brought her to this conclusion.
“Yeah, we did,” Lando points out. “So what’s the matter? I thought this was what we both wanted, right? We’re good.”
“It was,” she replies, failing to add at first. But not anymore.
Lando looks at her as if he sees a completely different person in front of him. “Then what?” his eyebrows arch high on his forehead.
She sighs. “Then nothing. Do you want to fuck me or not?”
“What?” he freezes, the insult of it knocking the breath out of him. It’s been a while since Lando had been left speechless, but now it’s like his entire brain shut down. He just takes a step back, clenching his jaw in frustration. “No,” he continues, taken aback by her sudden bluntness.
“No?” she repeats, unable to believe that his rejection is final.
“No. Not like that. Baby, what the fuck?”
Her throat tightens. “Alright, got it. Cheers, mate,” she reaches for the door, but Lando is faster. He kicks it shut with his foot, the sound echoing through the small space like a gunshot.
“The hell you’re walking out on me like that,” he says, breathless but firm.
“Like what, Lando?” her voice is shaking slightly but refusing to break. “We’ve already got what we wanted from this, so why does it matter what happens after?”
His nostrils flare. “Don’t go there.”
“Why not?” she bites back. “The second we walk out of here, I go back to nothing anyway.”
His voice is so close to breaking into desperation next time he speaks, “It’s not nothing, and you know it. Do you even get how fucking hard it is not to touch you when you’re right there?”
Her laugh is hollow. “But that’s pretty much about it, isn’t it?”
Lando can’t stop the humourless laugh that slips past his lips, “Oh, wow. You think that’s all I want from you? Really?”
Her eyes flicker up, even though her chest aches as she forces the response out. “If anyone saw us right now, that’s exactly what they’d think too.”
The remark ignites a storm inside him. His jaw tightens again, voice climbing in volume a little. “Are you serious?”
“Dead. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Jesus, if all I wanted was an easy fuck, I could’ve had someone new every night,” the jab lands, sharper than he meant it to. He sees it in the way her face hardens, in the way her shoulders straighten like she’s bracing herself for impact.
“Then maybe you should. If it’s that easy for you, then go do it, and leave me the hell out of it,” she turns on her heel before he can say anything else, shoving the door open so hard it rattles the hinges.
The slam echoes, final and merciless, right into Lando’s face.
“Fuck,” he breathes, kicking at the bottom of the door before slamming his fist into it, the sharp sting radiating through his knuckles.
For a long moment, he struggles to understand how everything spiraled this fast. How something that felt so simple turned into such a mess in a blink of an eye.
═════════════════════════
“MATE, YOU’RE TRENDING on Twitter,” says Max once Lando gets back to their table.
He blinks, still affected by the bathroom confrontation, the words barely sinking in. “What?” he asks, snatching Max’s phone before he can think better of it.
His thumb swipes across the screen, and his chest goes cold: the group snap from earlier is already reposted everywhere, either cropped or zoomed in. Or cropped and zoomed in. The tweets and replies are endless, and they keep coming, forcing his eyes to go over dozens of them in the shortest time:
landosarchives
Group photo looks normal until you zoom in *insert Lando’s hyena laugh* is he aware he’s not subtle AT ALL?
⤷ grussell63 right?? Lando all up on that girl in the back LMAO.
⤷ nocontextf1 the hand placement is weird tho, who is she 👀
⤷ charlesless Are you guys okay? Like, in the head?
⤷ fullsend NO. look at his arm!!! ass grab + leaning in is insane behavior since he claims he’s single with every occasion he gets
5s4ocon
Debate of the evening: what’s actually happening in this photo?
1️⃣ Whispering something dumb
2️⃣ Kissing her cheek
3️⃣ Hard launch (by accident)
Poll ends in 24h
⤷ fromthepitsoff1hell combo between 2&3, guaranteed
⤷ papayacore I love you guys but some of you are delusionalllll
⤷ letsgoln4 No bc what’s that angle ://
⤷ teabreak.f1 can we talk about hand placement? im losing my shit the man is a GRABBER
⤷ goat_pastry Leaning angle = whisper. Hand placement = no comment 😗😗
⤷ russellesque_attitude also why is everyone pretending we can actually see his mouth? the girl is like 3 rows back. stop being obsessed lol
⤷ lnfourette ok but how close is he though…
⤷ dnf1 doing FBI-level analysis over a birthday pic. can we not 🤢
f1girliesassemble
idc what anyone says, lando’s hand is NOT where it should be in this photo 😭😭
⤷ de.lulu.44 girl that’s literally her waist 💀
⤷ f1girliesassemble r u blind 🍑.🍑
55operator
he either said ‘cheese’ or ‘bend over’ there’s no way in between
aston.m14
the girl in the black dress next to lando >>> who is sheee???
⤷ cutthechicane i checked the people in the post but no one’s tagged :(
⤷ pookietsunoda cutthechicane then she’s either a gf or someone lowkey 👀👀
⤷ papayarulezzz SHUT UP lando would not hard launch at max’s party of all places
⤷ sunshinepiastri papayarulezzz obviously, but judging by how everybody reacted so far, what makes you think this was planned lmao
tea_formulas
bro the way his entire palm is curved around her hip is killing me. which one of y’all are holdin your friends like that speak 🤨
gri77thegr1d
imagine being her. u get a kiss from ln in the middle of a photo while his hand is planted on u?? like that?? when’s the wedding LandoNorris
⤷ yukisdinner imagine being her when the internet finds out who you r tho... YIKES.
⤷ nando.lorris i think i found her insta oop 👀👀👀
⤷ landowecanbewc nando.lorris can you send it to me?
⤷ nando.lorris landowecanbewc dms :)
⤷ tripod_10 nando.lorris me too pls
⤷ landosformula nando.lorris ME THREE!
“Well, shit,” exhales Lando on the verge of panic, as he slowly hands the phone back to Max. When he lifts his eyes, his best friend is already staring at him, waiting; somehow, Max doesn’t expect an explanation. He already put the pieces together.
“What now?” asks Max.
Lando shakes his head, not knowing what to reply. Instead, “Where’d she go?”
Max shifts in his seat, his expression tightening with a mix of concern and reluctant understanding. “She came to me earlier. Said she had fun, but had to leave.”
“Do you think she knows anything about this?” asks Lando, pointing at Max’s phone.
“Not yet, I dont’t think so. But I reckon it won’t take long to find out if she opens her apps.”
He wants to add something more to that, maybe even come at Lando’s throat for acting like they’re not close enough to tell him what’s been happening in his personal life lately. But Max decides to leave all that for later, because he sees that his friend is currently in distress, his internal wheels working overtime in order to find the quickest way to fix this.
But before Lando can get up, Max catches his arm, searching his face. His eyes flick once to the phone screen still lit up with speculation, then back to his friend. Is it true?
Lando swallows, his jaw working. He doesn’t bother with excuses, and definitely doesn’t have the energy for lies. He just gives the smallest of nods, almost imperceptible. Yes.
═════════════════════════
IT DOESN’T TAKE him long to find her. Truthfully, it doesn’t take him any time at all, because even in her anger, even when she walks away from him with the kind of attitude that makes his stomach knot, Lando knows her well enough to guess there’s only one place she’d go to hide: home.
By the time she opens the door, he’s half out of breath, curls sticking to his forehead, shirt a little wrinkled like he hasn’t bothered to fix himself since leaving Max’s party.
She doesn’t even ask him what’s wrong. Instead, her voice comes out clipped. “Max’s picture is all over my feed.”
Initially, he says nothing, just stares at her, as though he hadn’t expected her to start there. Then he pushes past, uninvited but not unwelcome, slipping into the familiarity of her flat like it’s second nature.
“I know,” says Lando, dragging a hand through his hair. “But it doesn’t matter, right? No one knows who you are. They can speculate all they want, but I’ll make sure it never goes—”
The girl shuts the door behind him with more force than necessary in order to silent him, the sound echoing like a period at the end of a sentence. “Shut up, Lando.”
For once, he does.
“It’s whatever. I don’t mind,” she admits, her affirmation hanging between them, unexpected. And for the hundredth time tonight, he looks genuinely off balance.
“Of course you do,” Lando blinks, trying to square it with everything they’ve built: the months of secrecy, of slipping out the back doors and timed arrivals, of keeping their laughter and their touches tucked safely behind locked doors. “This was supposed to protect you. I was supposed to protect you from this.”
She crosses the living room, sinking into the couch with a grace that doesn’t feel natural, like she’s measuring his every movement, waiting for him to join her. The champagne has worn off, leaving only clarity behind. Her hands fold in her lap, gaze slipping away from him to somewhere far away. Perhaps to simpler times, when they didn’t have to stress about every step they took, either forward or backward.
“I know what we agreed,” she finally speaks in her soft voice, the sweet cadence he loves so much. “But I am exhausted. Aren’t you?”
Her confession curls into the silence like a claw around his lungs. Truthfully, he is, but Lando can’t go back to the way it was a year ago, before all this. Not when they went through so much together — a relationship that offered them more joy than sadness. Taken aback, he realizes that up until tonight, they never had a real argument. He used to get upset when she watched their show in advance, and she always scolded him when he left his clothes scattered around the apartment, whether it was at his place or hers. But nothing more serious than that. The realization settles with a kind of heaviness in his chest, one that Lando can’t quite disguise.
She finally looks back at him again. The anger from earlier is long gone. What’s left is something more complicated. A longing, a weariness. A love that hurts because it feels trapped between worlds that are so different.
“I don’t mind if they know,” she repeats. “Hiding what we have doesn’t make it any less real, does it? In time, it just made it harder.”
Her statement knocks something loose in him. Lando finally sits, not next to her but close enough, like he’s giving her space even though every part of him aches to close the distance. Then, he searches her face, desperately trying to understand the direction they’re now heading in, full throttle.
The fact that she is calm does not calm him down. That could mean that what she told him in the bathroom earlier still applies. And if that’s the case, he cannot come to terms with that scenario yet.
“Are we done?” her head lifts like she just heard a loud noise, caught off guard. Lando’s eyes are on her, a flicker of panic behind the question he hadn’t meant to sound so desperate. He swallows then tries again, “Like, for real? Is this it?”
The girl exhales slowly, leaning back into the couch cushions. Her hands twist together as she tries to choose her words. “I don’t know, Lando. I’m not quite in the mood to think about it right now.”
It’s like a knife twists in unison with her admission, but he understands. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. “If that’s the case, I don’t want to lose you,” he confesses before managing to filter his thoughts. “I’m just… I’m trying to keep you safe. Keep us safe. That’s all I’ve ever been doing.”
She studies him, searching for more than he gives her at the moment, and when she finally speaks, it’s enough to make him flinch. “Safe doesn’t mean happy. Plus, you can find yours in someone new every night, apparently.”
Lando blushes instantly, the memory slamming into him like a slap. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” he apologizes in a small voice, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the floor. “It was stupid. I was just pissed off at the situation you simply threw at me out of the blue.”
She smiles, but it’s not genuine. “You made it sound easy.”
“It’s not,” he cuts in quickly, finally meeting her eyes again. There’s no flippancy now, no cocky grin to hide behind, just honesty. “But even if it was, why would I want to? I already have what I need. With you. You’re the only one who makes it feel like I can stop racing for a second.”
Her throat constricts, forcing her to look away before the sting in her eyes can betray her. Because as much as she wants to believe him, it’s hard to accept it’s true. And excuses don’t erase the heaviness that’s pressing between them.
She opens her mouth to add to Lando’s confession, but her phone lights up on the coffee table in front of them, vibrating once. The sound cuts through the quiet of her apartment, pulling both of them out of the mood that they’ve been sinking into.
She reaches for it out of habit, finding a message from Max on the screen:
MAX F.
You good? Did Lando find you?
Her heart skips a beat, feeling his eyes on her in an instant, a brow raised in question.
“It’s Max,” she explains.
Lando huffs a quiet laugh through his nose, but there’s tension in the way his shoulders stay coiled as he watches her typing something back quickly.
Yeah. He’s with me.
The next notification pulls her eyes down before she can stop herself.
MAX F.
Good. Tell lover boy I said hi. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.
Her lips twitch upwards, and for a little while, the knot in her chest loosens. A smile breaks free, real this time, making her giddy at the thought that these two always have each other’s backs the way they do.
“What’s so funny?” asks Lando.
She hesitates for a second, then turns the phone around so he can watch the realization dawn on her face. “Max knows,” she says simply.
A weight that she’s been carrying for months slips just a little, and for the first time since this began, it feels really good. Good that someone else knows. Good that their secret isn’t locked so tightly it doesn’t even feel real anymore. Good that they exist outside the four walls of hotel rooms and closed doors.
It makes them real, because now, they exist as an item in someone else’s perspective too.
Her smile fades a little as she sets the phone aside, fingers brushing against her knees. “I don’t want to keep secrets anymore, Lando,” she says. “But I’m also not ready to fully commit to this. I’m sure you can see why,” she adds reluctantly, referring to the media situation.
Lando doesn’t hesitate. His hand finds hers, big enough to cover hers completely, curling around her small fingers. His thumb brushes gently over the back of her hand. “I do,” he nods. “But if you give me the chance, I’ll make it my life’s purpose to make everything easier for you. Worth every bit of the chaos that comes with me.”
═════════════════════════
📍 Somewhere in the Mediterranean
Liked by maxfewtrell, oscarpiastri and others
lando off the market for quite a while now, ladies and gents. really happy btw, cheers for allowing me to keep this part of my life private. cya after the break ✌🏼
Comments...
maxfewtrell oops.
⤷ formula.gossip bro forces his bro to come clean about his rship and all he says is oops 💀😭
ln444 “allowing me to keep this part of my life private” after the absolute chaos that pic caused on Twitter is CRAZY work lando 😭😭
⤷ itsnearafish ikr i heard people already found her socials. he’s subtly begging us to leave him alone LOL
oscarpiastri Finally.
⤷ lando tf u mean finally??
⤷ oscarpiastri For someone who has their driver’s room next to yours at all times, I know enough. Against my will, may I add
⤷ lando sweet.
⤷ f1teabreak oscarpiastri don’t be shy, tell us more
⤷ oscarpiastri f1teabreak What do you wanna know?
⤷ lando oscarpiastri oscarpiastri oscarpiastri 🤡??
carlossainz55 A lot to talk about on our next golf trip no?
⤷ lando 😏😏😏
ln4.fans everybody say thank you for your service max
⤷ l4nd0p1 okay but like. this is still the cutest thing ever. let him be happy 🥹💙
⤷ offtrackdrama Cute?? He lied for over a year and now he comes online and demands privacy from people. Such a joke.
⤷ ln4.fans lmao imagine being this pressed over a public person who’s choosing to date out of the public eye 💀💀
pitlanelurker NAH. this is clearly damage control after Max’s bday post 😭 he panicked
⤷ all.about.that.f1grid I think he saw people started to drag his girl online and he had to put a stop to that nonsense immediately 😤💕
⤷ el_plan_14 he’s a good man savannah 🫶🏽
xoxof1gg I know it’s supposed to be sweet but why do I feel like he’s hiding her somehow 🫠
⤷ russellsgap because he IS. he doesn’t want us to know who she is
⤷ 81pastries good. they deserve privacy.
@landooscurls Imagine hiding her from us all year
⤷ @trashytracktales two can keep a secret if at least one of them is madly in love ;)
THE ECHO OF the waves hadn’t really left them once they got back inside. Their sound is ghosting faintly through the open balcony doors, salt and warmth still clinging to the air of the hotel suite. Lando sits half naked propped up against the headboard, scrolling through his comments, liking and replying to some of them, his thumb dragging across the screen without focus. His curls are still a bit wet from the shower, and his skin carries a subtle trace of deep pink that only comes from sitting in the sun an entire day.
She moves barefoot across the cool floor, tugging a loose shirt over her thighs. Her skin smells of sea spray, her cheeks flushed from the shower she just got out of. The exhaustion in her limbs makes her movements languid, like the tide itself is still pulling at her. When she finally slips into bed, Lando doesn’t think twice before setting his phone down on the nightstand, catching her wrist before she can roll to her side. A quick tug and suddenly she’s straddling him, her knees sinking into the mattress, his hands finding their way to her hips like they always do.
“What’s the verdict?” the girl asks with a little nervousness behind her voice, even though she tries to mask it as casual. Her fingers toy with the chain around his neck, twisting it lightly.
Lando exhales through his nose, slightly amused. “Mixed feelings,” he says, eyes catching hers. “Some think it’s sweet, some think I lied, some are just here for the memes.”
“I definitely am here for the memes,” she says, earning a small smile in return.
His lips quirk, though a subtle weariness lingers behind them. “I just hope it’ll die down eventually.”
She tilts her head. “That’s a bit optimistic.”
He nudges her side, making her laugh despite herself. “I said hope, not expect. Besides,” he goes on, squeezing her waist, “You should see the theories about who you are. They’re convinced you’re a hired model, just based on Max’s picture.”
“A model?” she asks. “How did they even get there?”
Lando shrugs. “Yeah,” he grins, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “They’re not wrong, though. You could be.”
“Not gonna happen,” she leans closer, shaking her head as her nose brush against his.
His voice drops slightly. “What if you model for me only?”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile tugging at her mouth betrays her. “Well, that can be arranged.”
As a response, Lando leans in, letting his lips ghost teasingly against hers before kissing her properly. A kiss that empties her lungs and fills her with weightless tenderness. A kiss they’ve shared so many times before, but it didn’t quite feel like this, old and new at the same time.
“Thank you,” he whispers when he pulls back, quiet enough to sound like a secret. “For walking into my life like that, and for staying.”
She just looks at him, not trusting her voice enough to speak without spilling a tear or two. Instead, she kisses him harder, pouring all her gratitude and want into the press of her mouth against his. It draws a delicious sound out of him, a whimper that tangles with her own as their hips shift closer. Her weight settles over him as a result, and the friction is enough to make them both gasp at the feeling.
Lando’s hands waste no time, slipping under the hem of her shirt, palms skimming the warm skin of her waist and stomach before traveling higher. His smile turns wicked when he discovers she’s all bare beneath it, his fingers curling and pulling her closer, like even if they merged, it still wouldn’t be close enough.
She whimpers, her breath shuddering as his thumbs trace tiny circles into the soft flesh. The rhythm is coaxing, but the tension between them builds as fast as it always did. Instinctively, her hips rock against him like muscle memory, and the solid heat she finds beneath the thin fabric of his shorts makes her pulse throb deep in her core. As a response to her action, Lando reacts by letting out another string of needy noises, as if she’s stripping away every last shred of composure he pretends to hold. His tongue brushes hungry against hers, and every drag of his mouth feels like a claim.
Ever since everything got out in the open, a new fire spreads through her chest whenever she thinks about it. One born not of fear that the people can find out who she is at any moment, but of knowing; everybody knows now. Lando is no longer hers in secret. He’s hers, period.
Impatient, he cups her thighs harder, his his cock pressing thick and insistent between her legs. Her kiss turns desperate at the feel of him, teeth grazing his lip, and when Lando hisses into her mouth, she smiles through the kiss, knowing he wants much more. So, she helps him shove his shorts down, freeing him underneath her. The sight alone makes her mouth water, but before he can even try to flip their positions, she presses a steady palm to his bare chest.
“Let me,” she says, and the determination alone has him sinking back against the headboard. For a fraction, Lando looks at her like he wants to argue, because he needs to be the one in control more than ever. But then her hand wraps around him without warning, and his protest dies in a choked breath.
Her other palm traces soothing lines down his thigh, assuring him that he’s going to be taken care of, before she leans forward to kiss along his chest. Upward, soft little brushes of her lips over the hollow of his throat, the angle of his jaw, until his body starts to loosen beneath her. And the moment her hand starts stroking along his length, his lips twitch, the barest flicker of a smile breaking through his parted lips.
That alone encourages her to stroke with more intention.
“Oh, fuck,” he whines, hips jerking up to meet her, helpless yet excited. His chest heaves in uneven rhythm, breath catching on every exhale as the sweet, involuntary sounds spill from his throat.
She can’t help but look down at the picture he makes with flushed skin, curls damp against his forehead, and his cock ready and flushed in her hand, a sense of pride blooming in her chest. He’s gorgeous like this, without even knowing how much it turns her on to have him laid bare for her.
The girl drags her fist over him too slowly for Lando’s liking, but she knows exactly what she’s doing. He can tell judging by the way she looks at him, and by the pressure of her thumb swirling over his slit until precum beads and drips down his shaft.
She lets a satisfied sound out of her mouth, making Lando’s head tip against her shoulder, letting a moan out as he forces himself to watch her movements.
“Say you’re mine,” he says mostly to himself, body arching into her. “So I don’t fucking forget it when I see the shit they post online.”
Her free hand wraps around the chain around his neck like a snake, pulling him towards her. “All yours, Lan,” she breathes in unison with him. “We should’ve let them find out sooner, hm? Let them know how easily you get me soaked.”
The thought makes his cock throb in her hand.
It’s the way she knows exactly what turns him on, because she knows him better than anyone. That unravels him, catching them both off guard. His hips stutter as his orgasm rips through him, spilling hot and slick over her fingers.
She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch as her strokes stay steady, pushing him further than he thinks he can take.
“That’s a good boy, aren’t you?” she whispers. The praise makes his cock twitch in her hand again, still hard, still throbbing even through the aftershocks.
“Yes,” he moans. “Fucking hell, what are you doing?” louder this time, too far gone to care. His hand shoots up, wrapping around hers, their fingers curling together as they keep stroking him simultaneously, precise and relentless. “Need you,” Lando groans, sounding more desperate than he’d like. His hips thrust into their joined grip, his forehead pressed into her shoulder. “Need to be inside you. Baby, please.”
She breathes wetly against his cheek. “Shit. They’d never believe me if I told them you’re whining for my pussy like it’s the only thing that keeps you alive, would they?”
The worst part is that she’s already a mess herself, wet and aching, every nerve lit up from watching him fall all over their hands. The need in his voice only feeds the fire already burning in her stomach, threatening to consume her sooner rather than later.
With a satisfied sound, Lando grabs her and shifts her onto his lap, his fingers curling tight around her waist. He can’t help but admire how well she fits against him, the sight making his chest full, her thighs bracketing his hips and sweet warmth pressing against the hard line of him. His palms span her skin easily, guiding her into place as if she weighs nothing. The second her core settles over his lap, right where he needs her, he has to bite his lower lip, fighting back the embarrassingly needy moan clawing up his throat.
He can feel her, all slick and hot, every shift of her hips sending a pulse of heat through his own body, his cock quivering against her, begging for more.
Impatient, he slides one hand down between them, his fingers brushing over her soaked folds. The wetness coats his fingertips instantly, and he lets out a low laugh, teasing her, “All this just from getting me off?”
Her eyes close, but Lando doesn’t give her long to hide, because he pushes inside in one gentle motion, meeting no resistance at all. He groans at the way her body clenches immediately, velvety walls pulling him in deeper with every curl of his fingers.
“Look at you,” his voice is rough with awe. “So perfect like this.”
With a gasp, her hands fly to his shoulders, clutching for balance as he works his fingers inside her, stretching her open.
“Dripping already,” Lando notices, brushing his thumb over her clit as he pumps into her. His eyes flick up to hers, only to find her buzzing already. “That eager for me to fuck your pretty hole, baby?”
Her only answer is to roll her hips, riding his fingers, using his hand for her own pleasure. He grins, his free hand tightening around her waist, anchoring her to him even as she writhes.
“Yeah,” he whispers, leaning in a bit closer. “That’s what you want, hm? My cock instead of my fingers? Or...”
The desperate little sound she makes in response nearly throws him into a spiral. His thumb circles her clit faster, while his fingers scissor her entrance with every movement, dragging against that sensitive spot that makes her nails dig into his shoulders.
She moves against him, breathing heavily while chasing that sweet edge. Lando keeps holding her, his eyes locked on her every expression. Her body is quickly shuddering, trembling, and it only makes his cock throb harder. Unable to hold back, the hand on her waist moves down, curling around his length instead, already leaking and pulsing with the need for her. He groans at his own touch, jerking himself slowly while she squirms on his fingers. Then, with a sharp exhale, he guides the swollen head to her entrance, where his fingers are already buried, coaxing her body open.
“Fuck…” he swears, eyes closing shut for a moment. The contrast of his thick length pressing in alongside his fingers nearly wrecks them both at the same time.
She lets out a strangled moan as the head of him finally slips past her entrance, stretching her until her walls are clinging around both his cock and his fingers. She feels so full that her brain is soon short-circuiting under the sheer overload of sensation. “Lando, oh my god.”
He groans at the sound of her pleasure, overwhelmed by both the squeeze and the unbearable heat of her. “Shit, baby. You’re sucking me in. So tight like that,” his voice breaks as his hips flex up pushing deeper, careful but relentless, until he’s fully seated inside her.
Her nails scrape down his shoulders, back arching as the pressure tips over into more pleasure. He watches her face twist and crumble with every roll of his hips, and the sight alone can make him come. But then she starts to move, rocking, lifting, and sinking back down onto him with desperation. He meets her halfway, driving his hips upward in careful thrusts that push his cock and fingers into her over and over, filling her so thoroughly she can barely breathe.
The sounds their bodies make are slick, every thrust squelching as his cock slides into her soaked heat, his fingers still pumping. Soon, the room fills with shared echoes, that always come back to them: her delicious cries, his ragged curses, and the slap of their bodies meeting all over again.
Overpowered, she bows as the tension inside her finally snaps. The orgasm rips through her, violent and all-consuming, her thighs trembling as slick gushes down between them, soaking both of them. Her moans are shooting through him, muscles tightening until he can barely move. At that, Lando follows her lead, dragging his fingers out of her drenched body, coated to the knuckle. He barely has time to marvel at the sight before he grips her waist with both hands now and takes over, continuing to thrust up into her with urgency; it’s like he needs to etch himself into her until she’ll never forget the feel of him.
“Fuck, baby,” he pants, eyes fixed on her tear-streaked face, the way her mouth falls open with every sharp thrust. “They’d lose their fucking minds if they saw you this wrecked on my cock. My dirty little secret, yeah? Except you’re not a secret anymore. No... everyone’s picturing me inside you right now.”
She shakes with overstimulation, gasping and whining with every stroke of his cock. But even through the overwhelming rush of it, she clings tighter, nails raking down his back, silently begging him not to stop. Ever. And he doesn’t. He can’t, not when every squeeze of her body around him drags him closer to the edge, and definitely not when the sound of her makes his chest ache with more than lust.
“Such a pretty girl, letting me hear how good I fuck you.”
Just like that, Lando is losing the fight with his own lungs, every breath breaking ragged against her chest as his hips snap in uneven thrusts. She’s still wearing her shirt, damp with sweat now, but he couldn’t care less as he mouths at her through the thin fabric, tongue circling until her nipple peaks against the cotton. The sensation makes her jolt, a whimper breaking free as her body reacts to him without warning. The squeeze rips another helpless whine from Lando’s throat, so he buries his face deeper into her chest, muffling his sounds against her while her fingers fist into his hair, keeping him exactly where he is.
She rides him with determination, bouncing despite the exhaustion etched into her trembling limbs, her body so far past overstimulation that it feels like she’s coming with every drag of his cock inside her.
“Mine,” she gasps silently, his rhythm shattering as his body takes over.
Lando’s hips jerk wildly upward, instinct driving him deeper, until he finds the perfect thrust that finally pushes him over the edge. He tenses, every muscle straining before the release hits him in a wave so powerful it tears the air from his lungs. A high, whiny moan slips from him as his cock pulses violently inside her, spilling thick warmth that fills her to the brim. She breathes heavily at the sensation, her walls clenching greedily like she refuses to let him go. The pressure tips her over again, pleasure biting at her clit as she grinds down on him, shuddering through another messy release that leaves slick over his length.
Their sobs and gasps mix together as their bodies finally surrender, exhausted and wrung out. Her strength gives way, and she collapses onto him, her hair sticking to her flushed face and neck. His chest heaves against hers, sweat and salt and the humid press of their bodies melting them together in a bubble that’s just theirs.
She can feel the sticky warmth between them, but when Lando shifts slightly beneath her, trying to angle her more comfortably against his body, the movement makes his still-softening cock slip, and with it, their release spills hot all over them. He groans at the sensation, a sound equal parts overstimulated and cocky, his lips brushing her ear.
“See how much of me you can take?” he chuckles, brushing his nose across her cheek.
Her laugh bubbles out breathless but full of warmth, her body vibrating with the sound against his. She hides her face in his sweaty neck, giggling despite her exhaustion, while his arms lock tighter around her waist.
When her breathing finally evens out, her body melting boneless above his, she speaks shily, “That thing you did with your fingers,” Lando tilts his head, humming questioningly, but she continues, cheeks warming even though the room is dim. “I couldn’t breathe for a second.”
Lando’s hand, still splayed over her waist, freezes. His brows furrow, guilt flickering across his face even through the haze of post-orgasmic bliss. “Shit. I didn’t even think,” he says, regret lacing his tone. “Sorry if I pushed it.”
Her laugh is soft yet a little shaky, but there’s no mistaking the honesty in it. She tilts her face up, catching his eyes in the dark. “No, it felt so good. Weird at first, but so good.”
He smiles, relieved. “Yeah? So next time,” his grin deepens, mischief sparking despite his exhaustion, “We should do it with a toy?”
She sighs, swatting at his chest. “That’s pushing.”
“That’s innovative,” he corrects with mock seriousness, but his voice is already giving out, weighed down with yawns he can’t quite hold back.
Their banter drifts lazily into the quiet, and when that’s all she can hear, her fingers find his nipple in playful revenge, giving it a sharp pinch; Lando jolts, half whining, half laughing.
“Don’t you dare fall asleep on me,” she says. “I’m not waking up in this mess.”
He smirks, eyes closing shut anyway as he buries his face in her hair. “We’re official now. You’re gonna wake up in a mess either way.”
She knows that. She had time to think about it on her way home earlier. However, the thought didn’t scare her then, and it doesn’t scare her now. Because she realized that no mess can be that bad as long as they clean it up together.
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